The Black Tower

by Louis Bayard

  One by one, the three students tilt up their faces, set their knives down. The room grows still.

  Mother moves swiftly.

  “Hector has been hounded for an entire afternoon,” she says, “by a perfectly dreadful man. Who smells of spirits and bear grease and I can’t even say what all else.”

  A few more seconds pass as the students decide whether this resolves the question or merely suspends it. They are just reaching for their knives again when Charlotte’s stage whisper stops them in midmotion.

  “Vidocq.”

  I see the makings of a smile on Rosbif’s wine-tinctured lips.

  “Not the scoundrel!” he cries.

  “Why, he’s not!” Charlotte swats the back of his head with her apron. “He’s the terror of criminals everywhere, he’s—he’s the reason we can sleep with our throats bare.”

  “Oh, that’s good! He’s the last man in the world I’d trust with my throat.”

  “The very last,” agrees Lapin.

  “My dearest Charlotte, has no one ever told you? Your precious Vidocq is nothing more than a petty criminal.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “May God strike me down if it is. Why, I tell you he’s been a cherished guest at some of France’s finest penal institutions.”

  An irked look wells out of Mother’s eyes. “That can’t be,” she says. “He’s some sort of police creature, isn’t he?”

  “Creature,” says Nankeen, adjusting the spectacles on his Greek nose. “How well you put it, Mama Carpentier. It’s the usual story, I’m afraid. A blackguard chafes at prison confinement and volunteers his services as police spy, a profession which demands only effrontery and a complete want of conscience. Small wonder Vidocq should prove so well suited to it.”

  “I’ll tell you what I heard,” says Rosbif, chiming in. “Before he was done, he peached out every last one of his friends, just to curry favor with his new masters.”

  “Peached out,” repeats Mother, squinting. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means betrayed, Mama Carpentier.”

  And then—from nowhere, it seems—a low smoky voice slides across the table.

  “Last I heard, betraying criminals was a good thing.”

  We turn and find Father Time mouthing into his plate. Unaware, maybe, that anything slipped out.

  In a quiet voice, Nankeen asks:

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m sorry, I thought I heard you speak.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Behind the screen of her napkin, Mother is whispering.

  “Hector, is all this true?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I mutter.

  With a peal of triumph, I would almost call it joy, she cries:

  “I knew there was something not right! Didn’t I, Charlotte?”

  “And now,” says Nankeen, “this saintly Vidocq has clawed his way to the top of the police hierarchy. And if one required any more proof of how really cunning he is, one need only remark on the startling development that has been bruited in all the papers. This Vidocq, if you can believe it, has founded a brigade of plainclothes police. It is known as the Brigade de Sûreté, and it is composed entirely of thieves, deserters, and scoundrels—the human offal who have ever been his closest companions.” He smiles into his lace cuff. “One can’t help but admire the diabolical brazenness of the man. With the full consent of the Comte Anglès and Monsieur Henry, he has succeeded in blurring every last boundary between good and evil. It’s impossible anymore to tell the law enforcers from the law breakers.”

  “From what I hear,” says Lapin, “he splits the crooks’ take with them. And when they won’t pay up, he pitches them in jail.”

  “Oh, Vidocq is simply exemplary of his kind,” answers Nankeen. “Scientific studies have quite conclusively demonstrated that the criminal mind is incapable of being rehabilitated. You may dress up a rogue, you may give him a job. Drag him to mass, drive him down the Champs-Élysées. He will always revert to his old ways.” A note of tragedy floats into the monotone. “It’s incontrovertible, I’m afraid.”

  “Hector,” says Mother, once again whispering behind her napkin, “if you ever allow that man in our house again, I don’t know what.”

  “But he wasn’t…”

  I’m about to say he wasn’t in the house. And then I’m stopped by the memory of him—here—bestriding this very chair. Swearing and glugging wine and spitting out macaroons and half-eaten potatoes. Just the thought of it tickles my lips apart. I think I may even be on the verge of laughter when I hear Nankeen’s voice, ever so faintly curdling.

