Inspector Turcotte emerged from the kitchen, guiding a bird of paradise, who had lost the bottom half of her costume. As they passed, Turcotte winked at Picard and tossed him a blue and white feather from his pocket, out of which numerous other feathers peeked.
The rooster had begun snoring on the floor, his bill rattling with each exhalation. Between snores, faint clucking noises were heard from within his mask, as if he were rehearsing for the dawn.
Of the whores left in the ballroom, none were so great any longer. The great ones had retired earlier, as befitting their stature. Those left at the ball now were perhaps the real whores. Their jewelry was fake; they were covered with little mirrors of glass, which did not sparkle with the intensity of La Païva’s gems, and they were not ones to depart a party before dawn; consequently all they were left with were three tired policemen and an unconscious rooster. Lescadre had donned a musketeer’s hat and was attending to Spring, who had awakened with a terrible thirst. Lescadre poured champagne into her extended glass. Beside her the rooster continued to snore and squawk softly.
Picard walked through the debris, stopping at the refreshment table to clean up a few dainty sandwiches, swallowing a half-dozen of them quickly. He lifted his mask, placing it on top of his head. A movement at the top of the grand staircase caught his eye. Duval the Humble Priest appeared, two servants behind him, carrying Miss Carter in her hammock. Her hair was dripping wet and her Southern gown was askew. “Please see that Miss Carter is put into a carriage directly,” called Duval, coming down the stairs behind them. “She’s had a profound religious experience.”
Duval spied Picard and came toward him. “My dear Inspector... how are you making out with your investigation?”
Picard turned toward the champagne table, not wishing to speak of his work, but Duval babbled on: “You’re undoubtedly aware of the latest rumor going around Paris about Lazare.”
“His wife bathes in champagne.”
“Goat’s milk, my dear fellow, I have it on unassailable authority. Will you allow me to give you a lift? I have a carriage waiting.”
“I must wake the Count.” The courtyard was clearly visible now in the first grey light before dawn. Picard shook the snoring rooster.
“Yes, yes, I’m ready.” The rooster rose slowly and stretched his wings, as Picard and Duval helped him to his feet. “Thank you so much. Might I beg your assistance but a few more steps, to the courtyard, please.”
They walked down the hall and out, into the courtyard. The rooster shook his comb, bending his head shyly. “I don’t feel in the mood for a proper cock-a-doodle.”
“Then come with us,” said the Humble Priest.
“If it’s no intrusion... how kind of you.” The rooster followed them to Duval’s carriage. Duval called to the driver. “Do you know the Hôtel St. Claude?”
The driver lowered his looped whip handle to the door latch and lifted it for the two men and the large barnyard bird.
“A delightful party, my dear Count,” said Duval, fingering his rosaries.
“I’m so glad you could come,” said the rooster, lighting a slender cigar and putting it to his beak.
Picard stared out the window; the luxurious houses of St. Honoré slipped by slowly.
“I should have brought Spring along,” said the rooster. “This is the sort of ride she likes.”
“You can find Spring on any street corner in Paris, Count.”
“Quite right, dear boy. One forgets...” The rooster turned to the window. On the rue de Rivoli, a streetwalker graced the intersection, dressed in black, wearing a high-crowned hat bound with red ribbon.
“Stop the carriage,” said the rooster to the cabman, and stepped down as the carriage came to a halt beside the young woman. The rooster stumbled clumsily but was able to regain his balance and give a bow to the lady, his tail feathers raised in the air. “Can we be of assistance, mademoiselle?”
The whore had seen many things on the rue de Rivoli before; but her startled expression indicated that this was the first time she’d seen a six-foot rooster emerge from a carriage shortly before sunrise.
“Don’t be alarmed, mademoiselle,” said the rooster. “We’re only out cock-a-doodling, or preparing to cock-a-doodle, I should say, if we find the proper location. Could you perhaps recommend a suitable site for some enthusiastic crowing?” The rooster scraped completely to the ground, affording her a view of his dangling red crown.
“I can’t take you into my room like that,” she said, pointing at his feather suit.
