She asked an old woman for directions and, eventually, found her way to Rue des Canettes. Over a shopfront hung a sign of tin beaten into the shape of a mortar and pestle. On it were painted the words Monsieur Maigret, Predictions herbs and unguents. Through the murky window burned a lamp. She cupped her hands against the glass and peered through, but could make out almost nothing in the aqueous gloom. Shadows, the glint of metal, a bubble captured in the window’s thick, green glass.
A carriage startled Charlotte as it passed close behind her, leaving an acrid smell of horse sweat in its wake. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. She waited for a moment with her hand on the door handle before forcing it open and stepping inside. The shop was as dark and silent as a cave and smelled powerfully of things dried and salted. She blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she found she was standing amid all manner of objects. Flasks, vials, books, instruments on benches, barrels and boxes on the floor. Pelts hung from the ceiling, maps and charts adorned the walls.
A shape rose like a great leviathan from the darkness. It was a man. ‘Good afternoon, madame.’
She started, then caught her breath. ‘Good afternoon. Are you Monsieur Maigret? The apothecary?’
A pause as his gaze travelled up and down her body, as if assembling her limb by limb with this eyes. ‘Yes, yes. What is it?’
‘There are some things I need. I’m told you can help me.’
The apothecary nodded. He was an immensely tall, ill- dressed man with dark eyes and a beard the colour of pewter that reached to his waist. On his head was a grubby coif, and around his neck was a leather strap with a medallion bearing an astrological design of some sort. He stood tilted slightly forward, with his arms behind his back like wings; indeed, there was something in his bearing reminiscent of a giant, peevish bird. ‘What do you need, madame?’
She hesitated. ‘Some unicorn horn. The blood of a week-old lamb. Hazel ash.’
Monsieur Maigret arched his eyebrows with surprise, but made no other movement. Then he narrowed his gaze. ‘I have not met you before, have I?’
Charlotte hesitated, unsure if his question were designed to trick her. ‘No, monsieur. Do you not have these items?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ducking his head. ‘I do. It’s only that . . . Might I ask what it is you intend to do with them?’
‘It is a charm for a baby, monsieur. To protect him from plague. The child’s mother is recently dead and his older sister fears for his life. She begged me to help her.’
‘There is certainly fever about this summer. I can feel it in the air, a sort of thickening. It must be a powerful charm.’
‘Oh, it is.’
‘Ah, yes. You are not from Paris, are you?’
‘No. I’m from a village south of here.’
‘Where is your husband?’
‘Dead.’
‘Children?’
‘All dead.’
‘Ah. And why did you come to Paris?’
‘I was looking for someone.’
‘I see. And did you find this person?’
She hesitated. ‘Not yet.’
‘What do you think of our fair city?’
‘I think it’s a wicked place.’
The old man laughed, displaying long yellow teeth. ‘Yes. That’s certainly one word for it.’
She held out her handful of coins. ‘I have the money, monsieur.’
He looked at her coins and muttered, whether with appreciation or contempt, it was difficult to tell. ‘Very well. Wait here, madame.’
Lighting a candle for her and taking the lantern for himself, he shuffled to the rear of the workshop where his shadow bobbed about among the countless racks of grimy flasks, mandrake roots, bird skulls and bones. Charlotte gazed around. Scattered across a nearby bench were sheets of paper covered with numerous numbers and diagrams and symbols. Circles, pentacles, the girdle of the earth. Calculations or spells in unknown languages, the splayed figure of a naked man. Forty is the most powerful number there is, for it was the number of years Moses wandered in the desert. Charlotte gazed at the illustrations and ran her fingers over them. They possessed a kind of majesty. Distance to the moon, various stars, the measure of all the things in heaven. Saturn and Mars, beams of light. All the means by which men tried to understand their world.
