The Black Tower

by Louis Bayard

  “They seem entirely rational to me.”

  “That’s the tragedy of it, Monsieur. On the surface, all’s well. Down below…” A soft whistle. “Nobody home but the bats.”

  And now another voice emerges. Female and tentative and, at the same time, harsh. Like a crow calling after her young.

  “I’m sure no harm has been done.”

  IT’S ONE OF the least-remarked perils of reading. You meet people often enough in print, you believe you really know them. So it is with me and Madame Royale. I feel as if I’ve blundered into her life, the way one stumbles into a water closet, mistaking it for a parlor.

  And so, when the guard releases his grip and suffers me to rise—when the Duchess’s pale, swaddled face swims toward me once more—I find myself casting my eyes down, for fear of what she will find there.

  “Truly,” she says, “there was no need for me to shout in such a manner. I was merely taken aback.”

  “And who could blame you, Madame?” Vidocq gives a mighty click of his heels. “In such a place as this, one expects only ghosts and goblins, not a pair of bungling taugenichts. I do apologize. They meant no harm.”

  And now, for the first time, the voice of French civilization becomes flesh and blood. Which is to say a man of perhaps fifty years steps into the light. Dark-complected and full-lipped. The torso pulls slightly back, as if to deny the violence promised by the right leg, which is thrust forward. He’s taut, in a way one no longer expects aristocrats to be, with just enough curl in his hair to hint of sauciers and tailors.

  “I would entreat you,” he says, “to keep closer watch on your nephews in the future.”

  “Never fear, Monsieur. Tomorrow morning, they’ll be packed on the first mail coach for Strasbourg, and they will never trouble you again, I swear on God. Do you hear me, rogues? Now come along, we’ve just enough time to make the stage….”

  NO STAGE AWAITS us, but Vidocq’s carriage is stationed just where we left it, and from there, we beat a straight path to the city gates. It isn’t until we’re five minutes outside of Saint-Denis that Vidocq raps on the roof of the carriage and orders the driver to stop.

  “Charles. Go play.”

  And so he does. Plunges into the surrounding meadow with the air of a medical student excused from his last examination.

  “Well,” says Vidocq, watching him grimly. “Our boy is a bit more complicated than he looks.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because unlike you, I was watching him. And I’m telling you he spied his moment. I’m telling you he waited till your head was turned, and he made a beeline for the Duchess.”

  “He was restless to leave, that’s all. I told him we couldn’t go until we’d seen her. He was—he was shortening the process.”

  “Oh, is that it?”

  For another minute, we watch him crawling through rye, querying each wildflower.

  “He didn’t seem to recognize her,” I venture.

  “True.”

  “Nor she him.”

  “That’s also true. The only face that really consumed her was yours, Hector.”

  Stooping, he plucks a clover blossom, twirls it between his index and middle fingers.

  “Your father met Madame Royale, didn’t he?”

  I nod.

  “And how closely do you resemble him, Hector?”

  “Well…quite a…quite a bit, I’m told.”

  “Very good. Now maybe you can explain why the sight of your father should bring a tear to the Duchess’s eyes.”

  3 GERMINAL YEAR III

  Charles has repeatedly asked after his sister. Ive explained that Mme Royale’s welfare is not w/in my sphere of responsibility, but of late, his inquiries have grown mr urgent. It occurs to me that happy tidings fm his sister cd be of great use in improving his spirits & health.

  Asked Leblanc this A.M. if we might obtain audience w/princess. Impossible, he said, w/o express consent of Comm for Public Safety. Perhaps I might petition them directly? My previous experiences with Comm (esp. Citizen Mathieu) being unpleasant, I resolved to take matter directly to Genrl Barras, who has often looked favorably on my petitions.

  This very day, I visited him at his quarters. Was surprised to be granted immediate audience—and to find Genrl well disposed toward my request. He asked if I might like to join him for supper at his private apts—tomorrow eve—for purposes of discussing matter further. I readily consented.

  5 GERMINAL

  Have now some cause to regret Barras’ invitation. Details of our encounter too vulgar to recount. Suffice it to say his protestations excited no small disgust in me. For holding my peace, however, I now have letter, personally signed, allowing me to visit Mme Royale on reg basis.

  At what cost to scruple! It is true what my friend Junius says: We live in flexible times.

  6 GERMINAL

  1st interview w/princess took place immediately after visit w/Charles. She lives on 3rd floor of tower—apts prev shared w/mother & aunt. Leblanc & I found her seated on sofa alongside window, embroidering. This, I’m told, is one pastime permitted her.

  Mme. Royale is now 16, by our calculations—still very much a maiden. Her hair is worn w/o powder, tied in knot. Headdress = handkerchief, tied in rosette. She has but one dress, of puce silk. She is permitted no hat.

  In good health, genrlly, but her expression is extrmly grave. Upon seeing us, she made no sign or word of welcome. To our repeated questions, gave no reply.

  As Leblanc reminded me, princess has been imprisoned for more than 2 yrs, w/o fire or light…daily diet of verbal abuse from guards…thrice-daily searches, often in middle of night…no comforts. Cards, even books are withheld, for fear she will engage in coded communications, absorb royalist propaganda, etc.

