by C H Chelser
Jean gave the impression of smiling with relief, as well as a wordless affirmation that he didn’t mean to rescind their agreement, either. His renewed warmth made her smile briefly.
“So you truly cannot help me.”
Where and when I can, I will. This I swear, but truth remains that for the most part, my presence would only undo what you have accomplished.
“How to go on from here?”
Convince him to accept your help, and accept that you need his.
“How?” she asked, but Jean’s presence had already retreated.
The dusky church came back to her, and the only voice she heard was that of the priest calling on his flock for another hymn. Her body complied, her mouth sang, but her mind churned.
To the very end Jean had managed to avoid giving her a straight answer. She had sensed the truth of the demon’s strength of will playing a considerable part in Jean’s choice to involve him, but there was more to it. She strongly suspected it to be personal.
More hymns followed, and Mercedes sang along. Whatever Jean’s true motivations for involving his demon, he had vouched for Danielle’s safety. That was good enough for her. He was keeping his end of their bargain, and she would keep hers. For Danielle.
However, it was also clear that if she were to somehow destroy the soul-eating monster while keeping her own messed up life from falling apart at the seams, she would need to develop a more advanced balancing act.
That thought kept her occupied well after mass. She smiled at Eric’s side, as a good wife did when her husband socialised. Normally it was her habit to participate in these conversations, but the respectable ladies who addressed her each came up with reasons excusing her timidity today, and she went with the most plausible one. Her face looked normal enough not to arouse suspicion and her excessive make-up was soon attributed to a sickly complexion. Small wonder, the ladies decided, after the shocking events at the store.
Mercedes let the stream of insincere gossip pass her by like so much water down the river. Eric fervently elaborated his premeditated explanations of how the police had concluded that the dead man on their doorstep was the result of a tragic accident. His audience of notables hung on his every word as he added some salesman’s panache to the story. Her presence was ignored, so she fixed her smile and stared into the distance.
In her mind she measured the real cause of the student’s demise as she would measure a bodice or a skirt. Each piece of information was like a panel of cloth that needed to come together according to a design she wasn’t familiar with. Turning each panel this way and that in her mind’s eye, she tried to determine which fit would get her the desired result.
Waiting for the monster to come to her would not stop it striking elsewhere. She detested being cast as bait, but not only out of pride. Her own safety was one thing, but sitting still also risked that of Danielle, Antoine, and everyone else. The sooner she had the monster in her sight, the sooner she might find out how she was supposed to stop it. So if ‘bait’ was her appointed role, she had better dangle it well.
Lost in thought on how to accomplish this, she barely noticed when Eric’s hand to her back motioned her to start walking. It was not before crossing two streets that she realised they were not heading back to rue de Richelieu.
“Eric, where are we going?”
He patted her hand. “I made you a promise, ma mie, and I always keep my promises.”
Unsure what promise he was talking about, Mercedes tensed. She hurried to keep up with Eric’s long strides, alert for sudden surprises and passing fiacres. Doctor Hubert’s practice was not far from here. If that fact featured in Eric’s afternoon plans, she would throw out what trust remained between them and bolt.
However, after a brisk walk through the winding streets of the second arrondissement, they emerged not on the doorstep of their physician, but on a grand, straight street that was lined with trees and carts alike. Closed carriages and cabriolets drove by in both directions, while the gentry of Paris paraded the sidewalks to show off their finest clothes in the sunny autumn weather. To either side, several restaurants offered customers a delicious variety of dishes.
“Boulevard des Italiens, as promised,” said Eric. “I was thinking that after last night we should have a proper roast, and according to Carmen, the Café Anglais serves the best to be had in Paris.”
Of course. Sunday luncheon. Food wasn’t a priority for her at the moment, but she let Eric lead her as he pleased. Her compliance passed well for the obedience he demanded of her, and in the meantime she could let her thoughts wander without her feet tripping.
In her ponderings she had remembered something her father had taught her when she was young, something about mice and mousetraps. They worked best, he had said, when placed where the mice were bound to be. She had asked him how one could foretell the future, and he had laughed his deep, warm laugh. Mice and men were both creatures of habit, he told her. All you needed to find them, was to find out where they left their droppings.
Her thoughts were interrupted by their arrival at a busy café which declared itself as ‘Café Anglais’. Judging by the noise emerging every time the doors opened, Eric hadn’t been the only one with the luminous idea to enjoy a meal here. Still, the instant they stopped before its façade, a waiter in a crisp garçon outfit stepped out and invited them to a table that was about to become available.
Eric hesitated. A deep frown creased his brow. “I know I promised you, ma mie, but it is crowded inside.” He glared at the garçon. “Very crowded. Perhaps we should go elsewhere.”
“Every place will be busy at this time. At least we are assured of a table here,” said Mercedes, much to the garçon’s delight.
“The commotion cannot be good for you,” Eric protested.
“Whether it is or not, there will be plenty of people to see us. That was the whole point of going out, as I understand.”
Eric made a face of one torn between two loyalties, but then gestured to the garçon to show them in.
