“I haven’t seen him, but I have felt him very distinctly. Or perhaps I should say her.”
Tonnerre leaned across the table and, in a furious whisper, asked Gabriel, “Are you, sir, an onanist?”
This wasn’t a topic that Gabriel especially wished to discuss with a stranger, especially one on whom his own enlightened thoughts would so obviously be wasted. In his opinion, people usually—ridiculously—mistook onanism for a sexual practice and completely failed to understand that in its nature it was essentially mystical, a spiritual exercise—the melancholy shamanism of afternoon reveries. Beyond that, for a species dumb enough to have traded the penile bone for the opposable thumb, it had possibly been the key factor in the rise of imagination, not to mention the cornerstone of that most noble art known as Literature.
Gabriel forced himself to look mildly shocked. Not since Jesuit school, he was about to say, but what came out was, “Not lately. Certainly not in this case.”
“So you did not evoke it, so to speak. That’s the most common cause, you know. And how do you know it was a woman?”
“There are certain signs in nature …”
“I am aware of that, thank you. What sort of consistency had she?”
“Our acquaintance did not proceed that far. But I felt her touch very distinctly. Cold. Slightly gelatinous, perhaps.”
He nodded his head. “So, no marks on your body, I suppose. Have you suffered nervous trouble lately? Or mental, perhaps?”
“No. Nor do I want them to start. Hence my visit.”
The answer apparently satisfied Tonnerre. Momentarily. His eyes narrowed again.
“Any episodes of glossolalia? Premonitory visions?”
These, Gabriel guessed, must be symptoms of a real possession. If he didn’t want his visit to be for nothing, he thought he should make an effort to play along. “Just a few attempts at French, as you can hear,” he offered. “And sometimes I see sudden images that I think belong to the future.” He was actually referring to memories—of New Venice—but they would have to do.
“What sorts of images?”
“Distant cities, mostly.”
Tonnerre flinched almost imperceptibly, but went on with his questions. “Any bad … readings connected to these visions?”
“All my reading is good.”
“I do hope so. Most possessions are self-induced through reading. Nothing is more pernicious that the contagious effect of occultist literature, or of any literature, on weak minds—and this is a time of weak minds. Cursed are the poor of spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of hell.”
It was quite unorthodox, but Gabriel let it pass, and saw one second too late that it had been a sort of trap.
“Are you a Christian, Monsieur d’Allier?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Technically? I do not know of such a way of being a Christian. Have you Faith in God?”
“The usual, yes.”
“The usual is the most useless. ‘So then, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will vomit you out of My mouth.’ ”
Talk about defective metaphors, Gabriel thought, wondering what business God had putting people in His mouth in the first place.
“If you have not brought this on yourself, then it is very possible that a spell has been cast on you,” Tonnerre continued. “Have you had any commerce with occultists recently?”
“Indeed, I have, yes. A certain Monsieur Papus.”
The exorcist frowned, and his voice rang with reproach as he spoke. “Based upon what I know of him, although I don’t share his view of things, Monsieur Papus is a good Christian and a dedicated enemy of Satan. Perhaps it is towards other sources that we should look. Have you ever heard of the Palladians?”
“A little,” Gabriel answered, trying to hide the sudden flare of interest that the question ignited in him.
“These Freemasons are the true followers of Lucifer. They steal hosts from churches and use them in black masses. Now that Diana Vaughan has returned to the bosom of the true faith, and exposed their power and relics, we have to expect a violent counterattack. Magical duels, perhaps, as happened not so long ago in this very city. Paris lies in the hands of Satan. We are in the middle of a spiritual war, a merciless combat of wills.”
“But why me?” Gabriel asked. “Why would someone cast a spell on me?” The word relics had caught his attention, but he was at a loss as to how to gather more information on that particular point.
