‘We are hoping to see Madame Filastre on some urgent business, mademoiselle,’ said Lesage.
The maid scoffed and stepped back to close the door. ‘Madame does not see people this late, monsieur. You can come back tomorrow.’
Charlotte jammed one foot against the door. ‘No, mademoiselle. We need to see your mistress tonight. Now.’
In the hall over the maid’s shoulder, there was movement as a woman – perhaps the witch herself, this vile woman who had made a pact with the Devil – loomed up from the hallway gloom. Rather than the ugly and frightening sorceress Charlotte had anticipated, however, the woman resembled a kindly wife. Wisps of dark hair at her temple, a glittering necklace at her throat, rich swish of her green silken garments along the floor.
‘Who is here so late, Madeleine?’ she asked.
The maid merely scowled and wiped her nose with her free hand.
The woman approached. ‘Well, well,’ she said, clearly amazed. ‘Look at that. It’s Monsieur du Coeuret, is it? Back from the dead after all this time. Now that’s a surprise.’
Lesage made his little bow. ‘Good evening, Madame Filastre. How pleasant to see you, too. I’m flattered you should even remember me after all these years. I know it is late but we have some urgent business. May I introduce Madame Picot?’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘She has a problem she wishes to ask you about.’
Unsure how to acknowledge such a person, Charlotte dipped her head in greeting.
‘It’s very late, Monsieur du Coeuret,’ the sorceress muttered.
Lesage gestured vaguely towards Charlotte. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, madame, but . . .’
With a tight-lipped smile, Madame Filastre considered Charlotte before she stood back from the door. ‘Very well. Let them in, Madeleine. No good talking on the street in this fashion, is there? Come inside, Madame Picot. Come.’
Charlotte hesitated and looked around. Night had settled over the city while they had been seeking this woman’s house. It was dark. In the distance a man held out a candle to peer at something. A donkey clopped along the street. Crack of whip, the laughter of merchant. A cool breeze ruffled her hair. She crossed herself and muttered a prayer. ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum . . .’
Madame Filastre led them into a room appointed with mirrors and paintings on the walls and rich, red carpets covering the floor. Charlotte was seized with the urge to flee but Madame Filastre, perhaps sensing this, took Charlotte’s hand in her own and guided her to a low sofa. The hand that gripped hers was not icy – as she might have imagined of one in league with the Devil – but, rather, it was soft and warm, like any other person’s.
‘Come, Madame Picot,’ Madame Filastre said. ‘Sit. Please. You are so cold! Madeleine, bring us a jug of wine and something to eat.’
Charlotte had never before even imagined a house so luxurious. There were shelves of books, portraits of men and women hanging on the walls, and on the mantel stood a vase overflowing with wilting purple irises. Despite the mildness of the night outside, coals glowed in the hearth. The air in the room was smoky, warm, tinged with smells of perfume and burnt pine. La Filastre herself looked to be around Charlotte’s age. She was pale, dark-eyed, quite beautiful, and Charlotte blushed with shame at consideration of her own dirty clothes and unkempt hair. As the women settled themselves, Lesage shuffled about uneasily, peering at books and ornaments, poking at the coals in the grate with the toe of his boot.
The grumbling maid reappeared with a jug of wine, some glasses and a platter of meats, which she set on a low table. Madame Filastre waved her away and poured wine for each of them.
‘And what is the problem that brings you here so late, Madame Picot?’ she asked, sipping from her glass.
‘Some men took my son, madame.’
‘Oh, how terrible! Took him how?’
Charlotte touched the place on her shoulder where the arrow had pierced her. ‘They attacked me several days ago and kidnapped him as we were on our way to Lyon to escape an outbreak of fever in my village. I was injured myself. My husband is already dead from fever.’
The woman considered all this. ‘But how might I assist you? You wish me to . . . ?’
Charlotte could barely bring herself to say it aloud. She spoke in a whisper. ‘I know there is a trade in these things. That there are people in Paris who . . . purchase children for their secret ceremonies. For their own purposes.’
