The Devourer

by C H Chelser

  There was no part of the city older than the Cité. The conclusion that Eric left unspoken was evident, but Mercedes feigned ignorance as she scanned the article. Le Moniteur was a respectable newspaper and less prone to exaggeration than some of the cheaper publications, but even so, their speculation about a new epidemic ‘worse than cholera’ seemed premature given the modest number of victims so far.

  “It says here that only a handful of deaths each day answer to the description of this new disease.”

  “Indeed! A handful now, yes, but that is how these things start.”

  Fear was more contagious than the worst infectious disease, and Eric’s radiated off him like a blazing fire. Mercedes imagined a transparent wall between them to spare herself his agitation. It worked. The tension flowed from her body.

  “When disease spreads, the number of patients increases over time,” she said. “Not so now. Whatever the cause, do you not agree that under these circumstances, it is unlikely to grow to epidemic proportions?”

  Eric grimaced in frustration. “Thousands and thousands of dead. That was what the cholera reaped when it swept through Paris twenty-five years ago. I don’t expect you to remember, since you were only a child. But I do recall it. That was why I took you to my mother’s house in Provence when that second outbreak began.”

  Mercedes nodded, although in truth she recalled little of that period. Her heart had been too heavy with loss at the time for her mind to remember much of anything.

  “Both those epidemics started small, like this one now,” Eric said. “I don’t think you realise that the deaths they are reporting may only be a fraction of the actual casualties.”

  “And what if they are? Accidents in factories and workshops alone claim more lives on a daily basis than this does.”

  “That doesn’t matter!” His hand slammed down hard on the desk. “Whether this threat claims dozens or thousands, I won’t have you amongst them!”

  Even the silence seemed loud after his outburst. Mercedes forced herself not to talk back. She might disagree, but she had neither the right nor the will to blame him.

  “I appreciate your concern, mon cher.” She handed the Moniteur back to him. “It is kind of you to worry for me, but what is outside can be carried through the shop’s door. Forbidding me to go out will not keep me safe.”

  “Much as that grieves me.”

  He flattened imaginary creases in the front page. All the while Mercedes could almost hear his teeth grinding.

  “Right. Go if you must,” he spat. He tossed back the last drops of his coffee and got up. “But I won’t allow you to roam those festering streets, you hear? You will take a cab all the way to your friend’s door. More than that, you will have it wait for you there and bring you back home when you are done.”

  Mercedes gaped at him. “Have it wait? That will make for an expensive fare indeed!”

  “That cannot be helped. I swore before God I would take care of you, and I will. Now, if you please, our staff shouldn’t be left un-supervised any longer.”

  They didn’t speak of the matter again. In fact, they didn’t speak at all throughout the rest of the day. Even though they both worked in the same building, Mercedes and Eric often saw little of each other during business hours. Today perhaps that was for the best, because their tiff in the office had undone the good mood left by M. Leclerc’s purse.

  The British lady in mourning arrived late in the afternoon, with her deceased brother in tow. The soldier was still nervous, but Mercedes filtered him out by concentrating instead on the fitting of the first of the black dresses. The garment required only a few minor adjustments to the sleeves, so Mercedes ordered Yvette to put down her regular work and make those changes.

  When at last the church bells of Paris rang at closing hour, Mercedes had her assistants clean up while she set herself to making up the register. One half of her mind counted the money against the list of receipts, while the other contemplated Eric’s intentions for tonight. Ordering a cab to deliver her to the door was a pointless exercise. A horse-drawn carriage couldn’t enter the narrowest streets of the Cité, let alone wait for her there. Apparently Eric had failed to realise this, and she saw no reason to enlighten him. If he found out that his terms couldn’t be met, he might well forbid her to go at all.

  However, this posed another problem. Eric wouldn’t give her the money to pay the driver herself. The few times she had gone on an errand or visited a customer on the outskirts of the city, he had chartered a cab for a round trip and paid the driver on return. In all likelihood, he would do the same tonight.

