‘She’s still crying a great deal ...’
‘That’s understandable. When you discover you’re having a child, you worry and panic and wish that it didn’t exist, but once it’s gone, you wonder if you’ve made the right decision ...’
An abortionist! Catherine de Saltonges had come to have an abortion. Who was the father? Why had she not kept the child? Margont was bursting with questions.
‘She was very unsure ...’ the woman said.
Her sentence ended in an uncertain silence. She wondered if she were not giving too much away. Margont reflected that she might know who the father was.
He ventured: ‘Um ... the father ... I don’t know if she told you a bit about him ...’
‘Yes, she did confide in me, she had to tell someone. I do feel she should have told him about the child - he had a right to know. If he had supported her, I’m certain she would have kept the child. At the beginning she told me he couldn’t be there because he had business to attend to, but later she admitted that he was not aware of the child’s existence. She felt that he had suffered enough and that he would neither be able to welcome the child, nor to take responsibility for the decision not to keep it. She was distraught that she had fallen pregnant so quickly, when she had previously been married for four and a half years without it ever happening. She said that despite her age, she hoped one day to have another child with her lover, but that next time they would be able to keep
it and bring it up. Together. What a tragedy! The father must have been through terrible times.’
She was eaten up with curiosity and hoped to get him to tell her more. Margont looked worried.
‘We are very concerned about him. Did she explain why?’
‘No, she told me almost nothing about him. Not even his name. When she came the second time, when I performed the procedure, I said to her, “Another married man who makes fine promises and then decides he doesn’t want to leave his wife.” She laughed bitterly and replied, “Exactly right! Except that his wife is dead! And how do you leave a dead person?”’
‘It’s a very sad story ...’ He was trying to be as evasive as possible. Burning to know more, she said: All she would say is, “He’s already lost so many of his family and now he’s about to lose someone else without even knowing they exist. Fate is conspiring to kill his children before they are born.” Isn’t it awful?’
She leant forward so as not to lose a single word of the confidences she thought he was about to whisper to her.
‘Yes. But just now it’s Mademoiselle de Saltonges I’m worried about. She’s so pale and weak ... Did she bleed much?’
‘Inevitably, since the pregnancy was more than two months advanced ...’
Finally, regretfully realising that he was not going to reveal anything further, she decided to change the subject. ‘But what about your case, Monsieur?’
Margont floundered for a moment, then pulled himself together. ‘No, in the case of my lady friend, she’s only in her first month.’
‘In that case it’s possible that a concoction of plant extracts and a massage of the stomach will be all that’s necessary. If that doesn’t work, or if you leave it too late, I’ll use a needle. But I’m experienced. If your friend decides to use my services she will have to give me her name. Her real name, because I will check ... I need to know. It’s my way of ensuring that there’s no trickery, that you’re not a policeman ... Also, sometimes when I discover the identity of the person I choose to withhold my services. You would be astonished to know the celebrated and powerful people who contact me. Even the wife of a marshal ... In those cases, I always refuse, whatever price they offer me. But you can count on my complete discretion.’
The room behind the door made its presence felt more than ever. Catherine de Saltonges had been there, eaten up by doubt; the odour of her blood still impregnated the air; women had died in there ...
‘I’ll think about it,’ he announced. He rose, adopting the air of a man who had been reassured and who was going to confer the life of his loved one to a woman he barely knew. They said goodbye to each other cordially and Margont took his leave. He had not even revealed his name. As he crossed the threshold he shivered under the glacial caress of those who had died in the house.
CHAPTER 17
ONCE he had sent Michel away, Margont relayed everything to Lefine. As he was talking, a bitter taste filled his mouth as if he had bitten into a plum without checking whether it was ripe. He was upset that he had been drawn into the private life of Catherine de Saltonges. He had barely finished his account before he launched into his hypotheses.
‘In leaving her lover in ignorance of her pregnancy, she lied to him - by omission. And she did that even though she has a horror of lying!’
‘Well, you’re playing at espionage and you’re cheating and manipulating even though, ordinarily, you vaunt the merits of sincerity, honesty and loyalty ...’
‘The world has become a giant fools’ playground where everything is topsy-turvy. Do you think the father is a member of the Swords of the King?’
‘I think it’s very likely, since they’re the only people she keeps
company with. According to the police, since her divorce she doesn’t see her old friends any more. Michel and his brother have been watching her since the beginning of our investigation: she often walks in the public gardens or in Faubourg Saint-Germain, but she never goes to visit anyone, nor does anyone visit her.’
‘She’s been pregnant for more than two months. The child must have been conceived around the beginning of January. She hesitated a while before deciding to get rid of it. If the father really is one of our suspects, it’s possible that he was the murderer. If that’s the case, does she know? Was she his accomplice? She told the abortionist that the father had business to attend to. She also mentioned that he had already lost many close relations. That could be Louis de Leaume or Jean-Baptiste de Chatel ... But the others must also have seen family members disappear during the Revolution. We don’t know enough about the pasts of our suspects, I’ve already told you that.’
‘I’m doing my best to find out! They don’t know anything about your past either, otherwise—’ Lefine stopped short, looking embarrassed.
Margont was reminded once again of the risks he was having to run for this affair. He had fought all over Europe, against the Austrians, Hungarians, Russians, Prussians, English and Spanish ... and yet he could easily be killed right here in Paris by a Frenchman. Apparently Fate had a sense of humour; how it must laugh seated with Death in that tavern at the end of the street, drinking to his demise as it watched him through the window. These sombre reflections were chased away by a flash of inspiration.
The father will go and visit her! Even if he hasn’t guessed what’s wrong he must have noticed that something is. She can’t be her normal self! If he loves her, he must be worried about her. Or else she will go and visit him. She almost died and she’s lost a child she wanted to keep! She needs the man’s support. I’m going to stay here. Call Michel back so that he can help me.1 ‘And I suppose I’m going to have to try again to find out more about our suspects ...’
Margont was not very good at surveillance. Waiting exasperated him. He tried to make use of the lost hours by thinking about his investigation, especially about the evening he had met the committee of the Swords of the King. Perhaps an important detail had escaped him. In light of what he now knew, the memory of that meeting took on a different hue. Who could be the tormented lover of Catherine de Saltonges? It was Louis de Leaume who had addressed her to introduce Margont as the new recruit. Was that a sign of connivance between them? Or had he merely been the one to speak because he was the head of the committee? It was probably not Honoré de Nolant ... Catherine de Saltonges seemed to have a horror of murder; she would not have allowed her lover to be the hangman of the group. Although ...