Vengeance: The Orphan's Tale, #2

By D M Wilder

The most terrible criminals…have long memories.

Now that the threat of a war between England and France has been foiled by Chief Inspector Malet's initiative and courage, life can flow again like the river that flows through Paris.  Malet and Elise are planning their wedding, which will take place near Christmas.

Larouche has found a place to live, where he can earn some money and, perhaps, find an occupation that will suit him. Since his employer and landlord is in no hurry to make him work, Larouche has a chance to learn about medicine while dealing with a pack of students with mayhem on their minda.

And then chaos descends as a police precinct is attacked by insurgents and its Chief Inspector is killed.

Malet finds many leads: some revolutionary students and a would-be master criminal who view Malet as a thread to be exterminated.

Suddenly the people that Malet holds dear are being attacked, and it is clear that he is marked for assassination, himself.

Elise is planning for their wedding, Malet is dealing with a troupe of bodyguards apparently recruited from the Sureté.

…And who are the Watchers in the Shadows?

It should be a hectic Christmas.

You will love this well-researched Historical adventure, because the mystery intrigues, the romance entices, and the twists keep you turning the pages.

Get it now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D M Wilder
• Release date: Apr 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201911072

D M Wilder

Diana Wilder was born in Philadelphia and grew up all around the United States courtesy of the United States Navy. Perhaps because of the Irish in her, she liked to weave stories for her own enjoyment about the people she met and the places she saw during her travels. She graduated from the University of North Carolina with a degree in ancient and medieval history and experience in journalism.   Her love of storytelling developed into a love of writing. She wrote her first novella, based on Kamehameha’s Hawaii, in middle school. She started writing novels in graduate school and has produced four novels set in New Kingdom Egypt: The City of Refuge, Mourningtide, Pharaoh’s Son and A Killing Among the Dead, all part of The Memphis Cycle.  Another volume, set after Mourningtide and prior to Pharaoh’s Son, will be published under the name Kadesh.    The heartbreak and gallantry of the American Civil war has always caught her imagination, and she served as a Docent in the Civil War Library and Museum in Philadelphia for some years. The Safeguard arose from her research into the Georgia theater of the war.   You can read sample chapters of all these books, published and projected, can be read on her website, www.dianawilderauthor.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

October 24, 1834:

The Death of a Cop

THE NORTH WIND SENT a cloud of black smoke rolling down the street from the flaming building in the center of the block.  Chief Inspector Guerin dipped his handkerchief in the bucket of water beside him, and then held it over his nose and mouth.  It worked, he said over the whine of an occasional bullet.  His eyes, red-rimmed and streaming, narrowed.  They’ll be smoked out.  It’s either that or have their powder explode under them.

The windows blew out with a splintering crash; the young officer beside him recoiled.  The soldiers shifted and craned their necks.

It’ll be an inferno soon, said Guerin.  We can pick them off as they come out.

The young officer shivered.

Guerin smiled grimly.  This is police work for you, Caillier, he said.  Take a good look and count the cost while you can still change your mind.  He fell silent.  Police work had its share of splendor for him as well, once, but those days were long gone.

A soldier had come up behind them.

Guerin turned.  Are your squadrons in place?

Yes, Chief Inspector. 

A burst of gunfire made Guerin frown toward the center of the street.  Almost too late, he whispered to himself.  ... but not quite.

Very good, he said, handing a twist of paper to the soldier.  Take this note to the Prefecture.  It must be given to Chief Inspector Malet, personally.  Leave at once but tell your Captain that I want his men to follow me to the back of the shop in five minutes, exactly.

He watched the fellow hurry away, thinking that five minutes would be plenty of time to accomplish what needed to be done while minimizing the danger to the others.  He turned to Caillier.  It is time for you to leave.  Give me your spare pistol and go back with the soldiers.

Caillier obeyed and watched as Guerin checked the barrel.

Go now, said Guerin.  When Caillier hesitated, he repeated the command.

Caillier stood his ground, though he paled as another volley echoed across the square.  the rattle of gunshots sounded again.  I can’t leave you here alone, sir!  You’ll need a back-up!

Guerin snorted.  I’ll walk with you as far as that little alleyway, then farewell.