“I understand perfectly; perhaps we might walk then, to the riverbank?” He extended his wing and she took it. He waved the other wing at Duval and Picard. “Thank you, gentlemen. Please visit me again...”
The driver continued onto St. Antoine. Duval turned to Picard. “Your man Lazare—did you know he operated in Paris once before? At least that’s the rumor I’ve heard.” The carriage turned onto the boulevard Beaumarchais.
“How do you suddenly know so much about Lazare?”
“One hears so many stories these days—yes, here we are.” The carriage stopped and they stepped down, onto the rue St. Claude. “It was here, Inspector...” Duval pointed to the small and darkened windows of the Hôtel St. Claude. “The walls are filled with secret passageways. Do you recall the Affair of the Diamond Necklace?”
“I’m not familiar...”
“Inspector, surely you’re a historian of crime. A hundred years ago the most famous diamond necklace in the world, destined for the neck of Marie Antoinette, was pinched by the man who lived here, a man certain misty-minded Parisians claim has once again returned to Paris.”
“You mean Lazare? That’s preposterous.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Duval entered the hotel hallway and they walked along it to the staircase. At the foot of the stairs was a statue, a mock copy of an Egyptian pharaoh, holding a lighted gas lamp in his hand. “But of course, Inspector, rumor has it that we’re not dealing with an ordinary man, that in fact we’re witnessing the game of a man who’s discovered the secret of making gold, of causing diamonds to grow bigger, and—” Duval peered up the stairs. “—prolonging life. Absurd, the things people will fall for.”
Picard pointed to the plaster pharaoh’s head. “It’s all done with masks, Duval.”
“Yes, masks and mirrors, so they say. He called himself Grand Cophat of the Masonic Order and Lord of the Egyptian Rite.” They turned and walked back down the hallway, to the street, and climbed again into their carriage. “His name was Count Alessandro di Cagliostro.”
The palaces of the Right Bank were receiving the first rays of dawn. Picard stepped from Duval’s carriage, onto the Pont St. Michel. He paused for a moment on the edge of the bridge; from upriver he could hear the faint crowing of a rooster.
Duval leaned his head out the window. “The Count has welcomed the dawn.”
Picard turned toward the Prefecture, as Duval’s voice called after him: “There’s another ball tonight at Madame Valanne’s, Inspector! Will we meet there?”
“I’ve had enough of grand balls.”
“Nonsense, Inspector. Eat, drink, and be merry...”
The murmuring river completed the ancient phrase, whispering with the voice of his enemy—Because tomorrow you die—and again Picard felt himself on the edge of piercing the mirror’s secret. He wanted to shatter the jewel of morning, push through to nature’s crystalline depths, but he was mortally bound, was woven into the fabric of the sunrise in such a way that he could not escape. And yet he felt that his life depended on penetrating this veil, that he had to gain objectivity—on another star, on some distant point in space, somewhere—in order to outwit the magician who was out to kill him.
He crossed the Pont St. Michel, going toward the Prefecture, where facts prevailed, where the veils of thieves and swindlers were torn aside daily; the good solid walls gave him back his sense of solidarity. Here is my realm, here where I can touch, question, navigate with certain
ty and bring matters to their logical conclusion. I cannot hope to get behind the secret of the morning, cannot enter the mirror of a glistening river. Such things are for charlatans like Lazare, who use them to mystify others. Whoever enters the mirror is a fool, for he will surely lose his way there. A bit of incense, a turbaned Hindoo, and the doorway to folly is complete. But I am not taken in. This—he knocked on the door of the official records room—this is the only reality.
A sleepy-eyed night clerk admitted him. The records room was musty and stale with the smell of slowly decaying pages, shelf after shelf of them, bound in large leather cases. He scanned the rows, and selected the volume he wanted.