  “Monsieur Hector. You haven’t yet told us what this Vidocq fellow wanted with you.”

  I clear my throat. I clear it again.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty.”

  He doesn’t pursue the matter. He doesn’t need to. Rosbif and Lapin gladly take up the chase.

  “Not at liberty, he says!”

  “Come now, Monsieur Hector!”

  “Must we drag it out of you?”

  “The royal family needs a new physician, is that it?”

  “Ha! Everyone knows the king’s gout is getting worse.”

  “I’m sure once King Louis has had a dose of—I’m sorry, Monsieur Hector, what’s that business you’re looking into? It always escapes me.”

  I explain that my research would likely be of no interest to them. In a voice of soft astonishment, Nankeen cries:

  “Now why do you say that? Don’t you know you’re the talk of the École? Why, my intern friends inform me that Monsieur Hector, when at last he bursts the trammels of his laboratory, will astonish the world with his findings.” Puzzlement creases his brow as he turns to Rosbif. “They do say that, don’t they?”

  “Oh, yes. Great things are expected of Monsieur Hector.”

  “And aren’t we fortunate to have gotten him at the ground level? We must be sure to record all our impressions for the sake of future biographers.”

  It’s not that I lack for defenders. There is Charlotte, for example, who has been standing all the while in the doorway, glowing like a coal.

  “For your information,” she declares, “Monsieur Hector was praised just the other evening. By a very important personage.”

  “And who would that be?” asks Nankeen, his eyes ghoulishly glittering.

  Too late to stop her. She squares her shoulders, charges.

  “The Duchesse de Duras!”

  In the face of such laughter, the chandelier over the table actually rattles. The air wrinkles round, and the curtains dance in tune. I sit in the heart of the noise, where, if one can attain the right level of abstraction, everything becomes quite still. Tonight, however, I glance up and, to my surprise, find Father Time looking back. A second or two, no more, but there flashes between us—well, call it a shared condition.

  “Hector,” says Mother. “I don’t know where that horrible man took you, but you smell like a sewer or worse.”

  Stunned, I raise my cuff to my nose, and the aroma of Vidocq comes coiling through my sinuses. That strange, animate scent.

  He’s marked me, I think, sinking back into my chair.

  And in the same instant comes the overtone of Leblanc’s dying breath.

  He’s here.

  IT’S A LITTLE after nine o’clock, and I’m taking my evening walk. The same walk I take every night, as Vidocq has pointed out, at the same time. Around the block and no farther.

  Tonight, it’s true, I briefly consider changing the pattern. When I come down the steps, I could decide to turn left instead of right. I could take the Rue des Postes south to the Rue de l’Arbalète. Or take the Vieille Estrapade de Fourcy toward the Panthéon. If I were really feeling bold, I could walk east all the way to the Jardin du Roi. Cross the river into the Faubourg-Saint-Antoine! Why not?

  In the end, I do what I always do.


  I smell like myself now.

  There’s a moon: a half-nibbled peach. Patches of pocked sky, too, where the clouds have yawned clear. For the first time in weeks, it seems, the higher architecture is declaring itself, and as the plaster housefronts and the piles of garbage rear up on every side, I’m visited with that old feeling of walking through an alpine pass.

  And then, as if I had personally commissioned them, the day’s events etch themselves across the canvas. I see the baby on the chafing dish. The widow Maltaise in her blue kerchief, and Poulain, flopped in the sawdust, his boot still tied to his chair. And Mozart and greenbottle flies and the veined blue marble of Chrétien Leblanc. One by one, they file past. Like things that happened to a living man.

  16 THERMIDOR YEAR II

  Have met consid difficulty in getting Prisoner’s cell cleaned. Tower guards say lingering too long in pestilential air wd be fatal. Refuse to go inside, assist in any way. (One confided in me that they are afraid of being branded royalist sympathizers.)

