Mme Berthier grasped the newspaper, read the headline, and murmured with keen interest, The Devil in Montmartre! Intrigued and eager to finish marketing so she could run home to read the article, Mme decided to dispense with her customary haggling. “Thank you, Madame, this is indeed most interesting. And since you’re the fairest vendor in this market, I’ll not dicker. You may give me two of your freshest, finest cabbages at the advertised price—provided you include this copy of L’Antisémite at no additional charge.”

Mme Gros smiled broadly. “Bless you, Madame. It’s an honor and pleasure to do business with the distinguished widow of one of France’s heroes, the late Colonel; God rest his soul.”

“You’re most kind, Mme Gros.” Mme Berthier stuffed the proffered cabbages into her basket along with the newspaper and then addressed cook with urgency: “All right, let’s finish our marketing. I’m in a hurry to return to the apartment.”

Immediately upon arrival, Madame handed her basket to cook and rushed off to her boudoir with the newspaper. She did not as much as bother to stop by the nursery to greet Adele and Jeanne.

Closeted in her sanctum Madame loosened her stays, removed her boots, rubbed her aching feet, and reclined on a settee. She took her spectacles from a case, adjusted them on her aquiline nose, struck a match, and lit a table lamp. Now comfortable and with adequate reading light, she devoured every word of The Devil in Montmartre! in record time. As the narrative unfolded, she clicked her tongue, gasped, shook her head, and muttered, “Poor thing,” and “it’s just as I suspected” at each gruesome detail and awful revelation.

At last, Madame set the newspaper down on a side table. She sighed deeply, leaned back on the bolster, and stared at the ceiling in the direction of heaven. Her lips moved in hushed prayer: “We renounce the devil and all his works and all his ways.”

There was a gentle knock on the door. “Mama, are you all right? May I come in?”

“Just a moment, Adele,” Madame replied. She sat up slowly and swung her legs over the side of the settee. Bending over with a grunt, she lifted her voluminous skirts, stepped into her boots, and laced them. Then, puffing from exertion, she said, “You may enter.”

The door squeaked open; Adele entered the dimly lit, stuffy room hesitantly. She approached the settee and offered a hand to her mother.

“Thank you, Adele; I’m still capable of rising without your assistance.” Madame braced herself on an armrest and pushed up with another audible grunt.

Adele was concerned that the shopping excursions had become too much of a burden for her aging mother. “I worry about you, Mama. You really ought to leave the marketing to cook.”

Madame sniffed. “Nonsense; she’d be cheated and think nothing of it. After all, it’s our money, not hers.” She paused a moment before pursuing: “Of course, you could accompany her, but I’m afraid when it comes to bargaining you’re no better than our simple cook.”

Adele ignored the insult. “Jeanne asked for you. She wondered why grandmother hadn’t come to kiss her good morning.”

Madame smiled. “That’s sweet, how the little one cares for her poor old grandmamma. I’ll come to her before breakfast. I fear I was preoccupied this morning.” She grabbed the newspaper from the side table and handed it to Adele. “This is a special edition of L’Antisémite that came out this morning. You should read it, my dear. You’ll find the featured article quite illuminating.”

Adele handled the newspaper gingerly, as though it were smeared with dung. “Mother please, you know how Achille despises this sort of thing. He doesn’t want it in the house.”

Madame sniggered. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll hate it all the more when he reads this edition. It appears that Chief Féraud and your brilliant husband have been on the wrong track.”

Adele looked down; she fumbled with some ribbons on her dress. After a moment, she looked her mother in the eye; she tried to remain calm but Madame’s insinuations had provoked her and it was evident in her expression and tone of voice. “What do you mean by that, Mama?”

Madame was vexed by what she considered her daughter’s impertinence. She narrowed her eyes and hissed, “Oh, I think you get my meaning, well enough. Your husband’s bungled the case. It’s clear from the article that the Jewish bankers and their Freemason allies murdered the girl to keep her mouth shut and as a warning to others who might betray their secrets. Perhaps M. Lefebvre’s failure is due to his incompetence as an investigator, but I can think of another explanation.”

Adele’s face reddened; her hands trembled. Feeling the sting of an insult to her husband, Adele’s throat tightened. She swallowed hard before sputtering, “Please be direct, Mother. You have something to say, so come out and say it.”

Madame was an officer’s widow and the granddaughter of one of Great Napoleon’s Old Guard. She came at her daughter with calculated insults like a hot-tempered soldier seeking a duel. “Very well, then. Perhaps your incorruptible husband has been bought by the Jews, and perhaps he’s used their money to keep a mistress in Montmartre, which would explain his long absences better than his feeble excuses about the demands of his job. What’s more, it would also explain the fact that after five years of marriage you’ve produced only one child. Have you considered the possibility that M. Lefebvre has been planting his seed in another field?”

Adele was like a boiler that had blown its safety valve. Her voice quavered but her words hit their mark with blunt force. “How dare you make such unfair accusations against my husband? Show me the evidence, Madame. You have none, just as that gutter press rag you read has no basis in fact for its vile slanders. And I’ll no longer tolerate your corrupting my innocent child with your vicious prejudices.”

Madame stood her ground. “You forget yourself. I’ll remind you, Adele, that you are my daughter and owe me your respect. I ought to slap your insolent face.”

“You can try, but then I might re-pay you in kind.” These words, spoken in the heat of the moment, negated a lifetime of filial obedience.

Madame shook her head and laughed bitterly. “I see how it is. It’s the tragedy of old age. I had a husband and children who loved me but they’re gone and I’m left with you.”

Adele realized that she had opened a vast gulf between them that might never be crossed, at least not in this world. “You needn’t suffer my presence much longer. Our rent is paid to the end of the month. After the first, Achille, the child, and I will make our home elsewhere.”

Madame sank back onto the settee. She spoke without looking at her daughter. “Do as you wish. See how well you manage on an inspector’s pay, and that’s assuming the Sûreté lets M. Lefebvre keep his job. Now please go and leave me in peace.”

Adele left the boudoir, closing the door behind her. Madame sat for a moment, silently staring at her hands. Why have I lived so long? She turned down the lamp, and lay back on the settee, imagining she was already in her grave. Tears welled in her eyes and streamed down her wrinkled cheeks, but she made no sound.

On the outskirts of the forest of Fontainebleau by the banks of a placid river that flows into the Seine sits a medieval town known for its natural beauty, historical monuments, and rural charm. No more than an hour by train from central Paris, the place attracts many visitors, including painters inspired by the history, medieval architecture, ancient ruins, and scenic environs. Many artists have captured a vision of the ancient fortifications, church, monastery, and stone bridge, white walls, shining towers, slate roofs, and spires rising against the background of a cloud-stippled cerulean sky.