He waved away her concern. ‘Everyone wants to see a felon punished, but no one wishes to do it themselves.’
She sipped her wine. ‘Tell me. How does it feel?’
‘What?’
She was sure her meaning was clear enough but the hangman, for his own reasons, wished her to say it aloud. ‘How does it feel to kill a person, Monsieur Guillaume?’
Guillaume shrugged and poured himself another cup of wine. He gave her question some consideration before answering. ‘It is not the profession I would have chosen for myself, but it is an honour. It cannot be done lightly. A great burden and a great responsibility. I try to ensure they are dispatched the proper way. I pray for their eternal souls. Women are not called upon to do it, luckily for them.’
‘They say everything can be forgiven.’
‘Do you think the two I executed tonight will be forgiven, madame?’
‘Yes. If they were duly confessed. God forgives everything.’
‘And me?’
‘You are doing God’s work, are you not? Is it not for the greater good?’
The executioner looked down at his hands as if the answer might be found there. His fingernails were blunt and Charlotte wondered how he had freed the woman’s heart from her body. ‘I will find out in the end, I suppose,’ he said.
‘As will we all, monsieur.’
Gingerly, she placed the heart, still wrapped in its cloth, in her pocket. Then she straightened the scarf on her head and returned to her room in Madame Simon’s house. The terrible day was drawing to an end, but she was no longer afraid.
33
Lesage walked in the direction of Les Enfants Rouges, brooding on his conversation with Catherine. Her words echoed about in his skull as if it were a cavern. You have blood on your hands. One cannot return home after the nest has been fouled. The damned woman was so adept at turning anything to her own advantage. For good reason was she feared throughout the city. Over the years Lesage had seen her bend all sorts of people to her will – and not only illiterate merchants and greedy soldiers and their ilk. No. There had been duchesses and dukes, and now it seemed that Madame de Montespan herself was the King’s official mistress thanks to their diabolical intercession. Catherine had spies in virtually every quarter of the city, people over whom she held great influence, mostly thanks to some shard of compromising gossip she wouldn’t hesitate to leverage for her own purposes. After all, someone was always fucking someone they shouldn’t be or generally up to mischief. She probably wouldn’t rest until she had been installed in her own apartments at Saint-Germain.
The streets were busy with all sorts of merchants and carriages and idlers and animals. Horses, a flock of geese, a herd of pigs. He paused at an oyster stall and quaffed several with a sprinkling of lemon and salt. Unpleasant things they were – like warm dollops of coagulated sea water – and yet he invariably felt compelled to eat them if the opportunity arose.
Nearby a blind beggar woman crouched in the shadows with her hand out, murmuring prayers and imprecations. The woman was ancient and her scalp and cheeks were dotted with blisters. In an Italian church many years ago Lesage had seen a saint who had been dead for several centuries, but who looked more likely to rise up and walk than this old woman. Consideration of the beggar – and of the saint – prompted in him thoughts of Madame Picot and he experienced an unfamiliar spasm of guilt. Should he have done something for the poor woman, offered some further sort of – what? – assistance? She had no husband, no children. She was not old, certainly, and quite pretty – but she wasn’t young enough to attract a husband of great quality. And she was so provincial, not suited to the city. Paris swarmed with unscrupulous and calculating rogues. This he knew better than most; after all, he was one of them. The fate he had hastily predicted for her when they encountered the family of troubadours in the forest might yet prove to be accurate. Perhaps he truly was possessed of clairvoyant abilities? How else to explain Madame Leroux’s drowning, not to mention the money he’d seen in Madame Picot’s tarot cards? Unaccountably moved by the beggar’s sordid fate, Lesage took a few sous from his pocket and dropped them into her outstretched claw.
He turned into Rue Pavée, its fancy paving stones underfoot like turtle shells, and skirted around a stinking pile of fresh ordure. A rat darted past and vanished into the shadows. Soon he became aware that the cacophony of children playing and babies squalling was louder than the general noise of the street. He had arrived at the orphanage of Les Enfants Rouges. He adjusted his hat and straightened his wig.