The words stiffened Caillier’s backbone a little as they walked in silence.  At the alleyway Guerin said, "My seconds will be coming up shortly with the rest of the Sergents de Ville.  Tell them to follow me."

But sir, if you wait—

There is no time! Guerin snapped.  He paused and added, almost unwillingly, You are a good man.  If you stay on the Force, be the best you can.  Find an honorable man to show you the way, and never look back!  Now go.  God bless you.

He did not wait to see if Caillier obeyed him.  He edged down the alleyway.

Who would have thought that he would welcome a pack of insurgents as a godsend?

He paused at the back street that it opened on and listened.  Voices.  The people inside that little shop were talking urgently, speaking of killing as though it were a sport and not a crime.

He and Malet had more in common than he had been willing to admit.

He tucked Caillier’s pistol into his belt and took out his own, a two-shot Austrian piece that fit easily into his hand.

He had five minutes to right almost three years of wrong.  His family’s honor and security depended on it, and it was a better solution than the flight to America that he had contemplated.

He spared a thought for his wife and their children.  Mathilde would have to learn to live on a widow’s pension.  Maybe she would see her way clear to pawning some of that jewelry that she had insisted on amassing over the years.  And maybe now she would admit to that noble lover of hers.  He wondered if the man would linger once he saw that the money was gone.  It was an interesting thought.

He edged along the back wall of the building.  Mathilde, free of a marriage that she had grown to hate, would have her lover, and the children would be provided for with no breath of scandal attached to them.  The price of their future was worth any fleeting pain he might feel.

He checked his watch one last time: two minutes.

He was at the door now.  He took his pistol in both hands, faced the door squarely, and kicked it in.

Police! he shouted above the sudden curses.  Surrender in the name of—

The first bullet smashed into the right side of his chest, hurling him back against the lintel.  He leveled his pistol with an effort and pulled the left trigger.  One man went down, screaming.  Two others pushed past him as another bullet shattered his right thigh.  —the king-! he gasped.

He could not feel his hands... He managed to squeeze off a second shot as he fell.  A third bullet crashed into his left side as he reached for Caillier’s pistol.  His breath coming in gasps, he fired once more before the gun slipped from his nerveless fingers. 

One minute.

More men rushed past him into a hail of bullets.

He closed his eyes.  The smoke blotted out all sight, and sounds were far away now.

Annihilation to the oppressors of the masses!

He felt something slam into his wounded side with the words, but he was fading out of space and time, and it all seemed unimportant now.

Someone lifted him from the ground.  He felt rough cloth against his cheek.  Caillier?  He smiled, drew his last breath, and was gone.

THE SMOKE WAS BEGINNING to clear, though its acrid scent filled the air.  The miasma still blurred movements , but sounds were no longer muffled and indistinct.  The splash of a bucket brigade underscored the stillness.

A row of motionless forms stretched out side by side before the gutted ruin of the store,  A knot of Police and National Guard stood beyond them, peering southeast toward the Île du Palais.  The officer with them, Junior Inspector Caillier, was rigidly calm.

The sergeant of the Guard shook his head.  That such a thing should have happened in Montmartre!  Insurgents opening fire!  The Chief Inspector of the Arrondissement killed!

The clatter of iron-shod hooves upon stone and the rumble of wheels intruded upon the sergeant’s thoughts.  The splash of the bucket brigade faltered and then stopped as their owners straightened and gazed southeast.

Caillier tried to square his shoulders.

A carriage painted with blue, red and gold crest of Paris and drawn by four great, black horses, rounded the corner of the Rue des Basques at a canter.  The bystanders drew aside as the coachman pulled his team to a halt.  The horses smelled the blood and smoke, causing one of the wheelers to jib and start sideways.

The carriage door opened and Caillier watched as Chief Inspector Paul Malet, acting Prefect of Police, stepped down.  The man paused to cast a quick glance around at the wreckage in the street; his nose wrinkled slightly as he caught the smell of the smoke.

Caillier caught Malet’s eye and moved forward to meet him.  They’re over here, Chief Inspector, he said.

Very good, said Malet.  His voice was quiet and touched with the hint of an accent.  He paused as the younger man joined him.  His eyes lingered on the bloodied breast of his coat, then moved toward the line of bodies. Where is Chief Inspector Guerin?

