‘I think it’s too late for that,’ Willem said with a chuckle as he dropped the curtain and the carriage returned to its upholstered gloom, ‘for we have arrived.’
Lesage helped Nicolas from the carriage and escorted him beneath the archway into the cool courtyard. The boy looked around fearfully. Chickens fussed and clucked among the sticks of straw, a goat stared at them. Water trickled from the hand pump’s spout. ‘Don’t worry, boy,’ he said, ‘your mother is waiting for you up here.’
Behind them the carriage rattled away. Gripping the boy’s upper arm, Lesage guided him – perhaps more roughly than he needed, for the boy had irritated him with his whining – through a narrow door, along a passageway, up the dingy stairs. Murmur of other tenants from behind flimsy walls, the wail of a baby, a man’s laughter.
Lesage was excited, not only at the prospect of his own imminent release from Madame Picot’s power, but also – and this almost despite himself – for the woman herself. Clearly she had suffered a great deal in her life. Husband dead, three of her four children dead. Not an unusual story, to be sure, but no less terrible for that. He was pleased to think he might play a minor role in securing some happiness for the poor woman. He felt exceedingly pleased with himself that he had decided against Catherine’s suggested course of action of bringing the boy to her so that he might be ransomed. No, he thought with some satisfaction, the accounting for his soul was not yet done with.
Finally, the door. With his knife, he cut away the rope tying the boy’s hands behind his back. Despite Lesage’s endless reassurances, the boy still looked terrified. No matter; soon he would see for himself that Lesage had been telling the truth all along. Then Lesage flung open the door and propelled him into the room.
As he expected, Madame Picot was sitting on her low stool by the window. At their entrance she turned to them. Lesage sensed the grin on his own face and was bewildered not to see it mirrored on her own. She did not even rise from her stool. Instead, she looked between him and Nicolas with confusion. ‘Who’s this boy, monsieur?’ she asked.
‘This is your son. Nicolas.’
She shook her head. ‘But this is not my son.’
29
Lesage was first to break the lengthy silence that followed. ‘Pardon, madame?’
‘That boy is not my son.’
This seemed impossible. Lesage shook the boy roughly by the shoulder. ‘Is that true?’
‘I told you my mother was dead.’
Enraged, Lesage slapped the boy’s face. ‘Did you lie to me? Your name is not Nicolas?’
The boy shrank back, crying. ‘Yes, monsieur. I am named that, but –’
‘What? But what?’
‘Did you see my son?’ Madame Picot asked the boy, rising from her stool. ‘My son who is also called Nicolas? Nicolas Picot. He is around your age. With black hair . . .’
The boy paused, sniffling, then nodded. ‘Yes, madame. I think so.’
Madame Picot glided over to him. ‘Where is he now?’
The boy glanced at Lesage, then shrugged as if the answer should have been clear. ‘But he is dead, madame. As I told this man . . .’
Lesage staggered back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the hard floor. Any slim hope of freedom had vanished. The witch would now surely send him back. He was truly cursed. Money, freedom – he should have known such things were forever unattainable. But how cruel it was to place them momentarily within his reach! He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead onto his knees. The boy, tremblingly, between sobs, told Madame Picot what had become of her son, but Lesage didn’t wish to hear any of it. He shut his eyes tight and clasped his hands over his ears so that the words were, if not completely obscured, at least partially muffled, as if heard underwater. ‘Chains . . . blood . . . murder.’
When at last he opened his eyes again and looked up, Madame Picot was perched on the edge of the bed. Wan light, absence of movement, a spider’s web dangling from a corner of the window. But the boy was nowhere to be seen. ‘Where is he?’ Lesage asked.
Madame Picot looked at him for a long time as if unsure of who he was or what he might have been talking about. Then she waved a hand. ‘That boy you found? He’s gone. Back to his own village, I assume. Who knows?’
His scalp itched beneath his wig and he wedged a finger under the lining to scratch it.
‘He has a scar under his jaw,’ Madame Picot muttered, running a finger along her own jawline. ‘Here, on the left side.’
