She drew in a breath. ‘Then you will want to know where his daughter is. Two deaths in such a short time … It will be hard for Sylvianne to bear. In spite of everything, that goodness of heart included the father she had never seen except in photographs faded by the rays of the tropical sun.’
‘Who was the mother?’
Why were they so anxious? ‘One whose skin was that of a mulatto. A gypsy. A “virgin” he took repeatedly in a brothel in Bruges and once beat so terribly with his whip, it brought the police, thereby disgracing his mother in the eyes of her family and friends, while leaving her with the constant reminder of the child that was given to her at birth by the madam of that house.’
Tshaya’s child … ‘A saint, you said,’ offered St-Cyr kindly.
‘Now, please, let us go in before the neighbours think I’ve been arrested and that the house will fall into the hands of the son they know nothing of but whispers.’
The house was pleasant, the kitchen spacious beneath a wealth of ancient beams from which, by some avoidance of the ordinance for copper, scrap and otherwise, the pots still hung. There was a large and blackened, grey, cut-stone fireplace in which a small fire soon burned. Clearly Jacqmain’s daughter had been in charge of collecting twigs and branches, but it was when he went to get some of the fist-sized balls of drying papier-mache she had made, that St-Cyr found the half used-up novel.
‘Nana,’ he said. ‘Why did I not think of it?’
Zola’s novel of the courtesan, ‘actress’ and ‘singer’ of no talent but one, had captured readers ever since its publication in 1880. A tall and stunningly curvaceous creature with reddish-blonde hair. Nana had suddenly appeared on stage at the Varietes in the operetta, La Venus blonde. At the age of eighteen she had had no qualms. Her breasts had been firm, the nipples erect beneath the flimsy, diaphanous veil she had worn with nothing else. In triumph, she had lain in the grotto of the silver mine on Mount Etna, its walls serving as polished mirrors to her nakedness. Through their opera glasses, the bankers, financiers, stock brokers and demi-mondaines of fashionable Paris had even seen the tawny hair of her armpits and her radiant, if wickedly lecherous smile.
She had known all about men and had known exactly what they had wanted of her. But her young life, after unbelievable riches had been heaped upon her, had ended in smallpox and he could still recall the scent of carbolic that had permeated the death-bed room at the Hotel Grand on her return from Russia. Only her hair had retained its radiance but Zola had given a last glimpse of it in candlelight. Touched by a chance gust, some strands had fallen forward to be glued to the sores.
Within six months of the novel’s end, Bismark’s Prussians had marched into Paris. The Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71 had ended and the German state had begun.
‘Nana Theleme,’ he said when Hermann came to find out what was delaying him. ‘It’s the stage name our Nana chose and the daughter here must have known of it. Hence her reading the novel, in secret no doubt.’
‘I made her burn that book,’ said Madame Moreel. ‘The child adored Mademoiselle Theleme who, before the Defeat, would come to visit us as often as she could and delighted in this house and in the child. It was through her that Sylvianne took up the piano, the singing and dancing.’
‘Is Sylvianne the reason Monsieur Jacqmain sold his diamonds and sent that suitcase?’ asked Kohler only to hear Louis interjecting. ‘A moment, mon vieux.
‘Madame, this friend of the child’s father, did she sometimes bring along another? A Dutchman? Tall, thin, about …’
‘Why is it, please, that you ask, Inspector?’
The coldness of suspicion had leapt into her eyes. ‘Only to give us background. It’s always best to explore all avenues.’
All branches of the tree – was this what he was implying? she wondered anxiously. ‘They adored Sylvianne. The child was very fond of Mademoiselle Theleme’s friend, but he did not come here often, nor did she explain his long absences beyond that she did not know where he was. What passed between our Nana and her “Jani”, Inspector? Love – ah! even an old widow such as myself could see it. But why did he not marry her?’
‘The suitcase,’ said Kohler brusquely.
‘The money was to ensure that Sylvianne and her grandmother should want for nothing, but I couldn’t have that father of hers suddenly coming into her life. It was Madame Jacqmain’s most fervent wish that her son never see his daughter or take any part in her life. When she died, after a long illness, I had to see that these wishes were carried out and let them take the child and the suitcase to Paris, but now that he is dead, Sylvianne can return. His suicide is as if God had answered all our prayers.’
Fearing she had said too much, the woman gathered an apronful of the papier-mache balls and, clutching the last of the novel, went back to the fire.
‘Was the daughter even Jacqmain’s?’ grunted Kohler, pulling down a lower eyelid at the vagaries of whorehouses and the paternity of such offspring.
‘Tshaya must have been banished from the kumpania and from the Rom for ever, Hermann. She’d have left the child with them otherwise. But if De Vries was the father, that could well be why he came here and why Nana took such an interest in the child.’
‘What about the nitro? Could he have come to tap a little of it from time to time in the thirties?’
‘Perhaps – its certainly worth considering.’
‘And the Theleme part of her stage name?’ asked Kohler, his mind still on the explosives.
‘It’s from Rabelais’s magnificent satire of 1534. He believed that humanity held within itself a basic instinct to do what was right, if all his conditions of being free and well-bred, properly educated and of good company were met. There was a war in which all the priests but one sought refuge in prayer while their lonely brother took on all comers in the abbey close and drove the enemy from it. To celebrate the victory, an abbey was built whose only rule was “Do what thou wilt”. L’Abbaye de Theleme.’
‘Another maison de tolerance!’ snorted Kohler.
‘Not so. A place where all good things might be enjoyed, yes! but goodness being defined and governed by that fundamental instinct in us all. You should read more, Hermann. You really must introduce yourself to our literature.’
‘Okay, I get the message. Hey, I would never have let you down. You know that, Louis. We’re in this together.’
They had no tobacco. They could only share a handshake.
‘Madame,’ said Louis gently when they had returned to the kitchen, ‘was Sylvianne’s mother Lucie-Marie Doucette?’
The woman was instantly suspicious. ‘If so, she did not call herself that. Her name, and the only one she went by, was Tshaya. Myself, I saw her only once and what I saw, I did not trust, but Madame was determined to make amends by adopting the child, and I am for ever grateful that she did.’
Louis nodded sagaciously. Onions were being peeled for the soup that would be her supper. ‘And was Mademoiselle Theleme aware of the mother’s name?’
Was she familiar with Tshaya – is this what they were after, these two? ‘Madame confided it to her just as Mademoiselle Theleme brought news of Madame’s son she then imparted in confidence.’
‘And when, please, did these visits begin?’ said St-Cyr.
‘Inspector, you ask too many questions. I’m an old woman.’
‘Then I’ll ask it again.’
She shrugged in reproof. ‘The Mademoiselle Theleme first came to us almost as soon as we had moved in. The child was about a year old.’
‘In 1931, then.’
‘Yes, but her “Jani” did not come with her until the summer of 1934.’
‘And did she use the name of Theleme at that time?’ persisted Louis.
The slicing stopped. Tears began to form. ‘Inspector, have I been wrong to entrust Sylvianne to her?’