by Louis Bayard
“He’s only mad because he lost,” Charles explains. “He has to make us breakfast now.”
Half laughing, the woman whips off her cloak and, in a startling gesture, offers it to me. For the first time, I’m conscious of my naked torso, speckled with cuts and bruises and bites. I’m conscious of something else, too: the lining of her cloak. A bright scarlet. The color of a cock’s comb.
“You,” I say, dully. “You’ve been following us round town. Following us for days.”
“What if I have? You didn’t really think he’d let you go running across Paris all by yourselves?”
No need to ask who he is. Vidocq, like God, requires no antecedent.
“He’s no fool, after all,” says the woman. “Whatever else he is. But I don’t believe you recognize me, Doctor.”
Numbly, I shake my head.
“I’m Jeanne-Victoire. Arnaud Poulain’s girl.”
Quickly, the coordinates reassemble themselves. The thief who robbed Leblanc. That terrible apartment in the Marais. Rags everywhere and stolen shoes and broken boards…and there, resting on a chafing dish….
“A baby,” I blurt.
It’s too dark to see her eyes, but the slight recoil of her head…that much I see.
“She’s with my brother now. In Issy. She likes it there.”
From under her scarlet cloak, she draws a silver whistle and puts it to her lips. Straightaway, we hear the rumble of answering boots.
“The gendarmes’ll be here in a minute,” she says. “Go with them to the guardhouse, Doctor, and maybe they’ll fetch you some new clothes, eh? As for me, I’m going to catch some winks. You boys are enough exercise for one day.”
She’s halfway down the alley before I think to call after her.
“Wait! Mademoiselle! What should we tell….”
She coils herself back round.
“Tell your master that Jeanne-Victoire has held up her end. Now it’s his turn.”
CHAPTER 36
Vidocq’s Confessional Booth
“SHE SAID THAT?” Vidocq asks.
I nod.
“Oh, the little polecat,” he murmurs. “But wait a bit, did Herbaux really call you Doctor?”
“He knew who I was, I tell you. He knew who Charles was, too.”
“Hm.”
Fissures darken his forehead, and he says nothing for a good long time. Then, sounding almost insanely cheerful, he says:
“Let’s go shake some fruit off Herbaux’s tree, shall we? You know, it isn’t many civilians get to see an interrogation. I should charge you admission, Hector.”
AND SO I LEARN just what it means to be a suspect. Vidocq walks me through the cellar of Number Six and into an antechamber, where I find, scattered across a table, the tools of the torturer’s trade—leg irons, leather whips, iron manacles—and, hanging on the walls, a painting of a cadaver swinging from a gibbet, another of a guillotine slicing through a neck. By the time we enter the interrogation room, I’m ready to confess every sin I’ve ever committed and some I haven’t.
Herbaux, by contrast, seems to have resigned himself to death. His head is bowed from the moment we come in, and to all queries he makes no reply—until, jerking his head up, he bares his teeth at us.
“I’m going to hang anyway. What do I get by talking to you?”
Vidocq rests his hands lightly on Herbaux’s ox shoulders.
“You’ve got a friend, don’t you?”
The smallest tightening in the prisoner’s jaw.
“I think you met him in La Force. Oh, what’s the boy’s name? Wettu, that’s it. Pretty thing. What I hear, he only made it out alive because he had a nice big rooster looking out for him. Now if for some reason he should find his way back there—without you to protect him—oh, I shudder, Herbaux, I really do.”
Vidocq walks his fingers up the back of the prisoner’s neck. His voice grows petal light.
“Such soft skin Wettu has. Such a white throat.”
The manacles round Herbaux’s feet rattle like a box of coins. He starts to rise, but Vidocq presses him back down.
“Although I suppose he could always find himself another rooster….”
And now Herbaux sags in his chair, as if he’d been cudgeled a thousand times over.
“What do you want to know?” he says.
Vidocq settles back in his chair. “Tell me about this Monsieur,” he says.
IT BEGAN, SAYS Herbaux, not two days after he escaped from La Force. He was holed up in Wettu’s apartment in the Rue Jacquelet when a porter arrived with a note, addressed to him.
“A porter? Did you know him?”
No.
“You weren’t suspicious?”
Sure he was. But it couldn’t hurt to have Wettu read it.
“What did it say?”
Meet me at three-thirty, in the confessional booth at Saint-Sulpice, the one nearest the baptistry. You’ll get two louis for showing up—a great deal more after. Signed, Monsieur. “Don’t suppose you kept the note, did you?”
Burned it.
“So you showed up as you were told?”
’Course he did. You think anyone else was offering employment to escaped convicts?
“And the money was waiting for you.”
It was. Genuine, too, don’t think Herbaux didn’t give those gold coins a good bite.
“Can you describe this Monsieur?”
Never saw him. Met him every day—same place and time—but the curtain was always closed. Only saw the hands, and they were gloved.
“Describe his voice, then.”
Strange. Whispery. He was probably disguising his real voice.
“Old? Young?”
Somewhere between.
“Educated-sounding?”
Oh, yeah, real cultured.
