“Why not?” Vassily said. “We’ll ask Gourmont. He’ll be interested in someone interested.”
The author was in the small courtyard in front of the theatre, saluting the spectators, most of them friends or relations. A nervous, stocky little man, with glistening cheekbones and a thick dark moustache, harangued the air nearby.
“He should do this with puppets,” the man said with a curious metallic twang. However much Gabriel liked absinthe, another man’s breath was not his favourite mode of enjoying it.
“I’ll do it with puppets,” the short dypsomaniac automaton went on. “Actors make it too personal. Only puppets, whose masters we are, can translate our exact thoughts. It’s like in politics … Honourable monsieur, where are you from?”
Gabriel pointed an incredulous finger at himself. Once again he had failed to hide his interest, or perhaps he had an unfortunate gift for attracting the attention of demented writers.
“Polar lands,” said Gabriel with candour, to cut a long story short. “Nowhere, so to speak.”
“Ah! Excellent!” The man approved loudly. “Poland! Nowhere, so to speak. Excellent.”
Before Gabriel could clear up the misunderstanding, Vassily pulled him over to Gourmont. Not naturally keen to meet people’s eyes, Gabriel could not bring himself to look at Gourmont’s lupus, which devoured half his face and curled his upper lip into a grin of disdain. Sometimes lowering his own eyes, sometimes raising them up to the stars, he let himself be introduced by Vassily.
The aging writer put his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and took him a few yards away, in the shadows of the courtyard.
“What is it I can do for you?”
“Paul told me you were an expert on succubi.”
Gourmont rolled his bulbous eye towards Gabriel.
“You were … visited?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Interesting, interesting,” the writer whispered. “Have you been around occultist circles, lately?”
“More than I would have cared to be.”
Gourmont nodded, his lips pursed.
“You were visited against your will? Is that it?”
“Certainly.”
“Since you do not seem to me to be a madman or a hysteric, and since I suppose you would not admit to it if you were, I will then assume, cher monsieur, that a spell has been cast on you. Someone who uses fluidic coagulations of the astral plane to obsess your astral body.”
“I know of no one who …”
Gourmont’s wife called in the background. He raised his hand.
“Just two minutes, Berthe, I’m finishing with this gentleman. You know, this is what I was trying to show with that little farce of mine,” he said, with triumphant false modesty. “The astral life is violent, the living fluids that circulate through the immensity are charged with genital instincts. At times, it feels as if the whole universe is about to surrender to a vague, voluptuous dream … or a monstrous kiss.” He paused, as his lupus shone in the moonlight. “We are all sensitive to this mysterious atmosphere. But it is dangerous. Very dangerous. Each one of our thoughts and our fantasies, our memories, imprints itself on the stuff the astral plane is made of, and resounds there like a wake-up call for the love-thirsty larvae. It leads them to your astral body as surely as a blood trail will lead a dog to its prey. The question is, do they come of their own accord—or, excuse me for saying so—attracted by your desires? Or is it that someone masters them and sends them to you? Or is it that someone projects themselves into the astral to connect with you in that fearsome, repulsive manner? If you don’t—yes Berthe, I’m coming!—if you don’t have the time or courage to ponder those grave questions, you could always go and meet Père Tonnerre, the exorcist of Notre-Dame. He had Satan tattooed on the soles of his feet to better trample him, and he swats succubi like flies. Now, if you will excuse me, we all have our chain … be it in this world or others.”
V
The Visual Purple
When, after his exhausting odyssey, Brentford eventually reached the Hôtel des Écoles, it was with the firm intention of immediately resting his head on a pillow. But when he saw Jean-Klein’s skis in front of the Colonel’s door, he knew it meant the results were back from the tests on Blankbate’s retinas. He clenched his jaw and strode in. He had, among other things on his overbooked itinerary, a murder to solve.
