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The Goose and Grapes sat snuggled into a crooked back alley within the walls of Paris, tucked away so cleverly that it was nearly impossible to find if you did not know where to look for it. The only outward trace of its existence was a low doorway, two steps down from the street, marked by a small wooden plaque. This sign displayed not only the expected depiction of a plump, white bird pecking at a cluster of purple fruit, but also the name of the tavern, spelled out in actual letters. The inscription would have done most of the customers little good, but Madame Darbois, the proprietress, had put it up as a mark of vanity, just to prove that she could read it, even if no one else could.The sign, itself, was difficult for anyone to see this night, splattered as it was with the heavy drops of rain that crashed over the street in breaking waves. Between the violence of the storm and the lateness of the hour, few travelers were abroad, and only a small knot of the usual crowd still clustered around Madame's hearth, looking like drowned rats in their smoking clothes. Von Detten, the neighborhood German, sprawled with his boots almost in the fire, puffing at a long-stemmed pipe. Marin, the swarthy boatman who fished the Seine (but not for fish), sat idly carving notches in the table top until Madame smacked a tankard against his knife and glared him into putting it away. She was in a fine sulk, already, and it was not improved by Eduard and Philippe, her matched set of penniless "students" (studying what, heaven only knew), who were making a stab at conviviality by playing a noisy game of cards and shouting for fresh rounds of wine and beer every few minutes.
"Anne!" "Pretty Anne!" "More wine, here!"
A tidy young girl of thirteen, with one bright blue eye opposed by a matching eye patch, scurried out from behind the bar with two fistfuls of drinks. Madame intercepted her and, holding out her hand to the drunken boys, patted her fingers on her palm.
The two of them looked at each other. Philippe kicked his friend under the table. "Pay our good hostess."
Eduard winced, and not from the kick. "With money?"
"You'll pay the good hostess this instant or you'll have nothing more from her tonight," she snapped her fingers at them.
"Darling Madame," Eduard tried to get out of his chair, with little success.
"Don't darling me; I know you too well for that. Your ‘darlings' are enough to send me to the almshouse."
"One more cup, on credit," Philippe begged. "One for each," Eduard put in.
"None for either." Madame scooped up the empty cups beside them. "And if I were any less humane, I'd put you out in the storm, as well. Anne, you take those back, and don't pay any more attention to these two."
As Anne retreated to the bar, Von Detten snapped, "Girl!" and motioned for her to hand him one of the drinks. When Madame looked at him, he waved a coin for her inspection, and she nodded her approval. Anne exchanged the cup for the coin without going any nearer to him than she had to, and he thanked her with a contemptuous snort.
Eduard and Philippe watched the German take a long draught and looked as if they might burst into tears.
The street door banged open, propelled by the wind, and a gust of rain splashed onto the floor. A stooped figure in a coarse, hooded cloak hobbled into the tavern. "Here, now," Madame huffed, "close that door!" The old man waved a feeble hand in acknowledgment and awkwardly turned back to do her bidding. The wind was too much for him, and, his feet slipping on the wet stone floor, he strove in vain to shut out the storm. Eduard and Philippe laughed at him and cheered him on, while Madame pushed her way between the tables, grumbling, "Oh, here, I'll do it!" She threw her plump little body against the door and, to her surprise, it slammed easily, knocking the wind out of her as she fell against it. Tossing back his hood, the old man burst into delighted laughter, and she turned to face him. "You! You villain, I ought to--"
Clopin danced out of the way of her little fist. "Dear Madame, charming as ever! Where is everyone?" he demanded, removing his cloak with a flourish that threw rainwater everywhere. Madame yelped as a handful of drops splattered her skirt and Clopin flashed her a grin. "There, there, it's nothing but water, and you're not so sweet you'll melt."
Furious as she wanted to be, she couldn't help smiling just at the sight of him, and she pulled the dripping cloak from his hands. "Go warm yourself up," she nodded at the fire.
"I hope I'm not too late for supper," he hinted.
"Anne, see what you can find in the kitchen for our guest." She went behind the bar to pour him a drink.
Clapping Marin on the shoulder as he passed him, and drawing a friendly grunt in reply, Clopin took his usual seat near the fire and stretched out his feet toward the flames. Von Detten exchanged neither a word nor a glance with him, but the German respectfully drew his boots back a little to make more room. Eduard and Philippe had somehow managed to help each other into a more or less upright position and wandered over, like some clumsy, four-legged monster, to tumble into fresh chairs at Clopin's table.
"Where have you been, old fellow?" "The place hasn't been the same without you."
He cocked an eyebrow at them. "Overextended again, are we?"
"Wretchedly."
"Madame!" Clopin found a coin on his person and tossed it at her. "Humor my friends, if you will."