“Maybe it is not altogether personal. Succubi are demons, but with them it is often the place that has to be exorcised. Most often, when men come to see me, the problem is within the house itself. It is, it appears, somewhat different with females,” he added, with a knowing look that Gabriel found rather unpleasant. “Where do you live?”
“The Grand Hôtel des Écoles, rue Delambre, in Montparnasse.”
Tonnerre nodded. “Not an especially notorious place—it used to be ragpickers’ slums, if memory serves. But it is close to a cemetery and right above the catacombs. In any event, it will have to be purified, and quickly: three or four such visits of a succubus can deplete your strength and even cause death. I’ll be at the hotel tonight, at around eight p.m. I must warn you that you are about to undergo an intensive and difficult process. It is not to be taken lightly.”
He seized the charred crucifix from his belt and waved it under Gabriel’s nose. “Demons are strong!” he exclaimed. “One of them once knocked the cross out of my hand and hurled it against the wall. If you’re not serious about this, you are in great danger. You must be thoroughly prepared. Prayer and faith, that’s all there is. I’ll hear your confession and lay my hands on you now, before you leave.”
Nothing was more unwelcome to Gabriel than the mere idea of confession. Not that there was any risk he would run out of inspiration, but even beyond his mortal hatred of any kind of thought police, it was one of his ideas that talking about things made them worse, and, curiously, more real.
With Tonnerre’s slightly acrid breath one inch from his face, Gabriel mumbled a résumé of rather tame sins and was given as penance twenty aves and as many paters. Perhaps that was the good side of Catholicism: there was nothing that could not be fixed, making all your sins come to seem rather common, boring, and insignificant. Or maybe this was exactly what Gabriel did not like.
He bowed his head, and shivered with repulsion as the priest put his warm hands on his head and murmured a prayer.
“I can feel your fear,” Tonnerre said sonorously. “But with the help of the Lord, I’ll clean up this mess.”
IV
The Hypnotized Explorer
If Brentford wanted to examine newspapers from the last few months, his best bet, the hotel manager explained, was to go to the Arsenal Library, where copies of all the Parisian newspapers were conserved. As for foreign newspapers, the reading cabinet at the passage Jouffroy, on the boulevards, would be the place. The name “Arsenal” banged a tiny golden gong in Brentford’s mind.
“Is it near the Arsenal harbour?”
“A few yards away.”
He knew where to go first.
“Sir …?” the hotel manager asked as Brentford took his leave.
“Yes, what is it?”
“We certainly appreciate your business in these dire times, and I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but …”
“Please, tell me.”
The man fiddled with his moustache as if he were tuning an antenna to the correct wavelength of inspiration. “If you’ll allow me to say so, the little girl is gone, and that’s one less problem. But now we have this other situation, you see …”
Brentford’s smile stilled and remained fixed. It was meant to encourage the manager, but seemed to have the opposite effect. The man blushed and began to perspire.
“Yesterday, one of our maids complained about seeing a … talking head, in your room. She was very frightened.”
“A talking head? You mean that little mechanical dev
ice? It’s just a trick. I’m an amateur magician.”
“That’s what the head told us,” the manager said doubtfully.
“I’ll be more careful not to scare your employees,” Brentford tried to reassure him. “So … it’s all right, then?
“Well …” The manager hesitated. “Then it seems you had this … sav—native … person … skiing down the stairs …”
“A most unfortunate accident, and not likely to happen again. Our Eskimo friends are full of curiosity, but they learn quickly from their mistakes.”
“We also suspect … in fact … and I regret to have to say this … that we found morphine in one room.”
“You Frenchmen really like to clean thoroughly, don’t you? Morphine is not forbidden, I hope?”
“Not really, but …”
“We were, you remember, part of the Montparnasse train wreck, which was a mere six days ago. The drug was prescribed by a physician to my friend to alleviate his pain.” Then, a bit impatient with the general drift of the conversation, Brentford decided to change gears. “I suppose this explanation will satisfy Commissaire Tripotte, who seems to take a keen interest indeed in your hotel.”