It was moving to see Jean-Klein reunited with members of the Most Serene Seven. Thomas was there, a slightly smug smile on his face, his eyes glinting with fresh morphine, and so was Lilian, nervously chain-smoking near an ashtray that looked like a mass grave for cigarette butts. The Colonel of course had remained hidden but had deputized Tuluk to attend on his behalf. Gabriel, however, wasn’t there, and neither was Pirouette. Perhaps, speculated Brentford, she had simply gone to bed.
The cliché was on the desk, waiting in an envelope addressed to him.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Jean-Klein,” Brentford warmly apologized. “I was detained.” The fact that he’d been detained by Lord Lodestone himself somehow did not seem that important anymore.
“Don’t worry,” Jean-Klein said. “I haven’t been here long, and I’ve had a pleasant time with your friends. It’s like we’ve known each other for years.”
“Well, I’m glad,” Brentford said. “You could have opened it, though.”
But he realized that to the Seven, he was still the Regent-Doge. No one, probably, had imagined opening an envelope with his name on it.
He tore the envelope open and looked at the photograph, not without emotion. It was a confused mass of particles that, frozen, nonetheless seemed to be agitated by a Brownian motion. Fuzzy blocks of light and darkness drew an abstract pattern that seemed indecipherable.
“So?” he asked Jean-Klein. “What do we have here?”
“It’s a cliché, or optogram, of what we call Visual Purple, a biological pigment found in the retina—also known as rhodopsin—which is responsible for the perception of light and which immediately bleaches once it’s been exposed to light. Professor Kühne, from Heidelberg, compared it not to a photographic plate, but to a plate that can renew itself, erasing old images in favour of new. But there’s always a certain latency, and it takes some time for the trace of the old image to vanish entirely. That’s one the reasons certain murderers recently have taken to destroying their victims’ eyes after the deed, fearing that tell-tale images might be printed on their retinas.”
“So what we have here are the last images seen by Blankbate?”
“We should consider ourselves lucky to have gotten anything. I think that violent death, especially by guillotine, somehow helps to fix the image—as if the falling blade acted as a kind of shutter. But optograms always look messy, and we lack any information about the surroundings to help us know what we’re seeing.”
Brentford focussed on the image. A kind of luminous sphere appeared in the top corner, barred by a blurry, oblique object. Could it be the guillotine’s lunette? If it was, it was curiously located in relation to Blankbate’s eyes.
“I don’t get it,” Brentford admitted. He passed the picture around. Lilian frowned at it, too.
“This ball of light. It looks rather like the moon, doesn’t it?” she observed at last.
They all looked at one another.
“Well. Good guess, I’d say,” Jean-Klein agreed. “Usually guillotine executions take place outside, in the last hours of the night. So, there’s a definite possibility that it is indeed the moon.”
Lilian passed on the picture to Thomas, who was sitting on Brentford’s bed with his boots on, but he hardly looked at it before passing it back to Jean-Klein.
Brentford sighed. “Well, thanks very much, Dr. Lavis,” he said. The expected revelation had failed, it seemed. A hard day’s work had resulted in more lost time and frustration.
“Wait a minute,” Thomas suddenly said, flushed by inspiration. “Can I see it again?”
“As much as you’d lik
e,” Brentford said. Jean-Klein passed the optogram back to Thomas.
The ensign examined it closely and closed his eyes, as if trying to pin down some image forming behind his lids.
“I’ve seen this object before. I don’t really know where …” he said quietly, as if speaking to himself.
There was a moment of silent expectation, and then Thomas burst out laughing: it was all so evident and easy. Implicitly, woven in a web of crossing looks, a common view was forming among the Most Serene Seven that something should be done before Thomas’s little morphine problem got out of hand.
“The slaughterhouse at La Villette,” Thomas announced proudly. “This object is the spiked hammer the butchers use to stun the animal before they cut its throat.”
“A merlin?” Jean-Klein blurted.
“What were you doing there?” Lilian asked.
Thomas laughed again. He was happy to be the centre of attention for once, and quite pleased with his discovery.
“I was with a nice girl, for a change. She was waiting for a drink of fresh blood, something of a custom here, apparently. I was struck by the way a tall fellow wielded this thing. Look at the little curve here at the back of this mass—it’s the hook.”