“And what did this Monsieur ask you to do?”
Leblanc was the first job. Herbaux and his friend Desfosseux tailed him from his apartment and brought him to earth.
“Brought him to earth? That was all?”
They were supposed to ask him a question. Where is he?
“Where is who?”
Monsieur never said. Said Leblanc would know who they were talking about.
“And Leblanc never told you?”
No, the bastard. Took a load of punishment, too. But at least they found a letter in his pocket. It was from Saint-Cloud.
“How did you know, if you can’t read?”
Monsieur told him.
“And that led to your next job?”
Sure. Except, by then, Desfosseux had gotten picked up on a forgery count, so Herbaux asked Noël to come along.
“And Monsieur told you exactly what to do?”
Supplied everything: Tepac’s description, his address, his walking habits. Had it all scouted out and planned.
“So you did your job, you made it back to Paris. And you kept seeing Monsieur every day at Saint-Sulpice? Even though you knew the police were after you?”
Figured it was safe, seeing as how no one expected to find the likes of him in a church. And Monsieur was true to his word. Paid him in full each time.
“And after a few weeks, he said—what?—he had one more job for you.”
Yes.
“And that job was to follow Dr. Carpentier and his friend?”
That’s right. Monsieur gave Herbaux the doctor’s address, so he would know what the two men looked like. Herbaux was to follow them wherever they went and wait till they were alone. Well, that very night, he tailed them to the Palais-Royal, and off they went with the two tarts, and Herbaux followed right behind. Waited a bit, then went straight up. Told the tarts if they knew what was good for them, they’d leave now.
“So it was going to be just another quick kill, was that it?”
Oh, no. Monsieur was in a merciful mood. He said if Charles agreed to leave town on the next diligence, his life could be spared. Herbaux was just to scare ’em a bit.
“Come, you expect us to belie
ve that? You were aiming your pistol at the good doctor here. You had it cocked.”
Well, they made him mad, that was all. Resisting like that. Wasn’t gentlemanly.
“So your instructions were to scare them?”
And put ’em on the next carriage, and then he’d be done. And then that bitch came along and ruined everything. Two more days, and Herbaux and Wettu would’ve been clear of town and another fifty francs richer. You can do a lot with fifty francs.
“You certainly can.”
At last Vidocq rises. Tucks his chair under the table and beckons me to follow. His hand is almost to the doorknob when he wheels round.
“Oh, I almost forgot! Tell me about the fingernails, Herbaux.”
The what?
“Monsieur Leblanc. You separated him from his fingernails, remember? I’m just wondering where you got the idea.”
Herbaux shrugs. He saw it done to a squealer once in Toulon. You never heard such a hollering.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Vidocq and I are standing in the rear courtyard of Number Six, watching the staff carriage trundle toward us across the cobbles.
“You’re to go right home, do you hear?” he says. “And you’re to stay there. Neither you nor Charles is to set a single foot outside until I tell you. Is that clear?”
Waving away the coachman, Vidocq opens the door himself.
“Meantime, we’ll try to find a little bit more about our Monsieur. If he knew where to find Herbaux, chances are good he’s made other inquiries in the neighborhood. I wouldn’t be surprised if—oh, for Christ’s sake, Hector! If you’ve got something on your mind, then out with it.”
Here’s the funny part. I nearly do tell him. The words have been piled up for so long that, with just the slightest pressure, they could come tumbling out….
Charles knows now. He knows who he is.
But I know something, too. If I seek to persuade Vidocq, I will have to do better than epiphanies in the Tuileries gardens.
“I just remembered,” I say. “I never gave Jeanne-Victoire her cloak back.”
CHAPTER 37
The Proper Disposal of Worms
THAT NIGHT, I’M SITTING in the chair by Charles’ door, watching him arrange his pillows…and before I even realize it, I’ve nodded off, and I’m back in that alleyway, and Herbaux is leveling the pistol at me, and my heart actually stops in anticipation of the end to come, and then I hear…
“Hector?”
Charles is sitting up in bed.
“May I ask you something?” he says.
“’Course,” I mumble, rubbing myself awake.
“Last night—when that man was chasing us—it wasn’t really a game, was it?”
“No. No, it wasn’t.”
“So you were protecting me.”
“Well, yes.”
“Because you didn’t want me to be frightened.”
“Something like that.”
Frowning, he traces a half-moon on his bedspread.
“It was very kind of you, Hector, but I don’t think you should do that. I can’t be treated like a child anymore. If I’m to be that, I mean…”
Which is as far as he can go to naming the thing that hovers over us. And bless me, I can’t go much further.
“Well,” I say, “if you’re to be that—then you can be whatever you want to be. And everyone else will just have to accommodate you.”
He doesn’t sound persuaded. And for that matter, neither am I. Nothing about his future is persuasive, least of all his own place in it. Once more the question comes rising up:
Is this man ready to be king of France?
And not for the last time do I answer:
No.
“Hector?”
“Yes.”
“I was just wondering—when all this is over—do you think I could stay with you?”
“You can stay as long as you like. And even if you have to go away, we can still be friends.”