‘What? The boy had a scar?’
She clucked her tongue in annoyance. ‘My son. My Nicolas. That is how you might have known. That’s all. You might have seen it. He slipped from a fence when he was a few years old and cut his jaw open. A terrible sight it was.’
‘Ah. Yes. Young boys . . .’
‘But he is now dead. Murdered by some men for their pleasure, it seems.’
He longed to tell Madame Picot of La Voisin’s idea of ransoming her son rather than reuniting them, of her plan to murder the boy if she did not release Lesage. And of how he had elected – from the kindness of his heart alone – to bring that boy here instead of offering him up to that terrible fate. But he couldn’t speak. And, in any case, there was no point, for he had rescued the wrong boy.
‘What should we do now?’ he asked after a thick silence.
The sorceress regarded him bleakly, and although she was no further than a few paces away, her gaze seemed to alight upon him from deep within the cavern of her skull. Lesage knew better than to ask for further details of what had become of her boy. Madame Picot closed her eyes and muttered under her breath. A prayer, perhaps, or a curse. He noticed that she was stroking her black book in her lap.
‘Avaunt,’ she said suddenly. ‘Avaunt, avaunt.’ Then she crossed herself with her free hand, shivered and looked directly at him. ‘You are now free to go. The charm yoking us together has been undone. Wreak whatever havoc you wish to in the world, monsieur.’
Lesage could scarcely believe his ears. He clambered to his feet. ‘Pardon, madame? I am free? You will not send me back? Truly?’ Confused, uncertain, he stood before her. ‘Thank you, madame. But . . . what of our arrangement, Madame Picot? The money? What about –’
‘I dragged you out from hell, monsieur. Do you not think that is enough?’
He opened his mouth to protest, but thought it wiser to keep the peace. No need to antagonise the woman at this stage. He picked up the satchel containing the tools of his trade: the pot of ink, the tarot cards and shards of paper.
‘What will you do now?’ she asked.
It was a good question. The prospect of freedom overwhelmed him. He gazed around and shook his head. ‘I don’t know, madame, I . . . Perhaps I shall return to Normandy? See my sons, my wife?’
Lesage thought of the trunk crammed with money and jewellery. He had twenty livres left over from the money Catherine had given him, but it would not last long. He gestured towards the trunk. ‘You will need to be careful of that treasure,’ he said, hoping a reminder might prompt in her some gesture of charity or recompense. ‘Wary of thieves, I mean.’
But Madame Picot didn’t acknowledge him and seemed barely aware he had spoken. It looked, in fact, like she might never speak again, so firmly did the tomb of her mouth appear to be sealed. No, he would not be able to change her mind. Nevertheless, he hesitated. He had been desperate to get away from the poor woman, but now the time had come, he was strangely reluctant. ‘Is there anything else you need, madame? Some wine, perhaps? A piece of bread? Should I hail a passing merchant for you?’
When she again declined to answer Lesage sidled towards the door, where he paused. He felt there was something more that needed to be said. ‘I’m sorry, madame. About your son. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you. I will pray for his eternal soul.’
And, despite everything, he truly did
feel sorry for her. The woman had lost all that moored a person to the world and she seemed drastically altered, as if some vital element had been stripped from her. If it weren’t for the lank hair framing her face, she might again have been mistaken for a statue of an anguished saint. She frightened him, for a grieving woman was a wounded thing, likely to strike out in any direction. ‘Goodbye, madame.’
And he left the room and closed the door behind him, gently, so as not to disturb her further.
Somewhat dazed, Lesage walked south along Rue Saint-Denis towards the river, then veered east to avoid passing too close by the stinking cemetery. The street, the city, the earth. He stopped for a moment, unsure how to make sense of what had happened. People brushed past him. The smell of a brazier, a carriage rattling by. What will you do now? It was a good question indeed and the more Lesage considered it, the more he felt it was time to leave Paris – as much as he adored the place. Yes. It was a good idea. The time was right. Yes, why not return to Normandy, as he had said? The coast, the sea air, green fields. His eyes watered at the thought of a homecoming after all these years. His house, his sons. He imagined the villagers remarking on his fine hat and his lovely shoes. Claudette would throw something at him – probably many things, actually – but he was sure he could win her over again. Besides, she was still his wife. What else was she to do?