When he rang the bell, the peephole set into the door slid across, revealing a pair of eyes as dark and as oily as olives. ‘Yes?’
‘I am here to see Monsieur Vicente,’ Lesage told the concierge.
‘For what purpose, monsieur?’
‘He has something for me.’
‘What is your name, please?’
‘My name is Lesage.’
The eyes bobbed out of sight, then returned. ‘We have no record of an appointment for anyone by that name, monsieur.’
‘Catherine Monvoisin sent me.’
‘Ah. I see.’ A puzzled pause. ‘You are Monsieur du Coeuret?’
Lesage sighed. ‘Yes. That’s me.’
The peephole closed, then the bolt was retracted and the door swung open, releasing the institutional whiff of the orphanage. He hesitated, but the concierge gestured impatiently for him to come inside, so he muttered a prayer and crossed himself before covering his nose with one hand and stepping into the courtyard full of children.
The concierge – waddling with arms akimbo like a duck drying its wings – led Lesage across a courtyard and through the swarm of orphans, most of whom were dressed in red in accordance with the name of the orphanage. Children of all ages, and in varying states of health and disrepair, eddied about. A group of girls perched on a nearby bench darning, while some younger boys at their feet played a game with pebbles. Others were engaged in lessons.
They passed through a dim colonnade into a passage and then down a flight of stairs until they entered a high-ceilinged ward. Several lanterns and candles cast a greenish light over the dozen or so beds arranged haphazardly on the floor. It was cooler and calmer down here. Young women sat on benches nursing babies, while others glided as serenely as mermaids through the shadows. Female murmurs and the squawk of a newborn, glimpse of a pale young breast. The world of women. So lovely.
‘Through here, Monsieur du Coeuret,’ said the concierge, and he ushered Lesage into an office on the far side of the ward.
Monsieur Vicente was a portly man who wore a pale wig and a grey apron spattered with blood. He shook Lesage’s hand and whispered some instructions to a midwife, who glanced at Lesage before bustling from the room. Although it was many years since Lesage had been engaged in such a transaction, the procedures were depressingly familiar. It was a secret, this kind of arrangement, but really no secret at all. Everyone knew what occurred, even if they didn’t acknowledge that they knew. Besides, the babies were bastards, unwanted and delivered of whores – what did anyone expect? At least this way they would be of use to someone.
‘Please, Monsieur du Coeuret. Sit down. You must be hot. Would you like a drink? Some chicory water, perhaps?’ Monsieur Vicente poured a cup of the water from a clay jug and handed it to him.
‘It’s Lesage.’
‘Pardon, monsieur?’
‘My name is now Lesage.’ He raised the cup to his lips and drank. It was refreshing, but at that moment he wished for something stronger.
Monsieur Vicente ran his tongue over his lips as he considered this, but declined to respond. ‘And how is Catherine?’ he asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘Madame Monvoisin?’
‘Oh. She seems well. The same as ever, I suppose. Little truly changes . . .’
A chuckle, a steepling of the fingers ben
eath his chin. ‘Indeed. A formidable woman. Now. I trust you have the money for this baby?’
Lesage pulled the purse from his satchel and placed it on the table. The midwife returned with a bundle in her arms. Lesage stood and the woman moved to give the baby to him but, evidently reconsidering this course of action and, momentarily confused, she opted instead to place it in a cradle by the door before leaving the room. Monsieur Vicente stood and opened his mouth to call after her, but faltered.
‘Ah,’ he murmured, manoeuvring somewhat awkwardly around his desk. ‘She’s gone already.’ He opened the door and summoned a boy walking past carrying a bucket. ‘You there. Boy. Come here a moment.’
The dark-haired boy flinched when he was addressed, as if he apprehended Monsieur Vicente’s words as blows, but he shuffled into the room and listened as Monsieur Vicente instructed him to escort Lesage to the side entrance of the orphanage.
The boy looked at Lesage and, at that moment, in the light entering through the barred window set high into the wall, Lesage saw the boy had a thick scar along the side of his jaw. He started in disbelief. Could it be true? He rose from his chair and pushed past Monsieur Vicente to inspect the boy, who cowered further under his scrutiny. Lesage tilted the boy’s head to one side. Yes, there could be no doubt. Along the left side of his jaw was a thick scar, exactly as Madame Picot had told him.
