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Chabouillet was accustomed to being the most powerful man in the room. This had not altered just because the room in which he was now standing was the well-appointed office of his superior, the new Prefect of Police in Paris.
After all, he had seen Prefects come and go; he had served under Anglès, God rest him, and Guy Delavau. After the July Revolution the offices of the Prefect of Police might as well have had a revolving door installed together with the official portrait of Louis-Philippe I.
The new man, Gisquet, was said to be a favourite and protégé of Casimir Périer, the striking and influential new President of the Council of Ministers and Minister of Interior. Gisquet had worked in Périer's bank; he was a political appointee rather than a career civil servant like Chabouillet himself. Such appointees were impermanent and could be replaced at the political whim, which in these uncertain times changed like the Parisian weather -- whereas the French civil service would stand forever.
He had to admit that the new man was not unattractive as far as Prefects of the Paris Police went. He was a decade younger than Chabouillet, fair hair curling on his strong brow, athletic shoulders filling out the elegant green frock coat, the dark breeches and boots showing muscular legs and shapely calves.
"M. le Secrétaire, it is good to finally meet you." Gisquet offered a white hand and a surprisingly firm, superior's handshake.
Chabouillet shook back, released, and offered in his turn a slight, appropriately-respectful incline of the head. "M. le Préfet," he said. "The pleasure is mine."
Up close, Gisquet's dark eyes were piercing; his handsome mouth curved in a charming smile. "You are kind, Monsieur," he said. "But in truth, it is I who should derive the greater pleasure from this meeting. I am new to the Prefecture of Police, and I welcome any assistance a seasoned hand like yourself could render."
Chabouillet did not for one moment believe this profession of blushing innocence. Still, he would have expected nothing less than courteous-but-cunning misdirection from Périer's attractive, still-young protégé; in any case, two could play at that game.
"Hardly seasoned, but please be assured that my poor skills are entirely at the disposal of M. le Préfet."
Gisquet said, "Tell me, as the most senior Head of Bureau, do you consider your fellow chiefs in the Prefecture to be well constituted?"
Chabouillet knew each of the gentlemen concerned well, and two of them rather better than that: by and large they were less than competent, a state of affairs that suited Chabouillet. "They serve their function, as do we all," he said, which was not untrue. "I am certain you would profit from meeting them, Monsieur, and I will make the arrangements. It would be their great honour to present themselves to you at your convenience."
"I felt it was the higher priority to meet you, Monsieur," Gisquet said, his smile growing even more charming. He leaned casually against his large oak desk, sole be-ringed hand on its lacquer surface, an attitude wholly at odds with his keen-edged remarks. "The all-powerful Secretary of the First Bureau, who holds the Prefecture in the palm of his hand! Tell me, which of our commissioners is the most incompetent, that of the 12th or the 47th district?"
Chabouillet was able to school his features to glacial calm from long years of practice. "Neither," he said, parrying, and then struck back. "Truly, M. le Préfet, it is too early in your tenure to terminate ranking officers in the Prefecture's employ."
Gisquet's cupid-bow mouth made an equally charming moue of mock-disapproval. "Tush, not even Benoist of the 47th? I was told that others are required to assume his duties at the commissarie, including your favourite protégé, the infamous Inspector Javert."
Chabouillet willed his temperature not to rise at this pointed reference, to not reveal that Gisquet's strike had indeed drawn blood. He had taken sufficient care to ensure there was no gossip concerning his relations with Javert, but he had no idea what other informational resources Gisquet might have at his disposal.
Instead he made himself smile as charmingly as he knew how. "There will always be rumours, Monsieur, and half of them are unfounded. In any case, Inspector Javert would have seen to it that the commissary at Rue de Pontoise was properly manned and that no crime in that district would want for diligent investigation."
"I see that it is not for a want of diligence that the man remains your favourite," Gisquet said. His eyes glittered; he had definitely heard of Javert's devotion to duty and to Chabouillet's person. "May I ask you something, Monsieur?"
If he was going to ask for a personal requisition of Javert's services, Chabouillet would be required to take extreme defensive measures. He readied himself to parry another blow. "I will certainly endeavour to be of assistance, Monsieur," he said, which was a blatant lie.