The inside of the café was packed. Conversations blended from table to table and people spoke loudly to make themselves heard to their companions. Following the directions of the garçon, Mercedes found that squeezing her dress through the spaces between tables and patrons took some effort.
“Are you sure you will be comfortable here?” Eric asked as they sat down at a small, round table with barely enough space for two chairs and a big skirt.
“Yes. A change of scenery is often wholesome.” Although it was hard to hear her own thoughts over this noise, never mind her voice. Still Eric seemed to have heard her.
“Some proper food will do you good, too, ma mie. Anything to help you.”
Mercedes bit her tongue until he had ordered wine, entrées and a main course for them both. When the garçon moved to another table, she caught Eric’s gaze. The smile he had put on for the waiter wavered.
“What happened last night?” she demanded. “All week you have thought the worst of me and treated me like a leper, yet since you returned from Carmen’s, you are as gallant and chivalrous as you are to Monsieur Leclerc.”
The bright red of his blush stood out plainly against his pale skin. “What I did was because Doctor Hubert prescribed strict discipline to suppress your...” He nudged her to complete his sentence. “But seeing as you have accepted your condition and made efforts to improve, I felt a little leniency was justified.” He cleared his throat. “A reward, as it were.”
“A reward.” The inside of her mouth contracted like she had bitten into a lemon. “Of course. How could I fail to see that.” In a flash she recalled her mother bestowing on her young self the first sign of affection in months – a single caress of her cheek – as a reward for her diligent prayers. It hadn’t felt any better then than it did now.
“It is not your fault you are still a little distracted,” Eric’s professionally benevolent tone brought her back to the present. “Please, enjoy this afternoon. If all goes
well, you might be working again in a week or two, and all will be back to normal.”
“Will it? Will it really? Or will you continue to look over my shoulder and send the servants to spy on me whenever I go out alone?”
His face grew tense. “Let’s not get ahead of the situation, ma mie. We will cross that bridge when we come to it.”
The garçon arrived with the wine. Eric made a show of tasting it before approving, and waited solemnly for two glasses to be poured. He was playing for time, but Mercedes had already decided to preserve her calm and drop the subject. She put her glass to her lips. Hopefully this wine would provide at least a fraction of the comfort that the bottle of port had.
Their table rocked when someone trying to pass bumped into it. “Oh, excusez-moi, monsieur, madame,” said the young man responsible.
“Mind where you’re going,” Eric barked, but stopped abruptly when the young man’s face lit up.
“Uncle Eric! What a joy to see you here. And you, Aunt Mercedes.” He hastened to take off his hat, revealing a head full of curls that was the same distinctive red colour as Eric’s and Carmen’s.
“Why, Georges, what a coincidence,” Mercedes said with genuine happiness. “You are well, I trust?”
Before the young man could answer, Eric cut in. “I hadn’t thought you would be up and about after last night. The party was still in full swing when I left.”
“Oh, I rarely get involved in my mother’s soirées, uncle.” Despite his mother’s insistence that this made him a killjoy, Georges grinned like someone who was used to being so. “I show my face a few times out of politeness, but after most guests are well drunk, I usually go to a friend’s house to spend the night so I might get some actual sleep. I won’t let my studies suffer just because she is having company over.”
“A cunning solution. Commendable.” Mercedes toasted him. That explained why Carmen had wanted to bring students to suit her son’s taste, disregarding the fact that Georges’ interest in the human body, regardless of gender, seemed to be limited to his study of medicine. She was pleased to hear he had found a way around his mother’s expectations.
Georges returned her toast with a nod of his head. “I must confess I didn’t see you last night, Aunt Mercedes. Was I remiss or were you not in attendance?”
Eric straightened in his seat, but Mercedes assured him that a headache was the reason she stayed home. A sufficiently harmless excuse that Eric saw no need to correct. He leaned back again, while Georges hummed in agreement.
“Oh, yes, headaches are most unfortunate spoilsports. If I may be so bold, you should ask Madame Esmeralda for one of her powders.”
“Who?” began Eric, but Georges pretended he hadn’t heard and kept addressing Mercedes, who had gone so white that her make-up only enhanced her pallor.
“Forgive me, aunt,” he said quickly. “I saw you and your maid in rue Gervais Laurent the other day, and I assumed— Please, take slow, deep breaths and focus on me. Yes, that’s it.”
Mercedes fixed her gaze on the most remarkable of Georges’ freckles and took two slow breaths while he counted. Soon her floating head reattached itself to her body and the noise which had faded from her ears came back at full strength.
“Thank you,” she said. “You will make a good doctor one day.”
The young man’s face went pink. “Then Madame Esmeralda will be the one to thank for that.” He wrung his hands in contrition. “I know of her reputation, aunt, but please believe me that I only ever go there to buy special books for my study that I can’t get anywhere else. Or to get those powders for my friends when they have been drinking too much again. I never go for the other stuff.” His eyes widened in shock. “Of course I wouldn’t condemn people who do.”
“Nor would I,” she replied. Georges looked visibly relieved. Eric, on the other hand, was getting more restless by the moment.
“Mercedes, what is this about?” he growled.