Madame Filastre tilted her head back to scratch her elegant throat. Her gaze slid over to Lesage, then back to Charlotte. ‘But what sort of people would buy children, madame?’
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. Was this woman mocking her? ‘Witches, madame. Witches.’
Lesage, who had been warming his calves in front of the hearth, stepped forward. ‘What Madame Picot is saying, madame, is that she is hoping you might have heard something through your various acquaintances. A man called Monsieur Horst is understood to be responsible for the kidnapping.’
‘And what is your role in this, Adam?’ asked Madame Filastre.
‘I am . . . accompanying Madame Picot.’
‘Helping her?’
‘Well, her husband is dead, as she told you. She is unfamiliar with Paris –’
‘Is she paying you, then?’
‘No, madame.’
‘Then you’re helping because of – what? – the kindness in your heart?’
Lesage laughed nervously. ‘Yes. Something like that.’
‘Were you not sentenced to several years in the galleys, Adam?’
‘I was.’
‘But your time is now finished? Already?’
Charlotte could not bear such banal banter any longer. ‘Madame! Please. Do you know anything about my son?’
Apparently amused by the situation, Madame Filastre shook her head and drank her wine. ‘No. I have not heard of such a man, nor have I heard of these things happening in Paris. My circle of acquaintances is not large, madame. I entertain occasionally. My husband is often away on his business. I really don’t know how you expect me to help you . . .’
Charlotte drank her own wine and felt it seep warmly into her blood and bones. Her legs were trembling slightly and she pressed her feet against the carpet to steady them. She felt queasy in the presence of this serene and forbidding woman. She glanced around once more at the furnishings. In the house of a witch. How had it come to this? ‘But are you not a sorceress, madame?’
No longer quite so merry-eyed, Madame Filastre settled her feline gaze upon Charlotte. She drank her wine and wiped her mouth with a single finger. ‘It’s true I have some expertise with remedies and so on. Charms. Particular novenas. But I cannot conjure your child from where he might be, madame.’
Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘But have you not made a pact with the Devil, madame?’
There followed a brief silence. ‘And who told you that, Madame Picot?’
‘A woman like me hears things.’
‘Oh, but I’m most intrigued. What kind of woman would that be? A milkmaid? No. A seamstress?’
Charlotte attempted to hold the woman’s eye, but faltered, glancing instead at Lesage who, mercifully, stepped forward.
‘Come now, Françoise,’ he said. ‘Madame Picot is most upset at what has happened, as I’m sure you can imagine. She means nothing by it. We are sorry to disturb you so late. We thought you might have heard something or could help in some way. That’s all. But if you have not heard anything, then we shall try elsewhere. Come, Madame Picot. I shall escort you back to your lodgings. Just allow me to . . .’
Lesage bent over to carve himself a hunk of ham from the joint on the platter. Abashed and relieved to have a focus aside from her own discomfort, Charlotte watched him tear away the greasy flap of meat and slide it into his mouth.
Madame Filastre leaned forward and refilled her wine
glass. ‘I know,’ she said, after a lull in which the only sound was that of Lesage wetly chewing his meat, ‘why don’t you send one of your special messages, Adam? Perhaps the Devil himself knows where the boy is?’
Charlotte was dismayed at such an idea, but Lesage, evidently energised at the prospect of communicating with his master, began muttering and nodding and pacing around the parlour.
‘Yes,’ he was saying. ‘Yes! Why did I not consider it myself? An excellent idea, Madame Filastre. Yes, yes.’ He appealed to Charlotte. ‘What do you think, madame?’
Charlotte turned to their hostess. ‘Are you sure, Madame Filastre, that you have not heard anything of this man or of such a trade in Paris?’
‘Not a word, I’m afraid.’
‘But will asking a question . . . injure me in any way, or put my soul in jeopardy? Is it not dangerous, monsieur?’
Lesage shook his head. ‘No, no, no. Merely asking a question won’t hurt you. Nor does it imperil your soul, madame. Not at all. Honestly. If it is dangerous for anyone, then it is dangerous for me. I am here to serve you, am I not? It would not be in my own interests to cause you any harm, would it?’