Caillier lowered his eyes.  He was killed.

Malet frowned and flicked a glance at Caillier’s cot again. Then where are Messieurs Chagnon and Guibault? he asked.

They—said they were taking M. Guerin’s body to Saint-Pierre to be laid out, answered Caillier.  They left me in charge.  I was with him as he died.  He added, I w-was holding him at the last.

Malet’s brows drew together as he looked Caillier over.  He nodded to a nearby constable.  If you would, please locate the Senior Inspectors and tell them to wait upon me in M. Guerin’s offices.  You may say that I that wish to confer with them on a question of procedure once I have finished my inspection.

He paused and then directed a smile at Caillier that made the young man relax and take a slow breath.  You have performed well in a difficult situation, he said as he took out a pocket notebook and a gold pencil.  Tell me what happened.

Chapter Two

Larouche at The Ile De La Palais

THE WHISPERS FLOWED down the Butte of Montmartre, growing in number and urgency.  An attack!  An attack with an army!  They brought cannon!  The whispers continued to grow, sweeping along the streets, into the parks and gardens of autumnal Paris.

I saw them! someone cried.  Flames spewing from that cafe, smoke all over the streets!  The Chief Inspector of the Arrondissement killed!

Where was this?

The voice was light and high.  People turned to stare.  Their eyes met a slight person with wide gray eyes, spiky hair and an air of lordliness that sat oddly with his small, disheveled self.  The boy opened his eyes at the speaker.

Montmartre, the man said.  The street just beyond St. André du Mont.

The Chief Inspector? the boy said.  Was that Guerin?

He was the only Chief Inspector in Montmartre!

The boy nodded.

They have the bodies lined up!’’ another said. I saw them!"

The boy turned away.  They would be shouting about the deaths and the fire for the rest of the afternoon.  He could remember the fighting of the summer, and he had seen enough dead bodies.

A wind stirred the trees.  He looked down along the main path of the garden.  He could feel the increasing cold.  He shoved his hands into his threadbare pockets and moved briskly along the Rue de Sully to the Place Bertrand du Guesclin. 

The flower seller was there, surrounded by chrysanthemums and some late roses.  She smiled when she saw him.  Is it cold enough for you, Larouche? she asked.

Larouche shrugged.  This is nothing, he said.

It will get worse, the old woman said.

I know.  Larouche bent to touch a purple chrysanthemum.  You...mentioned your grandson?  Would he want to maybe hire me like you said?

The flower seller beamed.  He spoke to me early yesterday as he was leaving for Poissy.  ‘Send him to me,’ he said.  He used those words.  ‘Send him to me when I return.  I’ve room for him, yes and a welcome, too!’ So, you just go to him.  I’ll tell you when he’s back.

Larouche smiled up at her.  I’ll go, he said.

She returned the smile.  See that you do, Larouche.  I want you to be warm when winter comes.

I will be, he said with a confidence that was hopeful rather than assured. 

And where are you going now? she asked as he moved away.

He turned to smile back at her.  The cathedral, he said.  Almost time for vespers.

The flower-seller nodded to him and he moved off.  Vespers in the cathedral would be beautiful.  And maybe he could catch a glimpse of that police officer he thought of as ‘Monseigneur’.  And perhaps speak with him?

PAUL MALET PAUSED TO gaze across the square toward the cathedral’s broad-shouldered bulk.  The truncated towers, the rows of figures above the doors, some of them missing their heads.  The Revolution had not left it unscathed, but it was now swept, clean, glowing with color and sound.

He lowered his eyes to the people clustered in the Place du Parvis, the gathering place for the pilgrimages that had started in Paris in past years.  The stones had borne the footsteps of the seers and saints, the soldiers and the sinners, the victims and the protectors.

Which was he?

An exhausted office of Police, he thought.  He had been reviewing the actions of the past months, preparing for his accounting to the Prefect in two days.  M. Lamarque was a man of great particularity, and his absence had seen a number of unprecedented developments in Malet’s career, from commanding the Prefecture itself, to averting an international incident and, possibly, a war.