  These reflections moved me twrd deg of pity. Upon withdrawing fm her room, I made pt of bowing low. Leblanc, w/o hesitation, followed my lead. This, I cd see, astonished her. It has been many months since anyone did her this honor.

  7 GERMINAL

  2nd interview w/princess likewise wordless. By certain movements of her eyes, however, I concluded her silence has proximate cause: She fears being overheard by guards (who are under orders to listen in on all conversations). I therefore took advantage of our departure to whisper in her ear:

  Perhaps you cd tell us if you require anything?

  From my pockets, I withdrew paper & pencil. She regarded these articles for some time. Then, taking them from me, she hastily scribbled….

  Some chemises, & some books.

  9 GERMINAL

  Commissioners will not disburse funds for new clothes. Ive accordingly borrowed 2 chemises fm my wife, Béatrice. Princess seemed pleased enough w/them. Some awkwardness over book. Voltaire’s Micromégas: partic favorite of mine & in keeping w/current pol climate. W/manifest regret, she shook her head & handed it back (politely).

  I apologized for my thoughtlessness, vowed to bring more suitable vol tomorrow. (Will ask Junius for suggestions.)

  11 GERMINAL

  At close of todays interview, Mme Royale spoke her 1st words to us:

  How is my brother?

  19 GERMINAL

  Leblanc (excellent fellow!) has made signal discovery. NE quad of princess’s cell, due to some concatenation of furniture & wall, is acoustically “null”—i.e., we may speak there, in low tones, w/o being overheard by guards. This has had most beneficial effect on our conversations. Princess now speaks openly. Is most grateful for audience.

  Leblanc & I remain seriously constrained in what we can tell her. No details of Charles’ condition. No news of outside world. We cannot even tell her that her mother & aunt are dead!

  This A.M., Mme Royale told me she wished to nurse her brother. I said Id be too happy to oblige, but was expressly forbidden to reunite them. Commissioners do not even allow them to see each other when they are taken outside for walks.

  Princess was insistent. Her mother, her aunt Élizabeth begged her to look af Charle
s, she said.

  They cd not expect you to burrow thru stone walls, cd they?

  She made no reply. However, was in no way deterred fm her course.

  28 GERMINAL

  This A.M., Mme Royale drew me into our usual corner. W/o any preliminaries or greetings, she whispered: We must get Charles out of here.

  Endeavoring to be calm, I explained to her why such a thing cd nv happen. Hundreds of soldiers, certain death for anyone who assists royal family, etc. I expressed hope that negotiations w/foreign govts might yet secure his release if cert conditions can be…

  W/no small brusquerie, she cut me off. We don’t have time for negotiations, she said. He’s very ill, Doctor. No, don’t deny it, your eyes tell me everything. If we don’t get him out of this hellish place, he’ll die. Tell me, then. What are we to do?

  A good question, alas. What are we to do?

  We can no longer depend on authorities to do right thing. It is up to us to arrive at course of conduct. This I have resolved, & Leblanc has seconded me. God help us all.

  CHAPTER 33

  A Lilac Grows in the Tuileries Gardens

  THE NEXT MORNING, Charles and I take up what has become our daily routine. We wake at eight. We eat a concise breakfast. We go out through the rear courtyard and put on our costumes and start walking.

  Passing down the Quai des Augustins that first morning, we are set upon by a seagull, roaring in from the river and, with a cry of pure obscenity, snatching the powdered locks straight from Charles’ head. Stunned, Charles watches his wig disappear over the Pont Neuf. Puts a hand to his naked locks.

  “Do you know I think I like it better without?”

  “So do I.”

  Off comes my wig. Off go his eyeshades. At the very next clothes dealer, we splurge our Ministry of Justice funds on new boots. And now, for the first time, a note of larkishness clings to our enterprise. We walk more quickly, we laugh more readily. We nod our heads to the ladies and we compliment old gentlemen on their three-cornered hats and we lose any sense of having to be anywhere in any order at any time.

  The Tuileries, the Louvre, the Conciergerie…these provoke not a whisper of recognition in him, so I very soon abandon any itinerary, and we simply walk. From the Hôtel de Ville to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, from the Barrière du Maine to the Quartier Saint-Antoine, from the Place Louis XV to the Place Vendôme. Day after day, miles and miles in every direction, steeping our cassimere coats in coal dust, plastering our new boots in mud and night soil—and moving always according to the most contrary of compasses. North on the Pont Notre-Dame…south on the Pont-au-Change…north again on the Pont d’Iéna…

  Paris shrinks before us, and Charles takes it in like a man sent to wander through the moon’s lost realms. He regards the silk-stockinged vicomte in the same fashion as he does the chemical-factory worker with the blackened face. He surveys Napoleon’s half-finished arch on the Champs-Élysées and decides that it should be left “just like that.” He declares that he’s never seen anything quite so lovely as the rotting, rat-infested plaster elephant in the Place de la Bastille.

  “But whose idea was it?” he asks.