Charlotte supposed this was true enough. She imagined the city of Paris out there beyond the thick walls of this house. Its alleys and buildings and cats, its grim doorways and stinking, straw-covered courtyards. Nicolas could be anywhere, nowhere, and a fresh dread filled her heart at consideration of his possible fate. Desperation bested her fear. After a moment, she nodded her agreement. What choice was there?
Lesage clapped his hands. ‘Excellent. Now. Can you write, madame?’
Again she nodded. ‘Yes. A little.’
Charlotte’s odd companion was most excited as he produced from his satchel a scrap of paper, a quill and a pot of black ink. This he uncorked. Then, with great care, Lesage smoothed the grubby square of paper on his knee, jabbed his quill several times into the ink and offered it to her with a solemn dip of his head.
On the tip of the quill bulged a drop of blood-dark ink. Reflected upside down in it was the room and its occupants: glowing coals in the fireplace; Lesage’s ruddy cheeks; Charlotte’s looming, outstretched hand; the attentive but disdainful gaze of Madame Filastre. An entire world, shrunken and pulled out of shape. She hesitated. Again Lesage pressed the quill upon her.
Eventually, she took it and wrote her question awkwardly, but with great care. She was not an experienced scribe. The effort was considerable and it took some time. She spelled out her question in clumsy letters: please where is my son nicolas please.
‘Now,’ Lesage said, ‘fold the paper into as small a piece as you can. No need to show me what you have written. The message is not intended for me, of course. That’s very good. Well done. Hand it here. Thank you, Madame Picot.’
Lesage rummaged again in his satchel, finally producing from its depths a large glob of cream-coloured wax. He seemed most pleased with himself, humming away as he fashioned from this a smaller ball of wax – the second one about the size of an apricot stone. Then, without reading it, he stuffed Charlotte’s folded message inside the smaller ball, taking care to embed it thoroughly and reshape the wax into a ball when he had done so. ‘Wax, of course, is a natural medium between our worlds, is it not, Madame Filastre?’
Madame Filastre nodded energetically. ‘Oh, indeed it is, monsieur.’
‘A substance both liquid and solid, a vessel for flame. This particular wax is from altar candles and has been blessed by a priest.’
Charlotte observed him at his work and thought he looked almost like any man who had lived long enough to be acquainted with his human share of sorrow. With his free hand he touched his cheek, something he did often, as if to check on the pulse beneath his skin. ‘Did you have any children yourself, monsieur? Were you married?’
He seemed perplexed that she should ask him such a question. He paused in his moulding of the wax ball and glanced up at Madame Filastre before answering. ‘Yes,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I have two sons. One daughter did not survive infancy. Some sort of illness. She was born near Easter and died by Whitsun of the same year. The boys would be men by now.’
‘How long is it, then, since you saw them?’
He looked at her. ‘It is some years,’ he said at last. ‘I am sure they are still in Normandy where they were born and raised. They were always fine boys.’
‘And your wife?’
‘Why would you want to know these things, madame?’
It was a good question. Why indeed? ‘Just to be sociable.’
He allowed a thin smile. ‘Claudette? A decent woman. Kind, came from a good family. Her father was a shipwright in Le Havre. Much too good for me, I’m afraid. That woman’s only shame, perhaps, was in marrying a man such as myself.’
‘Were you truly so terrible to her?’
He gazed up at her from beneath his hooded eyes, as if he suspected her of mockery. ‘I was sent to the galleys for impieties,’ he hissed. ‘For the very thing I am about to do for you, in fact. I was most fortunate not to have been burned alive at the stake for my crimes. I think she would be pleased to be rid of me. Her family certainly would be.’
Charlotte pressed him. ‘Do you not wish to know something of your sons’ lives? To know whether they are prospering, still fine boys? Whether they are married?’