The cases were old, solved, unsolved, having one thing in common—all the participants, criminals and inspectors alike, were now dead. The traitor Chevalier de Rohan, the murderess Madame de Brinvilliers, the elderly musketeer de Creil, who uttered hunting cries in order to disrupt theatrical performances he disliked. Control of the lottery, inspection of the drains, a certain Venetian ambassador and a young actor he admired, their meetings, their quarrel, a cardinal observed entering a brothel where his stay is scrupulously timed; record of search made by Commissioner Chenon, August 23, 1785, by order of the King:
“At seven o’clock in the morning, accompanied by Police Inspector de Brugniéres, we went to the rue St. Claude de Marais, to a house called the Hôtel St. Claude, where, having mounted to the first floor and entered an apartment, we found the said Cagliostro in the bedchamber with his wife, Séraphine Feliciani, age twenty-eight.”
Cagliostro confined for stealing “the most beautiful diamond necklace in the world,” and eventually released, the case against him collapsing and his property returned— large diamond rings, two canes adorned with diamonds, a diamond garter, a ruby cane, diamond pendants and buckles, pearls, garnets, gold boxes, a Chinese inkwell ornamented with gold, gold teaspoons and scissors, and “divers papers.” An implicated young woman is branded by the outraged Crown—a fleur-de-lys burned in each of her shoulders.
Picard closed the file and walked down the long echoing hallway. Lazare has copied Cagliostro’s style. What worked before can work again. Except that tonight, Lazare, you are out of work for good.
* * *
He breakfasted near the Prefecture, eating slowly, reading the newspaper account of Count Cherubini’s ball. It was inaccurate, but the young reporter was undoubtedly dazzled by mirrors. As were we all.
Picard checked his pocket watch; the library would soon be opening. He left the café and walked slowly across the Pont des Arts, toward the Quarter. The smells from the bakery shops filled the streets. He passed his ramshackle house and walked on toward St. Germain, thinking of Lazare—a puny fellow, nothing to him at all. Crush his head in my bare hands.
At the rue Bonaparte he turned left, heading for St. Sulpice, which was now bathed in sunlight. The fountain at the center of the square was filled with leaves and rain water, and the sparkling water winked at him, its countless little mirrors promising secrets, if he would look more deeply, look more deeply, dear Inspector, and we will tell you all.
He hesitated at the edge of the fountain, tempted by the dazzling surface, but afraid of its allurement, for already he felt a strange tug inside him, as if there were a fisherman in the depths of the fountain, a fisherman whose mysterious hook had caught his life-force and was pulling on it. His body quivered, fighting the hook. You’re undergoing Grand Bewitchment, said his opponent’s wife softly. He wrenched away from the fountain’s edge and walked quietly across the square, toward the library, entered, inquired of the librarian for any material “on a man named Cagliostro.”
She returned with a single volume of letters and diary excerpts compiled by a Dutchman named Van Wamelen, who’d fallen under Cagliostro’s spell. The slim little book had been privately printed, done on fine paper and handsomely bound, a token of Van Wamelen’s devotion, “to the great master.”
Picard carried the book to a table by the window and began reading about the fabulous Grand Cophat of the Masonic Order, Lord of the Egyptian Rite, a sinister and clever imposter who, a hundred years ago, had lied and bluffed his way into the richest salons in Europe. Sorcerer, soothsayer, magician, prophet, gold maker, his rooms at the Hôtel St. Claude had attracted such notable Parisians as General de Labarthe; the General’s letters were filled with loyal sentiments toward Cagliostro: “No one’s hands are cleaner... Mademoiselle Augeard received an elixir from him which caused all her ills to disappear.”
Picard went slowly through the praises sung by the noble citizens who had adored Count Cagliostro. They’d all received the elixir of immortality, but were, nonetheless, now among the ranks of the glorious dead, Cagliostro included. Of course, there had sprung up a nitwitted story at the time of his death, that his body had never been seen by anyone but the Pope, who’d had him strangled. “And,” wrote Madame Hunziker, “his grave has in fact never been found.”
As for Madame Cagliostro, the Duke of Mantinot’s diary described her as “more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen. All of Paris draws its breath when she passes on the street...”
Picard turned the page and fell into a crevice, into a crack in reality’s glass, into the eyes and smile of Madame Cagliostro, whose face was reproduced upon the page. She was the living image of Renée Lazare.