Brentford wavered between the importance of the news and the horror of the scene he couldn’t help picturing in his mind.
“Why would anyone want to do that to Blankbate?” he asked.
Thomas suddenly took on the look of an inspired poet. “I remember now,” he said. “I saw Blankbate that morning, waiting for someone in front of the abattoir. He was with a curious old man, rather uncouth, and he didn’t seem to want to talk much. It could be linked, couldn’t it? His murder may have something to do with the butchers of la Villette.”
“You may well be right …” Brentford muttered, thinking out loud. “He was in Paris for a mission of his own that he never revealed to me nor, I imagine, to any of you. I suppose it was a Scavenger thing. He must have been after something the Butchers had, or they were in his way. Thomas, Lilian—I’d be grateful if you would go to La Villette tomorrow and observe what happens there. See if you can find that old man again.”
Lilian and Thomas looked each other. The idea of going to the other end of Paris in the icy morning did not quite agree with their personal projects. But it was a case of patriotic duty, and if there was a chance of avenging Blankbate … Lilian, at least, sighed her approval. Thomas did not.
“I liked Blankbate. Quite an able man,” he began. “But should we let this distract us from the more urgent matters at hand? We’re closing in on the Sleepers—shouldn’t we concentrate on that and let the police work on the rest?”
“Would you, as an officer, leave the life of one of your men unavenged?” the Colonel shot back.
“And I doubt that the police will be very helpful,” Brentford added. “As we’ve learned, some of them have more than a paw in this Wolves of the Woods business.”
Thomas conceded the point gallantly. “We’ll go, then.”
Suddenly an enormous din was heard coming from the hallway.
The Most Serene Seven hurried out, only to find that Tuluk had snuck out to try out Jean-Klein’s skis on the staircase. He had made an edging mistake between the second and third floors and lay on the entresol, a confused tumble of clothes and limbs, one of the skis stuck in the elevator grille and an embarrassed smile on his flushed face.
“Are you all right?” Jean-Klein asked, as hotel clients trickled out of their rooms and gathered in dressing gowns all around the staircase.
Tuluk seemed to find the whole affair rather funny … or at least his laughter was an attempt to convince the others that it was.
Brentford shook his head in despair and went back to his room. He noticed that Lilian was following him.
“Brentford,” she began, joining him as he unlocked the door.
“Yes?” he asked, taking a step aside so she could enter.
She walked in and Brentford closed the door behind them. As happened now when he found himself alone with her, he could feel a certain anguish whirling in his stomach, like a goldfish choking in a muddled bowl.
Lilian spoke quickly. “I have to tell you that I took Pirouette back to her mother’s place.”
Brentford was unhappy with the news, but not quite surprised. “And why is that? She won’t be safe there.”
“I couldn’t take care of her, day in, day out.”
Brentford nodded. “I suppose I understand,” he said, though understanding did not mean that he approved.
Lilian had turned, and she grasped the railings at the foot of the bed so strongly that her knuckles turned white. Brentford braced himself for a confession that he did not want to hear.
“You see …” she began. She hesitated for a while. “I’ve met someone.” She hesitated again. “I’m in love, Brent.”
Brentford felt something inside sink. “Thomas?” he asked, paling, and trying to hide his anger.
Lilian sniggered. “I can do a little better than that, I hope. Even if he has been amazing tonight.”
“Am I supposed to know who it is?”
“Do you really care?”
“For you, yes.”
Lilian bent her head down and gave a slight, twisted smile. “Well, I’ll tell you who it is, but only because I think she can help us.”
“She?” he asked, wide-eyed, although it was hardly a surprise. “Sorry. Carry on.” He felt his fury cascading down into a pool of sadness and getting lost there.
“She’s called Morgane Roth. She’s the girl we met at the hospital the day we arrived, when our Jean-Klein died.”
“The one whose séance you went to?”
“Exactly. It was the séance that gave me the idea. She had a rather odd take on spirits herself, but the fact is that the one that manifested itself that night knew about New Venice and that it was going to be built. Lord Lodestone seemed to be embarrassed by the mention of it, and last night I found him completely unwilling to discuss it.”