He leaned back against the wall of the Prefecture and closed his eyes.  He seemed to feel the fading heat of the fire again, hear the shouting and almost taste the acrid tang of fear.

Tired and heartsick, Malet thought.  The day had been an unwelcome echo of the past summer’s unrest when workers protested against an unfair law.  Rioting broke out, a police officer was killed, and some of the police had retaliated by bursting into a building thought to house the killers and gunning down all the inhabitants.

Time passed; peace had returned.  It had been a busy time, his running the Police of Paris in the Prefect’s absence.  Busy and somehow gratifying.  A disaster was averted, France was safe, and he could sit back, draw a long breath, and smile.

And now this had happened.

He raised his head to the skies over the city.  Rags of clouds tumbled westward before the wind.  He could see the stars through them, their quiet glitter overlaid by a sense of serenity that he needed to touch and take into his own heart.

A muted thunder of the bells announced Vespers.  He pushed away from the wall, drew a long breath, and moved into the river of worshippers, heedlessly passing a ragged boy who looked up at him with wide gray eyes and shrank back into the shadows before joining the throng behind him.

LAROUCHE FOLLOWED ‘MONSEIGNEUR’, into the cathedral, feeling its warm dimness surrounding him like a welcome.  The last of the pale afternoon sun, sifting in through the windows, made splashes of color on the paving stones, almost as though bouquets had been cast down by a lavish hand.  He threaded his way between them, hearing the voices up near the altar saying words he remembered hearing in Père Louis’ old voice... Miserere nobis, Dona nobis pacem... Have pity on us... Give us peace.

He was not sure what peace meant.  People spoke of war and said it was the opposite of peace.  He had known his share of strife within his memory.  Two years before, he could remember.  The sound of guns and screaming.  Horses clattering on the paving stones, people shouting in the streets... He learned later that students had arisen in rebellion...

He had heard the words and tried to understand what they meant.  But what they really meant, he understood from Père Louis, was that there had been strife and death.

He went farther into the sanctuary as voices mingled into a thread of music.  The finger of a cold breeze brushed against his neck as others entered.  Monseigneur made his way through the pillars and passed Larouche on the edge of a cool breeze that stirred the incense-laden air of the ambulatory.

Larouche moved silently after him.

Monseigneur approached the altar, halting within sound, but just out of sight of the other worshippers.  Larouche watched him settle quietly into a chair and then shift forward to bury his face in his hands.

Words rose in the monumental calm, measured and precise, spoken in Latin, though Larouche knew their meaning:

O God, come to our aid.

O Lord, make haste to help us.

The words flowed like a river, covering the tempests of the day.  Larouche closed his eyes and listened until he came to himself and realized that Vespers was over.  He watched Monseigneur raise his head.  He was smiling, as though whatever had been said or done in those moments had somehow touched him.  As Larouche watched, the man rose to his feet in one quiet movement.  He was a tall man, but he moved with the light grace of a swordsman, Larouche thought.  Fast, too.  The man had seized his ear the first time they met, before Larouche could duck.  That had been something of a revelation.

Larouche realized that Monseigneur’s eyes were on the patch of shadow that hid him.  He sank back and waited, but the man turned and paced toward one of the banks of votive candles set into the wall.  Larouche heard the clink of a coin; when he peeked out from behind his pillar Monseigneur was kneeling at the prie-dieu before the candles, his forehead against his clasped hands.

He rose after a moment, directed another glance at Larouche’s pillar and then the box by the candles before he moved off.  Larouche thought he heard a quiet, ‘Good night," but the sound of the departing worshippers masked the words.

He went to the rail and saw that Monseigneur had left two coins there: a fifty-centime coin and a franc piece. 

Chapter Three

Larouche Becomes A Stableboy

LAROUCHE STROLLED THROUGH the streets of Montparnasse the next morning, whistling merrily and grinning at the passersby who glared at him.  The tune was a lively one, admirably suited to a brisk march, and the glares made him grin.  Most of the people were too busy discussing the death of the Chief Inspector of the 3rd Arrondissement to pay attention to tunes whistled by a child.

The flower–seller had said the establishment was on the Rue des Morts, and he should be close by.  He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets and frowned at the houses to either side of the street.