  “Just some fellow. Who’s not here anymore.”

  “You mean Monsieur Bonaparte,” he says, unexpectedly.

  “The very one.”

  “I saw him once.”

  “Did you?”

  “On a five-franc ecu. He was turned sideways.”

  In the next instant, I am myself turning sideways and seeing a flash of scarlet, disappearing round the Rue de Charenton. No more substantial than it was the other night, when I glimpsed it from my garret window, but more vivid somehow for being so fleeting.

  “Come on,” I say.

  “But where are we going?”

  “To the boulevards.”

  IT’S THE SAFEST place I can think of. On the boulevards, the line between pursuer and pursued collapses because nothing stays in place. The turbaned girl playing the hurdy-gurdy becomes, in the next step, a sword swallower. The pantomimist becomes a ballad singer or a Racine tragedian or a woman spinning silently in a vat of water—or just a milliner, strolling by with a bandbox.

  From the Madeleine to the Bastille we stroll, Charles and I, past a million coffeehouses, past baths, restaurants and pâtisseries, past theaters and billiard rooms, keeping a steady pulse against all those counterpulses, stopping only to refresh ourselves or duck out of a passing shower.

  And if, now and then, a familiar flash of scarlet registers on the edge of my retina, I just take Charles by the arm and disappear into a crowd of vendors.

  Apples, monsieur!…Ah, messieurs, buy my potatoes!…Old clothes!…Rabbit skins!…Petits pains au lait! Hot! Hot!

  One afternoon, we are stopped on the Boulevard de la Madeleine by a cortège of great solemnity. The street itself falls silent before the spectacle. Seven wagons. And in each wagon, twenty-four men, sitting back-to-back, their feet in wooden shoes, their necks secured by iron collars, their arms bound, like vertebrae, by a single chain.

  As they pass, we hear a gourdlike rattle and the crack of lashes, and the men themselves, shivering in the sun, give off a hum like plainchant, in which you can hear fragments of obscene tavern songs.

  “Who are they?” Charles whispers.

  “Convicts.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “To the galleys.”

  The lucky ones, I might add. The others…

  Well, one need only scan the men lying in that final wagon: baled like hay, glossy with fever. They won’t last another day. More than half their company will die, too, before the journey is done; those that survive will wish they hadn’t. Chained at the ankles from dawn to dusk…set to toil in pestilential heat…flogged, spat upon, beaten, sodomized. And their reward at the end of the day? A wooden plank to set their shaved heads on—and the ever-receding prospect of freedom.

  “Hector!”

  Charles’ nostrils recoil, as if an invisible hand were pressing against them.

  “That smell,” he says. “It’s just like your friend.”

  And he’s right.

  Amazing to think a smell could adhere to a man fifteen years after he left the galleys. My gaze, untethered, wanders from wagon to wagon until it lights on a haggard, toothless, string-thin fellow, bobbing in and out of sleep—and at last giving way altogether so that, in the very next second, he’s tumbling straight out of the wagon and taking with him the rest of his comrades in chains. One by one, they topple onto the cobbles, like sparrows falling from chimneys.

  At once, the marshals and guards spring on them with cudgels and horsewhips and the flats of swords. With great effort, the bound convicts stagger to their feet and totter back to the wagon—shuffling as they go, for though their ankles have been left free for the journey, the sheer memory of those shackles causes each man to drag his right foot after him.

  Just like Vidocq, I think, dazzled.

  And now, by common impulse, Charles and I take flight. We leave the convicts, we leave the boulevards, and we dash away, in no particular direction, simply following the city’s own declivity. Around us, the air begins to seethe and crackle, but we keep walking, and it’s the river that stops us finally.

  We look round in a stupor and find ourselves under a dark mass of chestnuts, peering down a long promenade.

  The Tuileries gardens.

  A hard northwest wind is thrashing the orange trees, bending back the topiary globes, scooping the water straight from the fountains. To the south, the Seine is churning like surf, and to the east, candles are winking on at every window, as the palace bundles down for the coming blow.

  All the promenaders have long since left—their rented chairs lie tipped over, their abandoned newspapers kick up like sails—but Charles refuses to move. And as the first heavy drops of rain strike his bare head, he blinks twice and says:

  “Wait.”

  He walks, very slowly, toward a lilac bush.

  He kn
eels down. He fumbles through the bush’s lower branches, gropes all the way to the root. Then, after several seconds of concentrated effort, he draws out his trophy. Holds it out to me in his palm.

  A ribbon. Of Bourbon white.

  Dirty and torn and half-unraveled—and still luminous, as though the rain were washing away the years. And washing Charles into—someone else. Someone I’ve never met before.

  I kneel alongside him. I talk straight into his ear.

  “Did you know this ribbon was there?”

  After several seconds, he nods, very slowly.

  “Did you put it there yourself?”

  Another pause. Another nod.

  “Did it happen a long time ago?”

  Only a foot separates us, but I have to raise my voice, simply to be heard above the wind and rain.

  “Were you a boy when it happened?”

  To this he makes no reply, except to close his hands once more over the ribbon, as though he could squeeze the memory from it.