A bulbous mirror on one wall reflected the room back to her, everything it contained – her own face included – small and jostling in on itself as if in a globe of quicksilver. In the reflection, her features were inflated so out of proportion that she resembled a pinch-cheeked, bulge-eyed mantis. She was dismayed to see a smudge of dirt on her forehead and wiped it off with a finger wetted with spit. She peered again at herself quickly before glancing away. I was not a witch, but they made me one.
On a shelf above her was an array of animal skulls, a human one among them, the white of it almost luminous in the murk. She looked around to ensure that Monsieur Maigret was otherwise occupied, then reached out to touch it. The surface was cold and grainy. She drew back. Then she touched the bony globe again. Like a wooden rock, she thought. She tapped it several times with a fingernail.
‘Ah,’ came Monsieur Maigret’s voice close at her shoulder. ‘I see you have met my old friend Monsieur Joffroy.’
Charlotte spun around in fright. ‘I’m sorry, monsieur.’
‘You couldn’t resist.’
‘No, monsieur. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched it.’
‘Knocking will get you nowhere with him, I fear. The door is well and truly locked behind him.’
But rather than displeased, Monsieur Maigret appeared gratified, as if by her gesture a long-held, private theory of his had been proven. He placed his lantern on a bench where it sputtered momentarily before falling quiet. In his other hand was a cloth sack. ‘It’s the irresistible call of the dead. They require so much. But we also make our demands of them, don’t we?’
Charlotte was unsure how to answer this. She stayed silent and watched a greasy tendril of smoke issuing from the lantern.
Monsieur Maigret picked up the skull, balanced it on his palm and raised it to his face as if preparing to kiss it, but instead he peered into its large, eyeless sockets. ‘I wonder what he sees now. The fires of damnation, no doubt. Devils.’
Charlotte shuddered and stepped back, out of the man’s reach. ‘Was he truly your friend?’
The apothecary chuckled and shook his head. ‘No. I think perhaps that Monsieur Joffroy was friend to no man. This gentleman met his death at the end of a rope. A thief and the murderer of several people. Not that you could tell any of this from looking at his skull. Looks the same as any man once the skin has fallen away, doesn’t it? No eyes. No face. Larger at the back, perhaps. They say he was brave at the end, that he looked the hangman in the eye without flinching. I often wonder if he and his victims have met in the afterlife and what they might have said to each other. The executioner Monsieur Guillaume sometimes passes them along to me. A hanged man’s skull is a most powerful thing, you know.’
Charlotte felt her lips tighten with distaste. ‘What can it do?’
‘It reminds us of our fate, that’s what. Dust to dust . . .’
‘I think perhaps the world provides us with plenty of such reminders, monsieur.’
‘Indeed.’ He considered the skull once more. ‘And it tells me secrets about people. The dark things people might hide – even from themselves.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes.’ And, with a glint in his eye, he lifted the skull to his ear, nodded and made a face as if hearing incredible things. ‘If I hold it here like this. You don’t believe me?’
Charlotte laughed. ‘Why, yes. I do, monsieur.’
The old man chuckled again, this time more heartily, and lowered the skull. Then he held out the little sack of green fabric. Its
contents clinked together. ‘I have what you asked for, madame.’
‘Everything?’
‘Of course.’
She made no move to take it.
‘You appear to be disappointed,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you hoped that I wouldn’t have all that you requested?’
‘No, monsieur. That would not make sense.’
‘Tell me, madame, what do you intend to use these ingredients for?’
‘A charm of protection. I told you, monsieur. A baby . . .’
‘Ah. Yes.’ The apothecary pursed his lips as he considered this. Then his eyes widened comically and again he raised the skull to his ear. ‘What’s that, Monsieur Joffroy? Is that true? Yes. I see. I see.’ He turned to her. ‘He tells me you are preparing to do something terrible.’
Charlotte caught her breath, but made no answer.