He gives this some thought.
“I’ll need a physician, won’t I?”
“Why, yes.”
“Well, that’s splendid. You can be my doctor, and that way, you can still put me to bed every night. Unless I get married, of course. D’you think anyone would care to marry me, Hector?”
“Oh, yes.”
A few more seconds of thought.
“Then you can put us both to bed,” he says. “Won’t that be a lark? I hope she doesn’t snore….”
IT’S ANOTHER TWENTY minutes before he’s asleep, and by that time, I’m so completely awake that my own bed holds no charm for me. I wander downstairs with an idea of dipping into the cognac—only to be stopped by the sight of Mother, hunched over the dining room table.
Here is one function of my wanderings with Charles: They’ve broken down my sense of time. At any given moment, I have no idea what day it is. It takes the image of Mother in her muslin-sheathed sleeves, polishing the life out of her silver, to remind me….
It’s Friday.
Except that this has never happened on any previous Friday. My mother has never before called after me.
“Hector!”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Is everything all right?” she asks.
Is everything…is everything…
I take two long steps back until I’m standing in the doorway.
“Everything’s fine,” I say.
She nods. Picks up a dessertspoon and bears down on it.
“Would you—perhaps you’d care to sit down?”
I draw out a chair. A good minute passes before she speaks again.
“Hector…” She addresses herself directly to the spoon. “I hope you don’t mind my asking you something. If you’d rather not answer, I’ll understand.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Do you still miss her?” she asks.
“Mmm.” I realign my chair. “Miss who, exactly?”
“That woman. That dancer of yours.”
“Oh. You mean…”
She means Eulalie. The architect of my downfall. The companion of my every waking thought.
“I don’t miss her,” I say, surprised to find it true. “Not so much. What I mean is I’m—I’m sorry I made so many mistakes. On her account. I regret making you suffer….”
Each word thrown up like a cloud of incense. My mother puts out her hand and, in a low tight voice, says:
“No, Hector. Don’t apologize. It’s my turn.”
And then she does something I’ve never seen her do before on any of her Fridays. She pushes away her silver.
“I know you’ll find this hard to believe,” she says, wiping the remnants of froth from the muslin over her sleeves. “But the one hope I used to cherish about this place was that some marriageable young girl might come to lodge here, and the two of you might get along and—well, there you are.” She turns away. “Something good might come from all this.”
And there, at the very cusp of sentiment, she explodes into laughter—so robust it fairly stops my heart.
“Silly of me,” she says. “The only female lodgers we ever get are well past marrying age. Old women, yes. And young men.”
She plucks a rag from the table, dabs the merriment from her eyes.
“Do you remember the other morning in the garden?” she asks, quietly. “With Charles?”
“You left in a hurry. I remember that.”
“I don’t know if I can explain it. There I was, watching Charles and thinking, Oh, what a child he is, really. And then I…” She draws in a long breath, which catches at the very end. “I remembered I used to stand in that very same place when you were a boy. Watching you do the very same thing. Except you were digging for worms. Do you remember?”
“Of course.”
“And I would stand over you, and every time you found a worm, I’d say, ‘Ooh, that’s a juicy one!’ And you’d always laugh. And you’d always put the worms back. I’d say, ‘Don’t you want to put them in a jar or take them f
ishing with you?’ But no, you always wanted them to—go home, you called it.”
This much is clear. Each of the tears welling now from my mother’s eyes is extracted at enormous cost.
“Amazing,” she says. “To have all that come sweeping back. So sweet and so terrible. The laugh in your voice…the look you had. You trusted us, Hector, and we…” She gives her eyes a smear. “Well, we didn’t make a very happy life for you, did we?”
“You tried your best.”
“Our best,” she echoes.
A new scent in her voice now: scalding, bitter. And behind it a gathering purpose.
“Not too long ago,” she says, “you asked me about your father. About when he was a physician. I don’t know why I was so unkind. You only wanted to know, and who could blame you? I suppose…oh, Hector, whenever I look back on that time, all I see is…everything ending, that’s what I see. Because your father was never the same after.”
“After what?”
“After that boy died,” she says. “The boy in the tower.”
CHAPTER 38
A Case of Domestic Espionage
“WELL, WHY SHOULDN’T I have known?” says Mother, smiling darkly. “You think I don’t have a brain in my head?”
“But I thought Father was under strict orders….”
“When you get married, Hector, you’ll understand. A man may be following orders, but no one will ever read him better than his wife. Every hesitation, every little withholding, she hears it. Of course, she always imagines the worst. Then she finds—she finds she didn’t imagine the worst after all.
“Oh, Hector,” she whispers. “There’s so much to tell.”
May 22, 1795. The day after my third birthday, and in its beginnings, a day like any other. Clothilde (our former maid) scraping grease off the stove; me, building a tower of old eggshells; Mother, tweezing the dead blossoms from the geraniums.
“Duty calls,” says Father, gulping down the last of his coffee. Reaching for his greatcoat and bag, he kisses her in the usual manner: three quick collisions of lip.
“Off to the hospital,” he adds.