The Rue des Morts twisted suddenly to the left once and then again, making a half-circle.  It was edged by a brick wall higher than Larouche’s head.  The houses were in a medium state of preservation, some well-tended, some less so.  He could see Montparnasse’s usual complement of students sauntering through the streets.  Larouche knew some of them by sight; he waved to those he recognized.

The flower-seller had given him the address of the tavern, a place with the picaresque name of The Robber Baron, but he had never been there for a handout, since he had judged the neighborhood a poor prospect. 

Now he revised his opinion.  The place was tidy enough.  The street’s right angle on its way to the Rue d’Alesia formed a little walled courtyard.  The building itself was a pleasant stone structure, four stories high, with the taproom on the ground floor behind a brightly painted blue door.  Larouche could see a stable in the corner of the courtyard.  All the buildings had the sort of well-tended look that bespoke care, but not excessive prosperity.  He thrust out his lower lip and tilted his head.  Not bad at all! 

He was blocking passage on the narrow street.  People swore and moved around him.  Someone smacked him on the shoulder and asked, What’s with you, you little rat?

I’m looking for something, you big ox! Larouche answered.  He stuck out his tongue and dodged a half-hearted blow.  I think I found it! he added.  He took his hands from his pockets and, whistling all the more loudly, crossed the courtyard and entered the taproom.

It was as though he had crossed an unseen barrier.  Voices rose above the clink of glassware, all young, all strident.

—killed the bastard!  I say good riddance to him and all his sort! shouted a young man, slamming his glass of ale against the table.  Annihilation is the proper fate of the Oppressors of the Masses!  When the people rise up—

Do you equate a pack of thieves opening fire on an innocent collection of off-duty Police with a rising of the people? demanded a young man in a pink frock coat that was inauspiciously paired with a wine silk cravat.  He was leaning up against a post in the center of the taproom and holding an almost empty glass of wine.  Who are your ‘people’, then?  Thieves and cut-throats?

The people are driven to thievery by the fat ones who oppress them!

Oh, come now! said another above the general laughter.  I know plenty of poor folk like us who would die before they resorted to crime.

The first speaker, a bespectacled youth with the distant expression of an ascetic, motioned impatiently.  We have rot in the very fiber of our society, he said.  It must be destroyed!

The young man in the pink coat frowned.  For the sake of argument, St. Clair, let us say that we are going to destroy the rot at the heart of society.  What happens then?  Do we all rise up and start shooting?

St. Clair folded his arms and lifted his chin at the other.  If necessary, he said.  We will have the will that none will starve, that none will be lonely, none ragged—like this poor, filthy child here.  The speaker gestured toward Larouche, who stood framed in the doorway.

The brief shift in attention changed the flow of the discussion.

Don’t be any ruder than you can help, said the pink-coated man, Peltier, as he turned to smile at Larouche.  Come in!  Pay no attention to him.  He was raised in a madhouse.  Were you looking for someone?

St. Clair leaned forward with his hand outstretched.

Larouche took a quick step sideways.

Come, boy, St. Clair said.  Do you want food?  A warm home?  Never to feel hunger or fear?  When Larouche stared, the man raised his voice.  ...to be clean?

Larouche  frowned at St. Clair.  That’s a good question, nitwit! he said.  Who wouldn’t?

Would you take up arms and fight for them?

Larouche looked him up and down. Seems to me there are plenty of idiots to do that for me, he said.  He turned back to the pink-coated man and said, I’m looking for M. Bessier?

He is in the kitchen now, said Peltier.  I’ll take you to him.  He pushed away from the post and motioned to Larouche, who was frowning up at his cravat and thinking that it looked exactly like the one Monseigneur had been wearing the day he had spoken to Dracquet some weeks before.

They went back through the taproom to a narrow doorway that seemed to open into a pit but resolved itself to a steep staircase of stone.

Watch your step, said Peltier, stepping down on the top step.  It is dark here, and I’ve wiped these stones with my backside any number of times since I came to Paris.  Try going sideways.

The boy had expected a hovel after the dimness of the stairs, but the kitchen looked out over a sizeable herb garden and was brightened by two windows that had been cut into the building.