Monsieur Maigret placed the skull back on the shelf. ‘You know, they are hanging Justine Gallant and Monsieur Olivier at Place de Grève tonight. For murder. Witchcraft. They say they tried to summon the Devil himself.’ He shrugged and rubbed at his nose. ‘Some might interpret the event as a warning,’ he added.
They stood in silence. Eventually, Charlotte gestured towards one of the papers. ‘Tell me, monsieur, these diagrams – are they magic? What is the word that is written here?’
The apothecary made a small movement with his head, like a self-satisfied heron. ‘No, no, no, madame. Not magic. Of course not. No. This is science. Science. You don’t know how to read Greek, I suppose?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’ He bent over the workbench to peer at the documents, tucking his beard aside as he did so. Muttering to himself, he smoothed the curling papers against the bench with his hand. ‘I doubt a woman could understand such complex astrological matters. The movement of the heavens and stars and so on.’ He arranged his fingers as if gripping invisible eggs, which he had circle each other in the air between them. ‘That word is eclipse. An eclipse is when the moon moves in front of the sun, which causes the earth to go dark.’
‘And this happens when night falls at the end of the day?’
The old man smiled. ‘No, no, no, no, no. An eclipse sometimes happens in daylight, and it is as if there is a brief night in the middle of the day – but it’s only for a short time.’
A brief night in the middle of the day. It sounded preposterous. Charlotte’s scepticism must have shown clearly on her face, for the apothecary held up an admonitory finger. ‘Oh yes. And not so rare as you might think. No. There was an eclipse only a few days ago, which is why I have been consulting these particular documents. It’s vital to know about these matters when it comes to making predictions for someone’s future success, you see. Even minor miscalculations could mean the difference between life and death. Now, madame. If you look here at these particular illustrations . . .’
The apothecary rambled on nonsensically about the heavens and the movement of planets and stars, but Charlotte’s mind drifted. Instead of paying attention to the papers on which the apothecary was pointing out various diagrams and formulae, she gazed at the old man’s grey hairs wavering about in the buttery lantern light. So much had happened. She wondered about her village of Saint-Gilles and imagined its inhabitants going about their business – Louis beating his flock of sheep from pasture with a switch, old Fournier lounging in the doorway with his pipe clamped between his teeth, the clatter of children and animals underfoot, the earthy stench of the dungheap. Such a place now seemed utterly impossible to her, as distant and ethereal as a dream. Dread keened across her skin. What did the villagers imagine had become of her – if they considered her fate at all? Was this how it was to be dead, to wonder about the living and whether they went about their business without you?
‘No,’ she murmured when she wearied of his lecture.
‘Pardon, madame?’
Her heart swelled with a feeling of pleasurable discomfort, like a pulse of illicit desire.
‘That was not an eclipse, Monsieur Maigret. No. I darkened the sun. It was me.’
The apothecary could barely contain his mirth. ‘Pardon, madame? You?’
She took the sack of ingredients and gave him her handful of coins, then took her leave before the old man could say anything more.
Power, she realised as she stepped into the street. That feeling was power.
31
Most disgruntled, Lesage trudged to Catherine Monvoisin’s villa in the city’s north, where he found her strolling in her rear garden. It was clear she was quite drunk. She moved deliberately, as if in accordance with instructions audible to her alone; her blouse was askew; the red pigments she had applied to her mouth and cheeks were smudged and this granted her a ghoulish appearance. She greeted him with fond kisses before escorting him with some force into her consulting pavilion. She was excited as she closed the door behind them and gestured for him to sit. The room was stuffy, its air still.
‘Come, my dear. Come. Let’s sit. It’s so wonderful to see you again. Now. It’s as well you came, Adam.’
He flinched at the use of his former name. ‘You asked me to come.’
‘Oh yes. Of course. Now, did you manage to see this fellow at La Pomme de Pin? What was his name?’
‘Willem. Yes, and we found the boy, but things did not quite go as I might have wished.’
‘Oh? But why?’