The manager paled. “You don’t think …?”
Brentford had scored his point and now made an appeasing gesture. “Collaboration with the police is to be expected from a law-abiding citizen.” It was an elegant way to call the manager a snitch.
The manager looked embarrassed.
“As I said, we appreciate your business. But, strictly between us, I would appreciate it more if Monsieur Tripotte were not so involved.” Then he whispered, “You see, in France, nobody likes the police.”
Brentford smiled at the paradox, for, on the whole, the French seemed to him a rather suspicious lot, and especially gifted at finding faults in others. But apparently even the police didn’t like the police, since people like Tripotte seemed to prefer hanging out with assassins. It reminded Brentford that there was no time to lose, but perhaps some to buy.
“By the way, since you appreciate our business so much, may I pay you the next week in advance?”
“Of course!” The manager replied, visibly delighted. “I’d like to see this magic trick of yours one day,” he said as Brentford left the hotel.
Brentford paused only long enough to mutter, “Now that you know how it works, it wouldn’t be amusing.”
The fog had evaporated to reveal a skyless day, misty and wet, the horizon hanging white and damp like a sheet on a clothesline, and diffusing a dull, migrainy light. It was so cold that for the first time since they arrived, Brentford had to take “boilers”—glycerine pills—to see himself through the trip.
The Arsenal was a long, narrow, and austere building, not far from the Bastille and almost on the bank of the Seine. Brentford didn’t really know how to start his research, but the bespectacled librarian had heard of de Lanternois. The death of the explorer had first been reported in March, he noted, so any newspaper issued around that time might contain useful information.
Brentford was made to fill in cards, then led to one of the long tables in the reading room, where he waited tedious minutes for the newspapers to be delivered. However, there were about sixty dailies in Paris, and so when the bulky stack was finally delivered he received it with mixed feelings. He decided to concentrate on the most popular sheets, based on what he had seen people reading in the cafes: Le Journal, Le Matin, Le Petit Journal, Le Petit Parisien, many of which were further thickened by spectacular illustrated supplements. Even if his French were up to the task, it would take the whole day.
He’d been searching for hours without finding anything useful, the rustle of the overlarge pages nearly deafening in the otherwise silent reading room, when, from just over his shoulder, a voice whispered, “Excuse me. Louis d’Ussonville. Interesting case, isn’t it?”
He turned to find himself looking up at a tall, thin, stooped man with a quixotic expression, and his heart jumped as he recognized the Sleeper come to life. He had known that d’Ussonville was in Paris, but still, this was like dreaming about New Venice … and then seeing it for real.
“Brentford Orsini,” he stammered as he returned the handshake that was offered him, hoping that Lord Lodestone hadn’t already mentioned his name to d’Ussonville. But the Sleeper showed no sign of knowing it. “Indeed,” Brentford pressed on, “this case is quite hard to crack.”
“May I …?” D’Ussonville sat beside Brentford and stared at him with something like amusement. He finally whispered, “De Lanternois is an interest that I happen to share. We are not that many, I must say. It is rare to meet someone concerned with this unfortunate hero. Or with what lies behind his story.”
“What lies behind it?” Brentford asked, as it came to him that the librarian had probably warned d’Ussonville that someone had shown an interest in the explorer’s fate.
D’Ussonville folded his wrinkles into a patient smile; he didn’t believe Brentford was as naïve as he was trying to appear. “It is my experience that de Lanternois mostly interests people who want to make what happened to him fit into, shall we say, a larger scheme of things. But perhaps you are different in that respect.”
Brentford understood immediately that he would learn more about de Lanternois from d’Ussonville than he would from scraps of yellowing paper. He decided to follow the same course that had saved his life when talking with Lord Lodestone—that is, to be as honest as he could. Trying to fool the Sleepers did not seem a good idea, and moreover, Brentford felt more than a little loyalty towards them. Wasn’t he, after all, a native New Venetian, a Doges College alumnus, and a highly placed member of the Arctic Administration, not to mention a former Regent-Doge? Loyalty to the Sleepers and their work was his job, quite simply.