Lesage worked the wax expertly in his large hands, palming it over and over until it resembled grey marble. ‘There is no way to know such things, madame, but I feel sure they are prospering. André, the oldest one, was always good with numbers. He will do well in business and I know he will look after his brother. They were always good companions to each other. Fond of each other. André’s favourite thing when he was a boy, believe it or not, was for me to ask him mathematical questions. Yes! It’s true. What is five times eight. Nine and twenty-four. That sort of thing. I would write out sums on his slate to amuse him. I was away travelling a lot and it would sometimes be several weeks before I would return to assess his answers. But he was determined to make something of himself and I think he would do well in the world.’
How strange it was to think of Lesage as having once been an ordinary man with a wife and sons – although it was said that even the Devil himself had once been an angel. ‘And what is his name? The younger one?’
Lesage said nothing for a long time, as if he had not heard her. ‘We named him Étienne,’ he said at last, as she prepared to repeat her question. ‘He was . . . there was something wrong with him. Not like the other boys. He was dim-witted somehow, you might say. We kept him inside a lot for fear the villagers would think ill of us. He did not speak for some years and then only in a strange tongue that could only be understood by those in the family. His mother could understand him. Me not so well, on account of being away on business so much. In fact, I met some of these people’ – he gestured vaguely towards Madame Filastre – ‘in Paris because my friend Galet knew them. He thought Catherine Monvoisin might be able to help Étienne with a charm or a remedy of some sort. We had already tried the village priest. He performed an exorcism on Étienne, but it had no effect on the boy. So Catherine tried various spells, but nothing worked. My wife was against such things, but I felt I should do whatever possible to help my son, even if it was at risk to myself. I would have done anything for him. I have done all sorts of things. I was here in Paris a lot, in Italy, in Spain. But André would translate for us. And Étienne enjoyed the children’s rhyme I sang for him. He insisted on my singing it to him at night when I was home. “Les Cloches de Vendôme” – you know the one?’ Shyly, he sang a few bars of the song, which Charlotte did indeed recognise, before his voice faltered.
‘You would not wish to return to Normandy and see how he is faring?’
There was real irritation in his voice when he answered. ‘Yes, but it is not always possible to return home, Madame Picot. Not when a man has done c
ertain . . . things; not when he has travelled a certain distance from that particular place. This is something that perhaps you are fortunate not to know. I have brought great shame upon my wife. Once innocence is lost, madame, it cannot be regained. One cannot’ – he paused to glance again at Madame Filastre – ‘unlearn what one has learned. My fortunes are bound with yours, are they not? My freedom is still limited. Perhaps, if you were to release me from your service, I could indeed return, but you have made it plain that such a turn of events is impossible – regardless of the outcome.’
Charlotte felt herself flushing to have this apparent cruelty of hers pointed out and she drew her shawl tight around her shoulders.
Madame Filastre chortled. ‘Is this woman your wife, Adam? For what you are describing sounds very much like a marriage.’
‘Very funny, Françoise. Now, to the matter at hand . . .’ Lesage held up the wax ball containing her message. ‘I shall send this off immediately and soon we will know more.’
‘But how is it delivered?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Through fire. This will not take long.’
Lesage produced from his satchel a short stick of hazel, then kneeled awkwardly in front of the coals glowing in the grate. He closed his eyes and touched the stick to his forehead with a brisk flourish, mumbling incomprehensibly to himself in some foreign language as he did so. A wand. His stick was a wand. His cheek twitched and his neck glistened with sweat. He seemed excited, prepared for his unholy communion.
A few more invocations, then he turned to Charlotte and Madame Filastre with one arm raised to his face. ‘Cover your eyes, please.’
He tossed the ball of wax containing Charlotte’s message into the coals pulsing in the grate. Charlotte placed a hand over her eyes in time but she glimpsed, from behind interlaced fingers, a sputtering crackle and flash. She cried out in alarm and cowered on the sofa. When she removed her hand, bright shapes – orange, white, blue – danced in the air in front of her and the room was filled with a pungent odour, like that of gunpowder.
City of Crows Page 20