He considered visiting Le Berceau over on Pont Saint-Michel, assuming the old tavern was still there. Yes. Why not? He had a few coins. He should celebrate his release, but not ostentatiously, for he felt superstitious about abandoning himself to even the vaguest sense of elation; after all, the last time he was unexpectedly released it was to fall immediately under the spell of Madame Picot.
Merely a quiet drink of cider, he thought, some time to reflect on his change in fortune. Yes. A tavern with a fire and some hot food was precisely what a man needed on such an evening. Le Berceau used to have a decent soup or roast on offer and there might be one or two old acquaintances of his there – perhaps even a whore with whom he might flirt? Yes. This time he was truly free – freer than he’d been in many years! He was unable to supress a sob of triumph. Then someone called his name and he turned to see a boy trotting towards him.
‘You are Lesage?’ the runt squeaked, out of breath and doubled over in front of him with his hands on his knees. ‘La Voisin . . . wants to see you.’
Her name punctured the pleasurable swell of anticipation in his chest. ‘What?’
‘Madame Monvoisin, monsieur.’
‘Yes, yes, I heard you. But it’s much too late now, boy. I’m busy.’ He continued walking. ‘Tell her I’ll come to see her tomorrow.’
But the boy shook his head. ‘No, monsieur,’ he said gravely. ‘She says you must go see her immediately. She was most serious about it. Says it’s very important.’
30
Charlotte sat for a long time, as if she had been struck by a blow. Outside, clouds covered the sun. She had neither the strength nor the inclination to light a candle, and the room around her – its walls, the bed – crumbled away until she was quite alone, drenched in sorrow as heavy as blood. Perhaps this was how it was to die, she thought, and half expected to see Hellequin on his awful black horse leering at her from the window. Certainly I could feel no worse than this. My husband, all my children. If I sit here then surely I, too, will vanish completely. At last. At last my heart has been picked clean. From outside came the cry of a water merchant, a gust of wind. Someone, somewhere, calmed a skittish horse and this evidence of the world continuing as if nothing untoward had happened seemed an affront fashioned for her alone.
She inspected her hands. The left palm still bore the wound Madame Rolland had carved into it. The gash was encrusted with black blood and still tender to the touch – a fact which surprised her, for the encounter with the old sorceress seemed so long ago. Her other hand had its own old scars; the time she nearly sliced the end off her thumb as a girl while helping her mother skin rabbits, the marks on the backs of her hands and wrists from her own encounter with fever. She supposed there was a whole life contained in a person’s hands; all they had done, everything they were yet to do. It was no wonder some people could read a person’s past and future there.
She cupped her hands over her mouth and nose and closed her eyes as if in prayer; indeed, within the tiny space there loomed a claustral world of scent and memory. There was her own familiar smell, of course, almost undetectable; sweat; and that of Paris’s musty air. Everything, it seemed, she had handled in her life. The pigeon’s heart, the pages of her book. Her village, her father’s sour breath and his arm around her shoulders as they strolled back to their cottage through the winter dusk. A bee’s sting on her wrist. The day her brother Paul broke his arm when a cow crushed it against a fence, and his terrible cries of pain when it was set by the midwife. How hard he had squeezed her hand. Smoke gathering in the morning breeze, the flavour of lark. The darkness of a pine forest after rain, beech leaves she had shredded through her fingers on summer days, a snuffed candle wick. She recalled Michel’s bristly cheek against her neck. The smell of autumn soil and summer clouds, sunlight seeping into the mist-shrouded valley at dawn. She heard her children singing in their plaintive voices and the nights when Béatrice, the youngest, still the youngest and somehow the most forlorn, had cried out in her sleep. Mother. Mother. Mother. When Charlotte had been pregnant with Philippe all those years ago, her hair had thickened and her breasts swelled. One warm afternoon she sat to rest on a tree stump and she felt her baby turn inside her – feet hard against her womb, his head pressed to her ribs. Some of the other women from the village passed by on their way from the fields, but they didn’t mock Charlotte for her idleness, as they might usually have done, but merely smiled at her. She had remained on the stump with her hand cradling her drum-tight stomach, caressing the child who had given her the clearest sign yet that he was waiting to be born. She wondered what kind of boy Philippe would have been had he survived infancy.