With the morning sun still on him, he sat in the Luxembourg Gardens, looking down toward the pony carts. The children were taking their rides around the park, dressed in their wool hats and mittens. Directly in front of him three other children were inventing an endless game with a wall, a piece of rope, and a sandpile below. The girl seemed to be the prize in a struggle between the two boys, but when she asserted herself too much she was shoved off the wall into the sand. Her tears did not last long; she enjoyed the game too much to remain hurt.
His own childhood had been spent in this park, and he understood its enchantments, knew that this low wall before him up which the children scrambled was the wall of a castle, or the Great Wall of China. One of the young boys now strode along the top, in high boots and a fleece-lined jacket. He was King, had conquered the sandpile, the girl, and the other boy, who was heavier and slower.
The girl begged to be hauled up to him by his rope, but he ignored her, staring out over the sprawling garden, his vast domain.
He is like Lazare; fast and arrogant. And I am like this other young lad, slow-moving and bear-like. The heavy boy is gentle with the girl, considerate of her needs. Ah, he loves her, of course.
Picard closed his eyes; Renée Lazare and Madame Cagliostro swam before him, two images that kept becoming one beautiful and incredible female.
Am I to believe that Lazare’s elixir of immortality works?
The cries of the young girl brought his eyes open. She’d been tied to a tree. The two boys danced around her, and she hung over the rope, moaning and begging for mercy, which only the heavy boy seemed willing to extend her. His companion in the high boots marched majestically around the captive, scorning her with his eyes.
Picard stood, not wishing to watch any more of the sacrifice, for it had too much the quality of memory, as if he were watching a scene from his own childhood. Though no photograph existed, no little etching of his youthful countenance preserved, he imagined it to be much like this heavyset melancholy boy before him, indeed the child seemed to be himself, forty years ago. I left a piece of my spirit in these gardens, and this lad has taken it, the slow tenderness of my heart.
The boy looked up at Picard, their eyes meeting, and Picard dismissed the exquisite sense that he was seeing himself, that he’d traveled back through time to watch himself. I’m tired, and the weary mind is close to the dreaming mind.
Nonetheless, he gave the fat boy a salute, which the boy answered with quick affection and a shy smile whose gentle radiance reinforced the feeling of time turned inside out, of déjà vu, that you and I are one, little bandit, that past, present, and future meet in the morning gard
en, for purposes known only to the genie.
He felt the boy’s eyes still on him as he turned and went along the path. I could tell him that his gentle heart will lead him into one beguilement after another, but he wouldn’t understand. His friend, the arrogant one in high boots, he understands. His heart is selfishly his own and will be all his life, and he’ll succeed, with politics, women, whatever he turns to.
But what does the genie mean to tell me? Has my heart fallen into some dangerous attraction once again? Is arrogant Lazare bound to succeed against me?
He left the park. He needed sleep. The bread girls were carrying their baskets toward the restaurants and cafés of St. Germain. He shuffled along; a bread girl walked ahead of him, not beautiful, but one of those women who, no matter what they wear, seem to be wearing bedclothes. He suppressed a desire to follow her the length of St. Germain, instead made his way through the streets surrounding the Collège de France, and turned onto St. Jean de Latran, stopping at a large house which smelled of every imaginable filth.
The steps of the wretched cloister were twisted in narrow loops, each landing illuminated by a small broken window. He climbed slowly up the stairs, past the doors of the raucous men and women who lived there—street performers mostly, fire-eaters, sword-swallowers. Their doors were open, their voices filling the halls. The door he sought, however, was tightly closed. He laid his knuckles on it lightly.
He waited, hearing nothing from within, but presently the door opened silently, and an intersection of blackness prevailed at the doorjamb. At belt level a smooth knife blade glistened and then folded itself backward soundlessly.
“Come in, Paul.” Albert, the gentle lean-boned thief, smiled and opened the door all the way.
Picard entered the thief’s nest, a single room in which there were only two objects—a pile of straw and a nightingale.
“I have to kill someone, before he kills me.”
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