  Except tonight she didn’t fancy a stranger keeping track of her whereabouts.

  The coins ran through her fingers as she counted them. Coins... One franc coins. Small change for a business that priced its wares in Louis d’or, but quite enough to pay for a short cab ride.

  She counted until there were ten coins left in her palm. She noted the total that had ended up in the bag as the total of the register, while she slipped the contents of her palm into the hem inside her cuff. Then she sought out several amounts on the receipts list that could be amended without crossing out any numbers, and rounded these down until the ten francs were accounted for.

  It wasn’t stealing, she reasoned. Certainly, the law decreed that everything she earned belonged to her husband by default, but as her late father had explained years ago, the idea was that married couples should share their fortunes as well as their lives. And since her father had been a notary, she felt justified in taking him at his word.

  Keeping a stoic expression, she carried the bag and the list to Eric, who already sat behind his desk doing his own calculations of the day’s revenues.

  “I will go upstairs to change before I leave,” she said.

  He glanced up. “You will not have dinner first?”

  “I thought it would please you if I left early, so that I will be back early, too.”

  “Yes, well... That is wise.” Contrary to his words, his expression soured. “I assume Gagnon will have dinner ready soon. It would be a waste.”

  Mercedes smiled as kindly as she could. “Then I will do what you did last night and serve myself when I return.”

  He couldn’t refute the argument. He wanted to, she could tell, but doing so would brand him a hypocrite.

  “Right then. I will hail you a cab when you are ready.”

  She hurried up to the flat, told Gagnon she would be missing dinner, and asked Amélie to help her change into a simpler dress. Out of sight, she transferred the coins, too. Tufts of her hair had become loosened from her bun, but she stuffed them under the brim of her hat, which she then fixed with a few hairpins. Where she was going, appearance meant nothing. Perfection would only draw unwanted attention.

  True to his word, Eric had a cab waiting for her by the time she stepped out through the front door that separated the shop fronts. He glanced behind her as if he expected another person.

  “You aren’t taking Amélie with you?”

  “It is a private visit that will not take long. She has better things to do upstairs.”

  He frowned but turned to the driver. “The lady will tell you the address. You will take her there, wait by the door, and bring her back here. She is going alone and she will be coming back alone.”

  “I’m a driver, not a chaperone,” said the burly man on the box.

  “Payment upon your arrival back here, and not a moment sooner. Is that clear?”

  The driver scoffed. “As monsieur wishes.”

  Mercedes regarded the carriage with displeasure. She had hoped for a plain brown horse and a quiet, non-descript driver whose countenance would be forgotten the moment the fiacre disappeared in traffic. But this fellow had made an impression on Eric, never mind that a team of two white horses stood out like a beacon. In short, she would have to improvise.

  “Oh, I promise I shall not keep either of you waiting too long, messieurs,” she said pleasantly when Eric opened
the carriage door for her and offered his hand. She accepted the gesture and climbed in.

  “Where to, then?” the driver grunted.

  “Rue de la Cité, please. The exact address escapes me, but I will direct you from there.”

  “‘Escapes’ you? Don’t test my leniency, madame,” Eric warned.

  “I’m not. I only forgot the house number, that is all. When I see the street, I will know which house it is.” She smiled again to dispel his distressed frown. “To the door and back, I promise.”

  “See that you do.” He pressed a light but genuine kiss to her fingers before he closed the door, which cued the fiacre to drive off.

  The ride from the rue de Richelieu to the Cité, along the recently renovated and expanded rue de Rivoli, was brief. The short distance didn’t merit a cab on an evening as fine as this one, but Eric’s misgivings never accounted for simple pleasures.

  The fiacre rolled across the brand-new pavement until it took a right turn in the direction of the Pont Notre Dame. The waters of the Seine below marked not only the borders of the Cité, but also the end of the renovation works: the neighbourhoods on the island still consisted of the urban maze that Paris was famous for.