‘How did you get this scar here?’
‘I fell off a fence when I was a child, monsieur.’
‘You are Charlotte Picot’s son, are you not? Nicolas Picot?’
The boy shrank away and stared at him. ‘How did you know that, monsieur?’
34
Charlotte sat on the low stool in her room with the black book in her lap. It was hot and her brow was damp with sweat. To one god she prayed that Marguerite would come with her baby brother Jean, but to another god she prayed she would not. All her life she had been taught to read the signs for all manner of things: comets foretold death, of course; a dream of a woman standing by a man’s left hand meant she would become his wife; a child who does not cry when baptised will not live long; the wounds of a murdered person will bleed afresh if the corpse is touched by its killer. She listened with her ears, with her fingers and her skin. But for this, there was nothing.
She prepared the ingredients according to the instructions from her book. Eventually, she heard voices echoing around the courtyard, followed by a knock on her door. She flinched. Another knock, louder this time.
The girl called her name. ‘Madame Picot. Open your door. It’s Marguerite.’
Charlotte unlocked the door to find the troubadour girl standing in the dim passage with her baby brother heavily swaddled in her arms. She stepped aside to allow the girl to enter.
‘I am here, Madame Picot. As you said.’
Marguerite pulled the blanket free of her brother’s face as if to prove her word. Charlotte looked at the baby, but unwillingly. Thatch of dark hair, his lips like a twist of blood in cream. A child freely given. She glanced away. ‘Put him down. There, on the bed.’
The girl did as she was asked. ‘Do you have the ingredients to make the charm?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why are you trembling, madame? Are you sick?’
‘No. No reason. I am tired, that’s all.’
Marguerite looked around. ‘But where is your own son, madame?’
‘He will be here soon.’
Baby Jean made a sucking sound, whimpered, then fell quiet. For a moment they both looked at him.
‘When was he born?’ Charlotte asked.
‘In the spring.’
Less than a season old. Charlotte nodded. ‘You should say goodbye to him. Quickly, before he frets.’
‘I cannot stay with him while you make the charm?’
‘It’s better if you’re not here. Come back later when I have finished.’
‘But he will need to be fed by then, madame . . .’
‘There is a woman in the street who will do it. If need be, I will organise it. Don’t worry. Quickly now.’
The girl seemed puzzled and disappointed, but she acquiesced and kneeled beside her brother. She murmured quiet words and nuzzled him, as all sisters do with their younger siblings. It was unbearable.
35
Monsieur Vicente ushered Nicolas Picot from his office and returned to his desk. He rummaged through his papers until he located a ledger, opened it and ran his finger through the many names scrawled in its pages, muttering to himself as he did so.
‘So many orphans in these times. So much degradation, so much disease. Ah,’ he exclaimed at last. ‘Here he is. Picot. I can hardly read the entry. Says here that . . . His mother and father are both dead. Of course. The boy told us his mother was attacked when he was taken by some men. Terrible business. The father died of fever. Also . . . both his brother and two sisters are dead. Tragic. No relatives, perhaps an uncle somewhere, he says. Some days ago he was found wandering the streets near the river in the east of the city in a most agitated state. Claimed he had escaped from some men who had kidnapped him.’
‘Yes,’ said Lesage. ‘It’s true that his mother was injured but she did not die. No. She is alive and I have been helping her to find the boy for the past few days.’
‘His mother is alive? But he says not.’
‘Yes. I was with her today at a lodging house in Rue Françoise. This is the truth. That’s how we came to be in Paris. We heard of a man called Horst who stole children and brought them here. There is a trade, monsieur.’ He paused. ‘As I’m sure you know.’
Monsieur Vicente perused his ledger for a moment longer before looking up at Lesage with his hands clasped together on the desk. It was clear he did not believe what Lesage had been telling him. ‘If that is all, Monsieur du Coeuret, I have work to attend to. And please, take that child away before it starts crying.’