  Have relayed my concerns to Barras. This A.M., spoke with officials of the Commune. Informed them that Prisoner’s health—survival—depends on hygienic surroundings. No amt of physic can overcome contagion. V. insistent on this point. Was told to await Commune’s decision.

  17 THERMIDOR

  Word has come. Commune has authorized 2 men to undertake cleaning of Prisoner’s room. Men are to be duly appointed reps of French people, discreet, politically pure, etc.

  22 THERMIDOR

  8 A.M.: appointed cleaners arrived w. buckets, mops, lge quantities of soap. Soon realized they wd need more.

  Dust, dirt, excrement everywhere. Mattresses damp all the way thru; atmosphere fetid—poisonous. Work lasted 1 full day—extremely arduous—required freq rest intervals, occasional vomiting. Both men at var times bitten by rats, fleas, spiders. Everything is alive in this room, said one. Companion was heard to say he’d seen cleaner sewers.

  Prisoner remained in cell thruout. No movement observed until section of shutter removed fm window—first time in 6 mos—upon which he turned twd light. Stood for some moments w. sun on face, eyes half closed. When asked if light was painful, Prisoner answered in affirmative. But declined to remove himself.

  23 THERMIDOR

  Commissaries have at last agreed to bath for Prisoner. I sent cook’s assistant, young Caron, for tepid water, bathed him myself. Sent for Mother Mathieu (mngr of Père Lefèvre’s tavern) to cut & comb hair. Hair full of scurf, reached to shoulders, had not been washed in many mos. Exceptionally tender—combing v. painful for him. Mother Mathieu able to clip Prisoner’s toenails & fingernails, which were length of claws, consistency of horn.

  Garments (entirely infested) removed & burned, replaced w. entirely new linen suit, including pantaloons, waistcoat, jacket.

  At end of day, undertook 1st complete examination of Prisoner. Genrl condition v. shocking. Head droops. Lips discolored, cheeks hollow, v. pale w. greenish tinge. Limbs extremely wasted, disproportionately long in comparison to torso. Stomach enlarged. Suffers fm acute diarrhea. Extremely sensitive to noise. Averse to speaking.

  Body rife w. ulcers, yellow & blue, most pronounced on neck, wrists, knees. Have attempted to lance & dress but this occasioned grt pain in him. Will endeavor to do more in days to follow.

  Most pressing concern: knee. Swollen to twice normal size. Color unhealthy. Prisoner unable to walk w/o extreme pain.

  Prognosis: v. poor. Am preparing full medical report for Barras. Hopeful that, w. aggressive course of intervention, Prisoner’s condition can be arrested. New environment wd be v. helpful. Have taken liberty of removing surplus bed fm room of Prisoner’s sister so he may sleep in greater comfort.

  Was forced to reprimand 1 of Temple guards, who, upon entering Prisoner’s room, shouted, Back in your corner, Capet. Explained that, from now on, Prisoner was to be called Monsieur. Guard remonstrated, said there are no more “monsieurs,” we are all “citizens” now, etc. I was insistent on point, citing authority invested in me by Barras.

  Upon hearing my request, Prisoner observed that “Monsieur” was too distressing to him, begged not to be called by that title. When asked which he wd prefer, Prisoner said he wd answer only to “Wolf Cub.” When it was pointed out that Prisoner was not animal but boy, Prisoner was seen to smile, for first time. Appeared to pity me greatly.

  He asked then how old he was? Nine, I said. Yes, that’s right, he said.

  Will make it a point, in future entries, to refer to Prisoner as Charles.

  CHAPTER 9

  A Journey to Luxembourg

  FOUR DAYS HAVE passed since last I saw Vidocq, but still I feel him. Every time I take my walk around the block or stroll over to the Rue d’École de Médecine or sneak a newspaper out of Le Père Bonvin, it’s his voice, insinuating in my ear….

  I could set my watch by you.

  And then on Friday morning, something knocks me out of my accustomed orbit. A letter. On lilac stationery with flaking gilt edges and a coat of arms indifferently embossed at the top—paper so brittle I don’t trust myself to hold it.