  Just across the bridge, the cab halted at the curb. “Rue de la Cité, as you wished, madame,” the driver said. “Your directions?”

  “Only a bit further. Stop at the corner of rue Gervais Laurent, on the right.”

  The horses continued at walking pace to where she had indicated. When they halted, the driver called over his shoulder to ask her where exactly, but by then Mercedes already stood on the sidewalk.

  “Meet me here in two hours,” she said. “I may run late, but my husband will compensate you well for the wait.”

  “He also told me to wait for you by the door of your destination, madame.”

  “As you rightly pointed out, you are not my chaperone. I will add five francs to his price if you tell him only what I instruct you to tell him.”

  The driver gave her a lopsided grin. “What your husband does or doesn’t know ain’t my business, madame. My business is to cash in my fare. I can only do that if I bring you back.”

  “Two hours, this exact same spot. In the meantime you can take on extra fares. Double money for half the work.”

  “And if you don’t show up?”

  “I will. You had better, too.” She strode away at a brisk pace. Behind her, the fiacre drove off.

  She turned the corner into what was a street in name only. The Cité’s maze of alleys and cul-de-sacs was a far cry from the splendour of the new boulevards. Here stinking dirt collected in the same gutters where the children played, and cramped houses leaned on each other like crippled men. At this hour the narrow streets were crowded. Men in clogs and caps brought home their week’s pay, or a bottle and their drunken tempers. Women in workers’ clothes returning from their jobs passed women in scant clothing preparing for theirs. None of them poor enough to be beggars, but neither did they earn enough to afford more than what little they had.

  Beyond that clamour of daily life, Mercedes saw the others as well. The ghosts were faint, but real in the way that memories are real. Places like these alleyways, dank with little light and plenty of people, attracted them. Yet for now, while the sun was still out, they were passive and easy to ignore.

  Mercedes stopped in front of a rickety tenement building with two doors. One was the regular entrance. The other, set two steps lower than the pavement, led to the cellar and was much smaller than the first. It had no window, its paint had chipped off long ago and a rain-washed curtain that may have once been colourful was draped over one side. Mercedes descended the two steps and knocked twice.

  No sooner had she pulled her hand from the door than it opened with a soft ‘click’. It swung open on creaking hinges, but no one welcomed her. Unsurprised, she stooped to step inside. Three uneven steps extended further down to the stone floor. She navigated them carefully while closing the door behind her.

  The cellar stretched out long and narrow, like every building in this quartier, and smelled of cheap incense. The ceiling was low, but Mercedes could stand upright provided she didn’t straighten her back too much. The two windows on either side of the door were too dirty and too close to the pavement to be of any use. The only source of light emanated from the cluster of candles on the table at the far end of the room. Two people sat at that table. Both turned to look at her.

  “How did she—?” began the youngster who’d had his back to the door.

  “Do not paye anee heede,” said the woman across from him, who judging by her appearance could only be a gypsy. She tossed her long, dark curls. “Thay may heare but thay do not understande. Vatch thee cards, and onlee thee cards.”

  Understanding the woman’s unspoken instructions, Mercedes kept to the front of the cellar. She removed her hat and sat down on one of the sofas beneath the unserviceable windows. In truth the sofa was little more than a row of crates lined with a multitude of cushions, but because those cushions were adorned with arcane symbols and long tassels, it looked impressive nevertheless. The same could be said for most items in Madame Esmeralda’s shop.

  “Thee cards, theye saye that yoo vill vind a man who vill accepte yoo vor who yoo are,” Madame Esmeralda divined.

  The youngster shifted on his wooden stool. “Really? W-well, when?”

  “But! But, see heere? Thee Clouds deemands that yoo have patience! Theere are deesturbances on yoor path that must bee overcome firste.”