With a disapproving shake of her head, Madame filled two more cups. "They're only taking advantage of you, you know."
"Shh!" he laid a long finger on his lips and stage-whispered, "That's what they think!" The two young men guffawed at this and pushed each other approvingly, as Madame placed a bottle and cup at Clopin's elbow.
"Where have you been?" asked Philippe. "Honestly."
"Honestly?" Clopin considered the word, rolling it on his tongue with a mouthful of wine, before he answered. "To visit my sister."
"Have you a pretty sister, Clopin?" asked Eduard, and the pair of wits elbowed each other.
"I don't think he'd care to visit her if she weren't pretty," hinted Philippe.
Madame plunked their cups in front of them. "There. That's the last for you, no matter who pays." Anne came from the kitchen with a tray and spread before Clopin a savory dish of stew, a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. He thanked the girl charmingly, turned his chair around, and tucked into his dinner.
"Tell us more about your sister," Philippe pinched off a piece of cheese. "What's she called?"
"Josette." Clopin made it sound wildly poetic.
"And is Josette terribly fond of you?"
"But, of course! I've always been her favorite."
Therese harrumphed at the snickers of the boys. "She really is his sister, you know. I've met her."
Marin snorted in agreement. "So have I. She can still turn a somersault after five children, and she could break your skull with a frying pan at fifty paces."
"Marin," Clopin shook his head sadly. "Let the poor boys dream." He broke bread into his stew. "I have spent the past three weeks dining at every tavern from here to Rouen, and nowhere, Madame, have I found one cook who can compare to you. You should be feeding a King."
"I thought I was," she made a mock-bow to him, smiling openly and showing her dimples.
He acknowledged the compliment gallantly, and raised his cup to her. "Gentlemen, I give you Therese Darbois. Not only the finest cook in France, but the most generous." He drank to her and dove into the stew again. "You would be astounded," he addressed his remarks to her, "at the thieves and scoundrels who go about robbing poor travelers under the pretense of offering hospitality. The keeper of the Boar's Head in Rouen is as accomplished an outlaw as anyone I've ever had the dishonor to know. The wine was undrinkable, and if that pork pie wasn't half cat--" Anne let out a little hiccup of distress and Clopin nodded at her. "My feelings exactly."
"Cat is not so bad, if it is roasted properly," said Von Detten, out of nowhere.
Madame made a disgusted sound in his direction, but he did not look up from the fire. Clopin did not acknowledge the remark, but continued on, "He did, however, tell me an interesting story."
There was a remarkable little rustle of chair scraping as the six people with him in the tavern all turned their full attention to Clopin. Glancing up from his dinner, he looked around at them as if surprised by their reaction. "Would you like to hear it?"
"What sort of story?" asked Madame guardedly.
"Nothing worth sending poor Anne out of the room for," he guessed at her meaning, smiling at the girl and motioning for her to pull up a stool by the hearth and sit down as well. "Madame?" he invited her to join them.
"I have work to do," she declined, cleaning up behind the bar. "I can hear you just as well from here."
"Very well." He put down his knife and spoon and turned his chair to face the fire, in order to take full advantage of its illumination. The shadows of amber and crimson it cast upon his sharp features would serve his story well. "This is the tale of a terrible crime of passion," began Clopin. Anne glanced over her shoulder at Madame, but she didn't object; she was quietly putting away the bottles with her back to them.
"It happened several years ago -- nine, or ten; the patrons of the Boar's Head were in a little disagreement. They assured me, however, that it was all quite true." Clopin settled himself, leaning in toward the fire and the attentive listeners who had clustered around it. "Our tale begins with a lady who came to Rouen at that time. A lady of great beauty and refinement," he pointedly directed this at Eduard and Philippe. "Her name was Mme. Duchenay, the wife of a wealthy merchant. Her husband -- and who could blame him? -- was devoted to her. He dressed her in silks, he smothered her in jewels, she was his life, his existence, his pride. He could deny her nothing she desired. From all accounts, she was devoted to him.
"He built for her a house, beside that of another wealthy merchant of Rouen, a Monsieur Gercourt. He, too, was married, to a charming and accomplished young wife, and, from all accounts, they, too, were each devoted to the other. When the Duchenays moved into their new home, they immediately became fast friends with their neighbors. Madame Duchenay and Madame Gercourt were like sisters, and the two couples dined frequently at each other's houses.
"Under these circumstances, it did not take long for M. Gercourt, himself a handsome man, to notice the beauty of Mme. Duchenay, and it was, perhaps, inevitable that these two attractive persons should be drawn together. They began a secret love affair.
"Of course, the peril of a secret love affair is that it seldom remains a secret. M. Duchenay discovered his wife's infidelity, and he was dismayed, to say the least. His dilemma, you see, was that he could not deny his beloved wife anything that would contribute to her happiness, and M. Gercourt was certainly making a most generous contribution to that end. M. Duchenay, despite his wealth, was neither handsome nor clever, and he began to despair of ever winning back his wife's affection.