Briefly – and leaving aside the crucial matter of the treasure – Lesage explained how he had retrieved a boy only to find he was not Madame Picot’s son after all. ‘Unfortunately, it seems that her son was killed by these men.’
‘But he was not her son?’
‘What? The other boy? No.’
She belched. ‘Another boy altogether? With the exact same name?’
‘Yes.’
Catherine sank back in her chair, seemingly aghast at the thought of two boys with the same name, common as it was. A fly hovered near her left shoulder, alighting momentarily before lumbering away again. ‘I thought we agreed you would bring him here? To hold him ransom for your freedom?’
Lesage gestured and shook his head to indicate the matter was too complicated to explain and, in any case, was now of no importance.
Catherine grunted. ‘Strange. Well. I have some interesting information.’
‘As do I, Catherine –’
She waved for him to be silent and poured herself a generous amount of red wine – a good portion of which slopped onto the carpet – but offered him none.
‘I have – or we have, I should say – been asked by someone important to help with something. Someone very important.’
Catherine gulped from her glass then stared wide-eyed at Lesage and nodded intently, as if these actions alone might communicate to him who this person might be and the nature of the assistance required.
Realising that an offer of wine would not be forthcoming, Lesage stood and poured himself a cup. He sensed he would need it. ‘Well?’ he asked, when he had resumed his seat. ‘What is it, then?’
Catherine leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘The King is away inspecting the borders. And yesterday, old . . . Quanto came to see me herself. Privately.’
This wasn’t completely surprising. The King’s mistress was known to be a regular customer of the sorceresses of Paris and, in fact, Catherine – quite rightly – claimed a great deal of credit for ensuring her success in obtaining the title of maîtresse-en-titre in the first place. Although it was unusual for Madame de Montespan to come to Villeneuve herself – a maid usually picked things up for her – it was hardly unprecedented. Lesage sensed, however, that some further sinister revelation was forthcoming, and he sipped his wine to settle the queasiness in his innards. He glanced at the door.
Catherine sucked her teeth. ‘Madame is worried about a young woman, some whore at court. You know what I mean. Our King is mo
st restless in his desires, as I think we all know. Madame is getting older, of course, and it’s true she has . . . filled out somewhat. What does she expect, after several children? She’s past thirty, after all. What does the King expect? I think she is still charming, very vivacious. The King, however, is tiring of her. The other woman is, of course, much younger, and extremely beautiful, but she is notoriously stupid. Caput vacuum cerebro, if you understand my meaning. I forget – do you understand Latin, Adam?’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. Empty-headed. Yes.’
‘Completely stupid. And I fear she has met her match in Athénaïs de Montespan. After all, one does not maintain such a position by kindness and wit alone. She wants another ceremony. She’s desperate to have her children recognised by the King. Now, I need you to go to Les Enfants Rouges to pick something up for us. Some slut had her baby last night and –’
‘No, Catherine.’
She looked at him, puzzled, as if these two words were a riddle. ‘What do you mean, No, Catherine? Madame has expressly wished for your participation in this and I have assured her you would be able to help. She has a great deal of respect for you, Adam. You should have heard her in those years you were away.’ Catherine fluttered a hand in front of her face in imitation of a fan and affected a noblewoman’s accent. ‘Oh, I wish Monsieur du Coeuret were here to assist us, she would say. And then you returned,’ she clicked her stubby, beringed fingers in the air, ‘like magic.’
Lesage exhaled and ran a finger around the rim of his wine cup. Buried like broken glass in Catherine’s chronicle was an accusation, as if all his years in the galleys had been contrived to inconvenience her.
‘Besides,’ Catherine went on, ‘do you know what this is worth to us? One thousand écus.’
Lesage let out a low whistle of astonishment. It was certainly an enormous sum of money. He wondered about the woman who had so riled Athénaïs but, fearing he was already too implicated, he jumped to his feet, spilling wine over his breeches in his haste. ‘No. I cannot be involved. You see, Madame Picot has released me from her power.’
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