“I am not. I happen to have in my possession an object that belonged to de Lanternois—and to a larger scheme of things, I suspect.”
D’Ussonville was not a dramatically expressive man, but his nod spoke volumes about his appreciation for Brentford’s goodwill.
“Aha,” he said, raising a finger. “You’ve just earned yourself a lunch.”
The lunch was at a small place on the Île St. Louis that was called Les Mariniers but which was actually less filled with bargees than with petits-bourgeois and half-convincing bohemian types. As they took their table, there was no way for Brentford to reconcile the serious but affable man sitting opposite him with the character of a dangerous bomb-thrower. Though a millionaire, d’Ussonville looked at ease in his surroundings, like a man who knows how to behave properly in every level of society, and who takes a keen interest in every walk of life. Brentford quickly perceived that this was less an acquired behaviour in him than it was in Lord Lodestone … But he was soon overcome by the strangeness of meeting the two Sleepers and seeing them as human beings, instead of as wax figures that time had rendered more and more difficult to distinguish from one another, until all Seven had eventually been fused into a single mythical protoplasmic entity. How had they met? How had they gotten along? These were, curiously, questions that Brentford had never wondered about before. Stranger still was the fact that knowing about d’Ussonville’s future did not quite seem to put Brentford at an advantage—probably because, he realized, the future of New Venice was much more in d’Ussonville’s hands than it was in his.
D’Ussonville got straight to the point.
“There is a good reason,” he said, “why this case is hard to crack, as you mentioned earlier. It was never meant to be one of those heavily publicized expeditions that’s in all the newspapers. It was more of a classified operation.”
“Classified by whom?”
“The French authorities. As you know, the British Crown gave over the District of Franklin to Canada last year, which then, de facto, gave Canada rights to the Northwest Passage and the territory ranging up to the pole. Nonetheless, the question of whom the pole belongs to is a sensitive one. It is not properly mapped yet—there may be more
islands to discover, and then there are rumours of an open sea, vegetation, an entrance to the centre of the earth, and every possible natural resource … Meanwhile, Denmark, Norway, Russia, the United States, and others of course claim freedom of navigation over the pole and the Northwest Passage—in the name, of course, of international scientific cooperation, while trying to extend their own borders at any opportunity. The Americans have been the most interested in, shall we say, leading the pack: they’ve funded numerous expeditions and even attempted a permanent settlement, much to their woe.”
“The Greeley expedition?” asked Brentford, suddenly remembering meeting the Phantom Patrol during his own polar expedition, and their stitched, mutilated, half-gnawed bodies.
“Among other attempts, yes.”
Shaking it off, Brentford said, “I didn’t think France was concerned in this scramble.”
“It’s not—directly,” replied d’Ussonville. “But, for one thing, France is always happy to put a little pressure on the British, and more specifically, now that the French shore of Newfoundland is threatened and St. Pierre close to its demise, it’s trying to make up for the loss elsewhere. What’s more, as you know, France is very keen to please the Russians, who are themselves very interested in the polar regions. It’s even likely that France will support Russia’s claims as far as possible … in the hope of getting some crumbs from its table.”
“So, de Lanternois was as much a secret agent as an explorer?”
“More of a secret agent, judging by his fate. The idea was to supersede Markham’s Farthest North and see what the terrain looked like for future enterprises. Apparently, de Lanternois made it as far as Ellesmere Island and disappeared there.”
“Wasn’t his body found?” Brentford asked, a bit disingenuously.
“Maybe it will be someday, like Franklin’s crew …” said d’Ussonville. “… if anyone is crazy enough to go and look for him. But I doubt very much that the discovery would give France anything to put on a stamp.”
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