“You dined with Lodestone yesterday?” Brentford blurted out.
“Oh, did I forget to mention that? I learned nothing, really, beyond the fact that he is thinking hard about a religious system for what we suppose is New Venice. As I say, he was especially cagey.”
Brentford thought of the open-mindedness with which the Sleeper had talked to him a few hours ago. For a man who feared nothing but the discovery of his secrets, his reaction at the séance might point to something important indeed.
“I met him by chance this evening. I found him rather … pleasant would not be the right word … communicative, let us say. But I did not get a chance to talk about New Venice, nor was I encouraged to. However, I must say he is a rather impressive character.”
“You have to like the type. But, yes, I suppose so,” Lilian approved.
“So, what do you suggest?”
“We should try a séance at Morgane’s place, just the Seven, and see what comes out of it. Whether there’s a way out of here or a chance to communicate. Perhaps we’ll learn more about Lodestone.”
“Would tomorrow night be possible?”
“I’m sure.”
“All right, then,” Brentford said, albeit with some difficulty. Meeting his love’s lover was not exactly his idea of a good night out. But he would do it. For New Venice. And for Lilian.
“Are you angry at me?” Lilian asked. “For Pirouette—or Morgane?”
“No, Lilian,” he said, then thought about it. “I’m angry at the people who treated Blankbate like beef.”
As she left, her back a pearlescent blur, he was about to thank her for her idea, but decided there was a limit to his self-abasement.
Lilian had not been gone a minute when someone knocked at Brentford’s door. Technically, it could have been anyone but the Colonel; however, it was Thomas who he found standing in front of him, his opiated smile a tad too persistent.
“Yes?”
“There is somet
hing I remembered that I forgot to tell you. Or something I forgot to remember to tell you.”
“What is it, Thomas?” Brentford sighed.
“It may seem strange to you, and at the time I didn’t pay any attention to it. But when we went to that séance with Lilian at Morgane’s … D’you know Morgane, by the way? A very beautiful woman, not my type, but very much Lilian’s, I gather …”
“It’s been another long day, Thomas,” Brentford said with more impatience than he meant. “If you could get straight to the point …”
“Right. So when we went to that séance, there was this little harbour before the Bastille. And in that harbour, I thought I saw a yacht that was flying the New Venetian flag. That’s all.”
Brentford was impressed again. “That’s a lot, Thomas. Thank you very much.”
Thomas clicked his heels and walked out, absorbed by the dark corridor. “Take care of yourself, mate,” Brentford was about to say, but it was already too late.
VI
The Mysteries of Montmartre
After Gabriel had spoken with Gourmont and he and Vassily were leaving the Théâtre-Salon, Vassily had met a “friend” whom Gabriel found quite charming, although her name, Hermine de Candore, sounded too good to be true. Vassily offered to see her home—his home, Gabriel surmised—and they vanished in the busy night. Not that Gabriel felt abandoned: he was still disappointed with himself for not having recognized, until it was too late, Alfred Jarry standing in front of the theatre, and he could feel himself beginning the slow slide that marked the start of his sulking spells. A little loneliness, he decided, was exactly what he needed.
But he did not feel like going home right then, if his hotel room could be called a home. As he was already halfway up to Montmartre, he decided to continue rambling. He took the rue Blanche and merged into the chaotic glitter of the boulevard, buying a cornet-bag of hot chestnuts to munch on a leisurely stroll among the street hawkers, the song-sellers and the paper flower–girls, among faceless but hurried silhouettes whose heads were enveloped in clouds of breath charged with the static of desire. He walked without a destination, ignoring the raucous love-calls of feathered females, following whims, perspectives, clusters of blurry lights. He angled off to climb the rue Lepic, where busy ragpickers reminded him of poor Blankbate, and then swerved towards the Abbesses, watching people in the cafés trying to dispel the cold and wetness from their minds, their yellow faces waving like weak flames behind the misty windows.
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