“Nothing. That personal errand,” she said with a dismissive wave to him and a polite smile to Georges. “I apologise for not greeting you. I confess I was in hurry that day, and I never recognised you.”
“Understandable. I took no offence.” He gave her a nervous smirk. “I didn’t mean to cause offense, either, aunt.”
“None taken, my dear,” Mercedes replied before Eric could say anything to the contrary.
With the most providential timing, the garçon chose that exact moment to serve their entrées.
“I will leave you to your meal, then. My friends are waiting for me in the back, anyway,” Georges said and nodded his farewell. “Bon appetit, et au revoir.”
Eric all but stared him away. Mercedes, for her part, was particularly interested in the sliced veal, as if an expensive dish could negate the inevitable barrage of questions about to be unleashed on her.
“So that is how she knew,” Eric muttered.
Mercedes looked up from her fork, surprised. “Who knew?”
“Carmen. She said she suspected where you had gone to buy... the thing, but she wouldn’t reveal her source. I suppose that mystery has just been solved.” He sounded pleasant, but the furrow in his forehead was less so. “You said Carmen had recommended that shop to you.”
“I said I thought it was her,” Mercedes snapped back. “Might well have been someone else. Maybe even Georges, since he is clearly familiar with the place.”
Eric glared at her over the edge of his glass.
“What more should I say? There is nothing I can add to what Amélie must have mentioned.”
“Amélie told me very little.”
“Not surprising, since there was little to tell.”
“Well, maybe I should ask Georges, instead.”
Mercedes scoffed, apparently with derision but frankly because she feared the consequence if Eric decided to do just that. Headache powders were one thing, but now he knew she had visited a shop selling natural medicine, the accusations Gagnon would heap on her when Eric let the old woman go gained credibility fast.
She finished the veal without tasting much of it. Eric didn’t speak a word until the main course of roasted pork with mustard was served. They ate in uncomfortable silence while around them, the clamour of the restaurant thundered on.
With Eric unwilling to converse, Mercedes returned her attention to her earlier thoughts of mice and mousetraps. Given that she was in a highly combustible situation consisting of two demons as well as Eric and Gagnon, she had to reduce the number of threats as soon as possible. Find the droppings and you find the mice, according to her father. In hindsight she knew he had spoken of dirty money earned through criminal activities, but she found the analogy all the more fitting for it.
Because the monster left droppings, didn’t it? The ‘droppers’ that kept turning up were the remnants of the monster’s meal. Follow the bodies and she would find the monster. Was there a particular spot where more droppers had been found than elsewhere in the city? If her father was right, such a place was likely to receive another visit.
She leaned back to allow the garçon to remove her empty plate. Across the table, Eric asked for the bill.
Where to get that information? The newspapers published every mysterious death they knew of, but they were just as prone to get things wrong. If so, they wouldn’t publish their mistakes. A more reliable source was the police, but they would never share their records with a curious woman.
Although one policeman might.
Inspecteur Baudoin had been so kind to offer his help. A perfect opportunity. She would not be asking for the kind of help he had intended, but she had a feeling he would be eager to accommodate whatever request she made. Especially if it came in a letter that was hand-delivered by a fiacre on an otherwise routine Sunday evening.
Chapter XVII
By nightfall, the coolness of his haven had calmed his sentiments and sharpened his focus. The silhouette of the city had etched itself in the grey fog, the streets he passed through – in every sens
e of the word – were mere shadows, easily dismissed. This pleased him. Raising himself to the threshold as often as recent circumstances had forced him to do, was more than mildly uncomfortable. To have an accomplice of sorts monitoring that level on his behalf was a relief. Now he could turn his attention to searching the darker plains that would not fight his presence so.
He leaned against a wall, which to him was a wall only because he chose it to be. The woman lay not far from here, sometimes asleep and sometimes not; a routine of ambivalent vigilance. He kept his senses primed for her distress call, but at the same time focused outward for any sign of disturbance in case she would not or could not detect the other in her sleep. The physical limits of her body undermined her already shaky reliability. Worrisome that he had failed to account for this.
Worrisome, too, that he was reduced to relying on another. He had always hunted alone, never dependent on outsiders to catch his prey. This forced exception to his habit annoyed him.
What weakness was this that he could not see the other devourer? He had caught glimpses, trails, but any direct call rang in his own soul as well, distorting the inevitable reply of the other.
Yet his cane had connected when they first fought. This meant he could manipulate the other. Grab his prey and sink his claws into it.
Provided he actually caught the other. Therein lay the difficulty. If the woman made contact with it, his resulting response had to be instant and accurately aimed. Anything less would lose him his catch yet again.—
— a night; an alley; a trap ready to be sprung. Footsteps; shouts; orders. Too late! Gone. The jailbird had fled again!—
‘Leave me be,’ he growled as he cleared the unwanted memory from his mind, careful to retain his composure despite the bile in his mouth. Always that same image, that same street, the same certainty followed by the same disillusion. Testimony of his past mistakes and his present fallibility. A warning, too.
The capture of his current prey was by no means certain. The odds were stacked against him, although he suspected the other could no more detect him than he it. A minor advantage in his favour, but only beneficial if he indeed managed to keep one step ahead.