"Perhaps this is forward of me," Gisquet said, archly, "but I wanted to seek your perspective on how a strong superior such as yourself maintained discipline amongst his many subordinates." He took a step closer. "How it is that you ensure their complete submission to you, M. le Secrétaire? Confide in me your ways."
Well, this was a different sort of attack. Chabouillet knew he had gone very still, an automatic response that was a prelude to controlled violence. He compelled himself to relax. It would not do to take hold of his Prefect around the neck and force him to his shapely knees, much as his, Chabouillet's, fingers burned to perform that very act.
"I am sorry to disappoint you, Monsieur. I have no secret ways to ensure submission. What I do is demand discipline at all times, in all matters large and small, as well as unquestioning obedience." Particularly when the subordinate in question was on his knees, but Chabouillet suspected Gisquet, that wily fencer, that corporate general, had already surmised this.
Gisquet tilted his head, looking meaningfully at Chabouillet. The afternoon sunlight from the window behind his desk outlined his lean figure, the curve of his body like a drawn and deadly longbow.
"Spoken like a true officer of authority, with whom I would be proud to serve," he said, in tones that did not at all speak of service. "Permit me to ask you one other question."
"I am at M. le Préfet's disposal."
Gisquet's gaze moved deliberately from Chabouillet's face down his body; Chabouillet felt the shift in regard as if the Prefect had traced it with one sensual finger. His gaze stopped at Chabouillet's right hand. "May I ask you if that is your implement of choice, as regards discipline?"
Chabouillet felt his blood rise, felt the corners of his mouth turn up involuntarily. A different sort of attack, indeed, one that was a seduction, and more besides. He felt grudging admiration and indeed something more than admiration. He caressed the smooth gold of the lion's head that topped his cane.
"I see nothing escapes the keen investigative eye of M. le Préfet," he drawled. "I believe an officer who leads should keep discipline with him at all times."
"M. le Secrétaire, once again you surpass me," said Gisquet, slyly. He reached across his desk to a medium-sized box placed innocuously atop it at an angle between the ink-stand and trays filled with documents. Chabouillet watched him open the box's carved lid and extract from it coils of sinuous leather."If I had your courage and commitment to discipline, I too would carry this with me. But alas."
Chabouillet beheld the whip curled in Gisquet's white hand, the leather flexing and tactile as if it were an extension of the man's elegant arm. The handle was threaded with the green, red and gold that represented either the Gisquet family colours or that of the heraldry of the man's place of birth. Chabouillet could almost hear the sound the lash would make as it flew through the air, the lightning crack as it landed across sullen, recalcitrant flesh.
"It is a thing of beauty," he said, surprising himself with his unguardedness. "You could, perhaps, wear it on a belt at your waist, under your frock coat. It is slim enough not to impede the lines of your garment, and you would have it with you as necessary."
The careful mask slid from Gisquet's face in turn; his smile became feral and genuine. "Such sterling advice. I bow to your wise counsel, M. le Secrétaire."
Chabouillet said, entirely truthfully, "I am delighted to have been of service, M. le Préfet."
Gisquet took a step closer. Chabouillet looked into the profound depths of his dark eyes, inhaled the fragrance of his starched shirt and formally-tied cravat, and beneath it, the scent of Gisquet's cleanly-shaven skin.
"It would honour me if you were to address me by my first name," Gisquet murmured, and held out his hand again.
Chabouillet clasped it again, as if they were equals this time, as if they had the potential for being more than equals. "Henri," he said, experimentally; the name did sound natural on his lips.
Gisquet did not release his hand; he used the grip to draw Chabouillet still closer. "André," he said, softly, intensely, seemingly without artifice. "Think on what we could accomplish together."
Chabouillet wondered if M. Périer had anticipated this outcome, if anyone could have been prepared for this unexpected bond between the two most powerful dominant men in the Prefecture of Police. As separate antagonists, they might destroy each other, forcing the men they led to choose between the golden cane and the lash. Together, they might bring the Prefecture to its knees before them or raze it to the ground in their wake. He looked forward to discovering which of these fates lay in store -- for both of them, and for all of Paris.
One thing was certain, judging from the promise in Henri's eyes: whatever the outcome, the journey would be more pleasurable than painful.