"The affair went on, oh, no one knows how long, but longer than any of the husbands present at the Boar's Head would have allowed. Mme. Gercourt was quite innocent of the situation, and the women were still most affectionate sisters. The two couples continued to dine together, and it was at one of these dinners that M. Duchenay at last resolved his dilemma. Four people sat down at his table that night. By dawn, Madame Duchenay and her lover were both dead. Fatally poisoned. Madame Gercourt was taken gravely ill, but a strong constitution and a delicate appetite saved her, and she lived. M. Duchenay was at once taken into custody for the murders."
Clopin paused for a moment, and Von Detten, who always listened intently to any story that ended in murder, interjected, "He was a fool, to think they wouldn't come for him at once."
"I don't think he cared whether they came for him or not," Clopin considered. "He protested his innocence, of course, but his explanations were muddled and confused; he admitted that he had known of the affair, and that he wished it to end. The judge had very little choice but to make him the guest of honor at a festive public hanging."
Clopin sat back in his chair and refreshed himself with a long draught of wine while his audience digested his tale.
"And he never confessed?" asked Philippe.
"They say he never spoke another word from the moment he was convicted. No confession, no more protests of innocence . . . He simply let them hang him."
"Then he must have been guilty," Eduard decided.
"Or just ridiculously stupid," Madame finally spoke up from behind the bar.
Acknowledging her remark with a wave of his pipe, Von Detten concurred. "He must have known he'd be caught. When four people sit down to dinner and only one gets up…" The German took his pipe between his teeth again. "Your murderer did not think things through very well, did he?"
"Of course not," Eduard dismissed him. "It was a crime of passion!"
"Stabbing them would have been a crime of passion," Von Detten argued. "Poison takes a little consideration."
"Which he obviously didn't consider," noted Clopin, and the men all chuckled.
"I don't think you should laugh," ventured Anne, who was sitting at the storyteller's knee with her chin in her hand. "It's a very sad story."
Clopin reached down and patted her shoulder in answer to this tender sentiment, but Marin simply said, "Nothing that doesn't happen every day right here in Paris."
"But," Anne looked up at Clopin, "what happened to Madame Gercourt?"
"Ah," Clopin sighed. "That is the end of our tragedy. The poor creature was stunned by the death of her husband, shocked by the discovery of the affair -- some said her mind was injured from the effects of the poison. After the hanging, she locked herself up all alone in her house. Three days passed before anyone tried to coax her out, and when they broke down the door, they found not a trace of her. Only a note, pouring out the anguish of her shattered heart, and hinting at the hope of a watery grave. Up and down the river they searched for her. One man claimed to have seen a woman in a pale cloak, weeping and pacing back and forth across a bridge outside the city, but, being superstitious, and probably drunk, he had taken her for a ghost and fled. They dredged the river and found the cloak, and a shoe, and the necklace her husband had given her on their wedding day. But her body was never recovered."
Marin gave a grunt at this. "I'll wager I'd have found her. That's the trouble, when people go and drown themselves out in the provinces -- no professionals at hand to recover things."
"I dare say you could have found her," Clopin agreed. "I know a dozen men in this neighborhood alone who would have had her up in less than a night. But, unfortunately, it was left to the authorities to find her, and we all know how skillful the authorities are!"
Marin and Von Detten, in particular, expressed amusement at this. Eduard and Philippe were shaking their heads. "Poor creature." "Horrid fate."
"She was a fool," muttered Von Detten. "Her husband, and her dear sisterly friend, and she never suspected? It was not from the poison her mind was damaged. These people were fools all around."
"This is all very fascinating," said Madame from behind the bar, "but I'd like to close up before breakfast, if it's not too much trouble."
Marin was the first to get out of his chair and pull on his cloak. It was still raining when he opened the door, but not so violently as before. The other men gathered their garments together and ventured out into the street. Clopin stood up and stretched, and reached to turn his chair back toward the table, but Madame, who had begun clearing the other tables, lightly touched his arm and whispered, "You're welcome to finish your supper first," and he sat down again. "Anne," she laid a hand on the girl's shoulder, "it's long past your bedtime. Go on up, and I'll finish here."
"Thank you, Madame. Good night, Clopin."
"Good night, little one," he smiled at her, and she disappeared into the kitchen, to go up the stairs to the lodgings she and Madame Darbois shared higher up in the house. He put a little more wine in his cup, took his spoon and the dish of stew in his hands, and tossed his feet up onto the chair beside him. "So, Madame, what excitement have I missed?"
"Very little," she said, with a chuckle. "Odd, how quiet things get around here whenever you go away."