A man was bending over a fading patch of thyme.  He looked up as Peltier called to him, and came inside, wiping his hands on his apron. 

He smiled as Larouche was introduced to him.  You’re the lad Gran’mère spoke of, he said.  I’m glad you came!  Sit down.  Have you had anything to eat yet?

Peltier patted Larouche’s back.  There you are, he said.  I brought you to him and I’ll leave you with him!

Going back to St. Clair? asked M. Bessier.

Peltier rolled his eyes. 

What gibberish is he saying now?

Insurrection, for the most part, Peltier replied.  The death of that Chief Inspector is grist for his mill.  He’s taken a vicious attack by criminals and turned it into a romantic uprising of the people against their oppressors.  His expression shifted to a thoughtful frown.  I’d like to know the real story behind those scorch marks on his coat.

Bessier shook his head.  Just remember that God loves fools as much as He loves the wise.

Peltier said, Sometimes more, I think! He grinned at Larouche, waved his hand, and went out whistling.

Bessier looked Larouche over.  Now, then, he said.  I’m sure Gran’mère told you what I need: a boy to clean up and sweep and do some work in the stable.  I understand you like horses.  You get your keep and a room of your own near the stable.  You’ll have two afternoons off, one of them Sunday, starting after Mass.  Pay is two francs a week for now, then we’ll see.  I don’t strike my people, but I don’t let them sass me, either.  Once I’ll tolerate, and maybe twice, but the third time you’re out.  And if I catch you stealing, you will leave at once.

Larouche met his gaze squarely.  I’m not a thief, he said.

I can tell that much from your clothes, said Bessier with a sudden smile.  Even if Gran’mère hadn’t spoken so well of you.  You’d steal better ones if you were a thief.  Well, then, the job is yours.  I’ve a girl working here, too: Marie-Claire.  She’ll fill a tub of water for you: a bath once a week is required, and I don’t take no for an answer.  Hear me?  Once you’re clean, my wife will cut that tussock on your head and you get two changes of clothing.  You can start on your duties right away.  I’ll show you around.

Larouche nodded, thinking happily that he wouldn’t be cold at all that winter.  Bessier might be a little autocratic, but he seemed good-hearted, and it was nothing he couldn’t deal with for the next six months.  He would have done a good deal more for free food and lodging.

Good, said Bessier.  This is no easy spot: you’ll be expected to work, but I think you’re the sort I want.  We should do well together.  Give me your hand, and then run and tell Marie-Claire to heat that bath water.

Chapter Four

The Line of Duty

THE SHOOTING STARTED without warning, said Malet, scanning his notebook.  The Police shift had gone off duty and met at Bazin’s bistro to try the latest Montmartre vintage.  They were laughing and chatting one moment, and the air was thick with bullets the next. 

The Paris Police was conducting an unofficial inquiry into the death of Chief Inspector Guerin.  The Prefect of Police had been back in Paris for a week and was holding court behind his desk with his gouty foot propped on a footstool.  Count d’Anglars, the Minister of Police, was seated at his elegant ease in a carved chair a little to one side.  Senior Inspector Archambault from the 6th arrondissement, who had been selected to replace Chief Inspector Guerin, sat before him.  Inspector L’Eveque, who had been working undercover investigating allegations of corruption in Guerin’s arrondissement, stood beside the mantel with his eyes downcast.

Was there no warning before the firing started? asked Count d’Anglars.

None, answered Malet.  Monsieur Guerin recognized the danger at once, closed off the street, barricaded its approaches, and evacuated the surrounding houses.  He called in a squadron of National Guard and then sent two incendiary bombs through the windows of the house where  the assassins were hiding. Most of the attackers were killed as they tried to escape.

Sound strategy, said Lamarque, half to himself.

Guerin was a capable officer, said Malet.

Lamarque raised his eyes, frowning.  He had more courage than wisdom, he said as he pushed to his feet and paced to the window.  I am not best pleased.  I will not have my chiefs throwing their lives away so foolishly.

Perhaps he had a reason, Archambault suggested. 

He had an officer with him, said Malet.

And why wasn’t that officer beside Guerin at the end?

He was, said Malet. "The Chief Inspector ordered him to stay behind while he went