Lesage sat silently. He gazed up at the high ceiling. A grille set in a corner afforded a view of the street, of people’s boots as they strolled past. A thread of sunlight, a strand of spider’s web. ‘I don’t want the baby, monsieur.’
Monsieur Vicente looked up. ‘What?’
‘I wish to take the boy instead.’
‘I doubt Catherine Monvoisin would be pleased. In any case, I cannot simply release the boy to a man like you. That would be most unethical. The regulations of the institution state quite clearly that –’
‘And what kind of man would I be?’
Monsieur Vicente spread his palms, as if his objections were obvious to anyone who cared to look.
Lesage removed his hat and straightened the wig upon his head. ‘I think you have misunderstood me, Monsieur Vicente. I do not want the boy for . . . for sorcery or anything else of that nature. Nothing like that. The boy needs his mother and Madame Picot is desolate without him. He is her last living child. Think of it. Her husband is dead, her three other children . . .’
Monsieur Vicente clucked his tongue and set about fiddling with his clay pipe. He gestured to the baby sleeping in the cot. ‘And this baby you are purchasing for La Voisin? You wish to give it a good home, I assume? Raise her to be a good Christian? No? I didn’t think so.’
‘The boy is a different matter. He can be reunited with his mother and they might return to their village.’
‘Your reputation precedes you, Monsieur du Coeuret. You have been away for several years, but you are still spoken of in the darker corners of our city. A new name cannot disguise a man’s character any more than some fashionable new clothes can.’
Lesage was indignant. ‘Can a man not change himself? Can he not perform a decent act in his life?’
‘You wish to perform – what? – a noble deed?’
It sounded like an accusation and, indeed, Lesage felt as if he were engaged in an unnatural act. ‘How much would it cost to free the boy?�
�� he asked.
Monsieur Vicente smiled as if Lesage had at last solved a problem he had set. ‘Ah. You wish to hire him out to do some work for you? That can certainly be arranged. Many of our wards are useful in the community as labourers and mourners and servants. Cooks, cleaners . . .’
‘Yes. What would that cost, then? To hire him?’
Monsieur Vicente puffed on his pipe, then withdrew it from his mouth. With its stem he jabbed at Lesage. ‘How much money do you have with you?’
Lesage sat in silence for a moment, unable to speak. ‘I have the two hundred for the baby and an additional twenty livres of my own,’ he said at last.
‘But you don’t want the newborn?’
‘No.’
‘But what about Madame Monvoisin? She will not be happy.’
Lesage shrugged. He did not wish to think how Catherine might react.
Monsieur Vicente sat back, impressed. ‘Well, noble deeds do not come cheap, monsieur. The boy will cost two hundred and twenty livres.’
Lesage sank back in his chair. Dear God, he thought. That raving monk was right. Here it is, then. My reckoning.
36
When Marguerite had gone Charlotte sat on the low stool. She avoided looking at the child and listened instead to the pigeons purring in the eaves. The setting sun had broken through the low clouds and the city was saturated in its sumptuous twilight. The city roofs, the distant spires. All things – everything great and terrible – seemed equally possible. To make and unmake, to rise and fall, murder and beget. On a shard of paper she wrote a word. Her single fervent wish. She stared at it for a long time and her skin hummed with terror and anticipation.
She picked up the boy. It had been several years since she had cradled a child so small. She recalled the kinds of babies her own children had been, how their characters had been stamped so early and so visibly upon them. Aliénor with her ferocious gripping fingers, Béatrice’s smile, Philippe with his ruddy cheeks and Nicolas, oh, Nicolas, his seriousness, his bony chest, the afternoons he spent practising tying knots. The sheer wonder of her children, how they had inflamed in her breast a subdued sense of her own glory. Had she carried them in her belly for all that time for nothing? Entire seasons? Kept them warm, bundled them securely, reassured them when they fretted? Be brave, my son. Have courage, my daughter. Your mother will protect you. Was she not entitled to have a single child survive? We must have done something terrible to be visited by such things. Did you pray to God for his help and guidance? Yes. Did you live as well as you could? Yes. And what did God do? Did He save them? Did He ease your suffering? No.
City of Crows Page 29