  Dr. Carpentier—

  Recent events surrounding the late M. Leblanc compel me to write. I wonder if I might entreat you to call upon me tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. You may find me in my apartment at No. 17, Rue Férou.

  Failing any further communication from you, I shall await the pleasure of your company. Your discretion is earnestly requested.

  Baronne de Préval

  The name seems as brittle as the paper. A baroness!

  My first thought is that Nankeen and the other boarders are having me on. My second thought—and it’s the thought I’ve been having from the moment Vidocq came into my life—You’ve got the wrong man.

  More than that, the wrong class. The closest I’ve ever come to aristocrats is Sunday afternoons on the Champs-Élysées. Now that the Bourbons are back, it’s the best kind of sport, sauntering through the elms while the coupés sweep past. Horses with rosettes in their ears, drivers in wigs and cravats, and through the windows, snatches of powdered skin, a Chinese ivory handle, an uncinching mouth-bud. The notion that one of these women might stop the carriage and usher me in with her superbly enervated arm seems as likely as the King asking me to cure his gout.

  In short, there are reasons to doubt this promotion. Look first at the man who brought me the message. Not the usual liveried footman but a common porter, older than Mont Blanc, snarling at the few sous of gratuity I drop in his palm.

  Next, look at the address. The Rue Férou, a quiet little spoke off the wheel of the Luxembourg Gardens, far removed from the thrum of court life. What business does a baroness have living there?

  All afternoon, all evening, I limn the many reasons for declining the invitation. By the next morning, I’ve accepted. I even know why. It’s the last thing Vidocq would expect of me.

  PARIS IS FOGBOUND this morning. The smokes of last night’s fires, woven with sewer fumes and the evaporations of three weeks’ rain, lie in sepia drifts on the mansards, in the gutters, along the trees and wagons and vendor booths. Thickly scalloped and all the same moving—renewing—as if the city itself had been caught in the very act of breathing.

  The only discernible parts of no. 17, Rue Férou, are a façade of rough yellow-daubed stone…three small windows with blinds drowsily lowered…and a wrought-iron knocker carved in the shape of a winking satyr. The knocker won’t move, so I have to pound on the door, which is answered by an old concierge, dressed in black merino and grinning like a procuress.

  “Dr. Carpentier, yes! She’s expecting you.”

  Taking a candle, she leads me up two flights of stairs—an act for which her body is deeply unqualified. She has to haul it forward, dragging each leg like a valise.

  “You were able to find the way? Oof. Mornings like these, I can barely see my own nose. Grrm. The Baroness will be so glad to see you. I’m always telling her, you know, invite some young people for a chan
ge. Fwoof. Much better than those old goats in their—kroomp—blue stockings and their dirty vests. Always mooning, aren’t they? The old days. Pwiff. I say what’s done is done, bring on the next. I’ve always been that way. Ploonf.”

  She stops at last before a door of besmirched oak. A knock and then a bearlike roar.

  “Madame la Baronne! Your visitor is here!”

  Then, by some prearranged ritual, she turns the handle, opens the door three hairs wide, and backs slowly away, her gasping chest bent parallel to the floor.

  I see worn red tiles under a threadbare carpet. An old round table, a low sideboard topped by a hanging mirror. A bench, unanchored. And a short-backed armchair, the type of grim, cured artifact that might have been lifted from a Breton widow’s cottage.

  A magnificent woman is sitting there.

  No, let me be clearer. A magnificent woman was sitting there. She was wearing peach blossoms in her hair and a gown of loose lawn to accentuate her glorious bosom, and she had doeskin gloves of a paradisiacal whiteness.

  But that was thirty years ago. Today, the white has sickened into yellow; the lawn has given way to a black damask dress, no longer fashionable; the fichu has been mended so many times there is almost nothing left to mend.

  And that once-handsome, that still-handsome face has hardened into something unyielding and curatorial, like the tablet of a lost civilization.