She withdrew her hands from her face. Enough. How unbearable it was to be so alive to the world and its endless comings and goings. She lit the candle. In her lap was her black book, as warm as a rabbit or cat. Idly, she thumbed its torn corners and the tiny clasp securing the forbidden pages. Then, barely aware of what she was doing, Charlotte held her left hand over the candle flame until the skin of her palm blistered, whereupon she pulled it away. Foolish, but at least it was a pain that would eventually ease.
Then she opened the clasp that secured the secret pages in her book. Ghostly whispers and dark murmurs drifted up to her like the scent from a long-smouldering fire. Help yourself, woman, and God will help you. Anything can be done, everything can be done. Unicorn horn, blood of a week-old lamb, hazel ash soaked in brine. Astaroth, Alazan, Ambriel. Anything you desire. Many other things. Some devils can take your toes without you even knowing. Eerie sigils without name or sound, but whose dark meanings were unmistakeable. Parchment of deerskin, a knife, a child less than a season old who has been willingly given like a gift. Demons can make storms appear. Thistle and goat fat. Thyme and blood. A woman’s heart contains all things. She creates life, gives suck to her baby; her heart is tender and loving. But it has other elements as well. It contains fire and intrigue and mighty storms. Shipwrecks and all that has ever happened in the world. Murder, if need be, and dragons and quakes. All that is, is God. Agnus Dei. The lamb. Kyrie, eleison. Mercy on my soul. Have faith and he will surely rise again. I ask of thee. I ask of thee. I ask of thee. Your eyes will be jewels, your bones will be cast of silver and your veins will run with gold.
It was dark inside and out when, finally, she closed her book, and by that time a new and thrilling strangeness had entered her. Your blood, your blood, your blood.
When she could bear herself no longer, Charlotte rose from her chair and, dreamily, as if operating under a power not her own, she took some of the coins from the treasure chest, put
on her cloak, departed the house and walked in the direction of the river. The late-afternoon streets were busy with people hurrying to finish their errands or return home. When in sight of the river she hesitated, uncertain. Here, spread out before her, was the view Lesage had shown her – the bone-white towers of the church on the island, the washed-blue sky, thick ribbons of golden sunlight rippling on the water. To her it looked an unruly place, fit only for chaos and ruin.
She left the busier thoroughfares and wound her way south through the labyrinth of smaller, meaner streets until – after getting lost several times – she found herself at a bridge larger than any she thought possible. Along its great span were crowded all sorts of people offering any manner of service or entertainment, a sinister carnival of dancers, children, parrots, merchants and men all cackling and shrieking with pleasure. A group of laughing nobles were carried past in their sedan chairs and a pair of rough-looking men leered and gestured towards her. She wondered where Lesage had gone, what would become of him, and she realised she missed the ungainly reassurance he had provided. Perhaps she had been unwise to send him away?
She waded into the throng of jugglers and teeth-pullers, past the scribes and priests and braying aristocrats having their fortunes told. There was a family with a dancing bear. Grinning faces and feathered hats and the smoke from braziers. Several times she found herself unable to continue, so thick was the crowd, and on one of these occasions a man grabbed her arm and put his hot mouth to her ear. ‘Want to fuck me, whore?’ She tried to pull away, but he was stronger and determined to detain her. A hand clutched at her breast. She gasped, and was horribly aware of her own pathetic, outraged gasp. A few people turned around, then glanced away. A woman’s grin, the smell of cooking meat, flash of sweaty neck. ‘Because I want to fuck you . . .’ Finally, she broke away and jostled through the crowd to the other bank, where it was much quieter, more to her liking.
City of Crows Page 26