"I suppose I should take these holidays more often."
"You'll ruin me if you do," Madame shook her head. "Why do you think there were only four of them here when you came in? It wasn't entirely the storm. Whenever you're out of the city, my custom drops off a little more each night. And don't think I haven't noticed that Anne and I have been the only members of the fair sex here for the past three nights. You're a very popular man, your majesty."
"Not with you, I think," he teased her. "I almost believe you were bored with my little tale from the provinces."
"That!" she laughed. "A pretty piece of fiction. You don't honestly believe it, do you?"
"The patrons of the Boar's Head did. Most of them were at the hanging, and three were at the trial."
"I'm not denying the trial or the hanging. I'm asking if you believe a dolt such as M. Duchenay could have plotted such a murder?"
"As our friend Herr Von Detten says, the man was a fool who failed to think things through, therefore he was caught. A commonplace tale, but why should I waste a good story on six listeners?" He had finished his stew, and dropped his feet to the floor as if preparing to leave.
"If you're not in a hurry," Madame passed behind him and brushed a hand lightly on his shoulder, "I could tell you a tale a fair sight truer than what you heard from the Boar's Head."
"Very well," Clopin settled himself comfortably once more and motioned for her to sit down with him.
"It is the tale of a murder," Madame began, arranging herself in her chair. "Not a crime of passion, but a cunning, calculated murder. And when you've heard it, tell me the murderer was not a great deal more clever than your M. Duchenay.
"It begins in much the same way as your story. Two married couples, both well to do, living next door to each other. The husband of one, seemingly devoted to his wife, seduced by the wife of the other -- who," she sniffed a bit, "was hardly what I would call a great beauty, unless you like that pasty-faced, goggle-eyed, wilting violet sort."
Clopin, thus prompted, stopped halfway through a gulp of wine to shake his head in disgust.
"I don't know whether every seductress takes her lover's wife under wing as a sister, but it was true, in this case, and the little fool liked her friend at first. Until she discovered the affair. Von Detten was perfectly right; the husband and the dearest friend -- no self-respecting woman could possibly miss that. Even one as innocent and trusting as this. You see, she was silly and romantic, and she trusted her husband. They had been married five years, he had always treated her with the most tender affection and respect, and she honestly believed that the two of them were truly in love, and would always stay that way. You and I know better than that," she nodded at him. "But she was silly and romantic, and had to learn her lessons.
"Silly as she was, she was not stupid -- she was never stupid. She didn't so much as hint that she knew what was going on. But she began to watch and learn, to prove to herself that what she was seeing was not simply her fancy. Her husband could not still love her and yet treat her so disrespectfully, she thought, and she gave him every chance to confess his true feelings to her and resolve the matter one way or another. That was all she wanted from him at this point was the truth. Make a decision, either declare his love for her and reject the mistress, or declare his love for the mistress and reject her."
"Sometimes it isn't quite that simple," Clopin ventured.
"They were married," Madame insisted. "She wasn't his paramour, he wasn't simply a pleasant amusement to her. That wasn't what they had agreed to. He didn't even have the courage to say "I can't be faithful to you, but I still expect you to love me' -- which was what the mistress told her husband, by the way; that's how he found out, and don't believe anyone who says otherwise. No, all he did was lie and lie and lie, and the more he lied, the more her respect for him shriveled away and died, and when her respect for him died, her love was buried with it.
"The mistress's husband, who had known the truth longer than anyone, would have let the affair go on interminably. He was an idiot who never could rouse himself to do anything constructive, and that's why he ended as he did. But the lover's wife didn't have the patience for that. She wanted the matter resolved.
"That was why she poisoned the dinner at the neighbors that night. Four people sat down at the table, and by dawn, two were dead and she, our clever little murderess, was retching into a chamber pot and feeling like death dug up from the grave, but it was the mistress's dolt of a husband in the hands of the authorities. She didn't know whether or not he would hang, and she didn't much care. If he'd had half a backbone, he'd have beaten his strumpet of a wife to Calais and back long before, and the poison would have been entirely unnecessary.
"You've heard about the hanging, of course. And yes she did lock up the house, and leave a suicide note."
Clopin was gazing intently at her, amazement in his dark eyes, and the hint of a wolfish smile on his lips. "But that was why they never found her body in the river…"
"And that," Madame got up from the chair, "is the true story of Mme. Gercourt."
Clopin watched her walk back to the bar. "I have only one question."
She turned back to look at him.
"Does this mean you trust me, or do you think me a fool?"
"I probably shouldn't trust you, but I know you're not a fool. I think," the plump, sweet-faced little woman regarded him with a disarmingly innocent smile, "it means that you and I both know no court in France would take the word of a gypsy against that of a respectable tavern keeper."
THE END