  Mercedes rolled her eyes and distracted herself from eavesdropping by examining the wares on display. For a business that was essentially illegal, Madame Esmeralda made no secret of her trade. The many shelves on the walls carried books, baskets, jars, tins and bottles, all in various shapes and sizes. Some containers held colourful liquids, while others were filled with powders, herbs or the occasional hapless creature floating in alcohol. She couldn’t read the labels in this poor light, but given the sort of things that people came here for, she had a good idea of their content. Scrutinizing one of the top shelves, Mercedes spotted some statuettes with very particular shapes hiding in the shadows.

  At the table, Madame Esmeralda tapped one of her long fingernails on a card in the reading. “Thee last card also warns yoo that yoo must bee deescreet. No matter howe strong yoor love ees, yoo must haide it well.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said the youngster. “I-I shall hide my feelings. No one shall know.”

  Mercedes bit her tongue. His exuberant fashion sense and effeminate gestures screamed his disposition from the rooftops. It would take a fierce amount of effort to hide that, yet he seemed to be blissfully unaware of what he projected. The Clouds card had promised him a bumpy ride. Divination or not, she didn’t doubt that it would be so.

  “Thee cards have spokeen. Yoo must find yoor own waye now by thee laight thay have shown yoo,” Madame Esmeralda said with finality.

  The youngster looked crestfallen as the gypsy woman shuffled the cards of his reading back into her deck. He seemed to want to ask more, but reconsidered and drew his purse.

  “Thank you, Madame Esmeralda. Thank you for your help. How much do I—?”

  Madame Esmeralda hushed him with a snap, and then sprawled her fingers across the small, wooden box on the side of the table.

  “Thee spirits of thee cards will accept anee offering yoo care to maike.”

  Mercedes pretended not to notice how he selected a few coins while Madame Esmeralda let the deck of grimy cards run through her hands. The gypsy’s eyes were closed, as if she was in a trance. When she began to mutter phrases in an indistinguishable language, the youngster dipped a nervous hand back into his purse and added another coin to the box. At once the lid flipped shut and the gypsy’s eyes snapped open.

  “Unteell we meet againe, monsieur.”

  The youngster took his leave in a whisper, gathered his hat and rose as far as the ceiling would allow. When he walked to the door, bowing low
to avoid bumping his head, he held his hat in front of his face so Mercedes couldn’t recognise him. That suited her, since it meant he couldn’t recognise her, either.

  The moment the door fell shut behind the man’s back, Madame Esmeralda opened her little box and peered inside.

  “Ohohoh! Thank you indeed, monsieur. That should cover a month’s rent quite nicely.” She retrieved the money and hid it in her cleavage. Despite the shawls and the golden earrings, Madame Esmeralda’s mystical gypsy-act vanished along with her accent. She beamed at Mercedes. “How good it is to see you again, my dear. Sorry for the cold welcome, but I can’t turn up my nose at such a generous repeat customer.”

  “Oh, I understand. I suffer them, too.” Mercedes returned her friend’s fond hug. “Hello, Anne.”

  “It’s been far too long since you came this way. Are you pressed for time, or shall I make you some tea?”

  “Yes please, and yes please.”

  Anne gave her a questioning glance that cleared up the next instant. “Of course. Let me put the kettle on for the first, and then I’ll get you some of the second.”

  She disappeared behind the curtain that decorated the back wall. Mercedes caught a glimpse of a bed and a small stove hidden beyond it, as well as a much cleaner window overlooking the fenced-off yard at the back of the building. Quite the contrast to the shop’s intentionally unsavoury atmosphere.

  “Right, that’s the tea on the boil,” Anne said. “Forgive me for keeping my ‘uniform’ on. I’m expecting a couple more customers later on, but for now let me make some proper light.”

  She produced a basket full of big, half-used candles from underneath the table. She lit three of them from the candles already burning on the table and placed them around the shop. By their warm light, Anne’s wrinkles and grey hairs showed.

  “So. Tea, you said.” She selected a big jar with dried herbs. “The usual amount?”

  “Please. The tin is empty.”

  Anne’s excessive jewellery jingled as she swept around.