Lesage got to his feet and, with one of his characteristic, slightly comical bows, he turned to her. ‘Your message has been delivered, madame.’
Madame Filastre was coughing and waving the smoke away from her face. ‘Ugh. What is that stench, Monsieur du Coeuret?’
‘There are always side effects, as you well know, madame.’
‘What happens now?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Well. We wait.’
‘And we will receive an answer?’
‘Ah, yes. Or maybe a sign of some sort. I shall be vigilant for it, and you should be, too. Perhaps it will be you who receives the sign. These matters are extremely hard to predict and the information sometimes comes from unlikely sources.’
This didn’t sound very persuasive. ‘But how long will it take?’ she asked.
Lesage straightened his wig. ‘Who knows? Probably only one day, two days. Not long. The ways of such things are really quite mysterious, madame – even to me.’
Charlotte felt sick to imagine a message written in her own hand being cast into the underworld. She peered into the coals in the grate, which had, by this time, returned to their slumber.
‘Don’t worry,’ Lesage said, as if reading her thoughts, ‘I’m certain we will find your son.’
22
The following afternoon, Catherine ushered Lesage into the dim pavilion at the rear of her property in Rue Beauregard. The room was warm and its air was thick with her musky perfume, gamey as a vixen’s den. Lesage was most impatient to know whether she had discovered anything about Nicolas’s whereabouts, or ways to unhex him, but he knew better than to hurry her. Catherine Monvoisin was a woman of strict and meticulous formalities and it was fruitless and unwise to expect otherwise; things would happen in her own good time. Nothing would be revealed until she had fussed herself into a comfortable position.
The heavily curtained consulting room was unaltered since he last visited. A wooden statue of the suffering, crucified Christ stood on a side table, there were piles of books and papers on the carpeted floor and a water-stained map of the heavens pinned to one wall. Bundles of dried lavender, a variety of candles, a low table where she did her palm readings. A locked trunk contained her more dangerous substances – vials of vitriol and her forbidden black books. He averted his gaze from the compact stove in the corner.
Finally, when they were seated and she had settled herself, Lesage could bear it no longer. ‘So? Tell me, Catherine. Have you found a way to unwitch me?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘I searched all my books but have found nothing so far. I will be seeing La Trianon later this morning and I expect she will know something of these charms. Don’t worry, Adam. I will free you. Stall Madame Picot for as long as you can and we’ll think of a solution.’
‘Did you look in all the papers you have? The Enchiridion must have something. What about the other books? I cannot go back, Catherine.’
She pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘Do you not trust me, Adam?’
‘It’s Lesage, remember,’ he hissed. ‘And yes, of course I trust you. I just . . .’
‘What, then?’
He tried to smile, to compose himself. He wiped away his tears. How shameful it was to weep in such a manner in front of a woman. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine. I’m sorry. It’s been a terrible time.’
‘I know. In any case, I’m not sure why you are so afraid of a woman like that. I paid a visit to Madame Picot.’
‘What? I told you not to. Really, Catherine, I –’
‘Calm down, man. She didn’t know who I was and it was all very friendly. She’s a peasant. Old woman’s magic, probably knows a cure or two for the ague. I’m surprised a man like you is so afraid of her. She didn’t frighten me in the least.’
‘I told you, Catherine: I’ve seen what she can do. The wolf . . .’
‘Bah! If her magic is as great as you say, then why could she not do something to find her beloved son? Make him come back?’
It was a good question, one Lesage had already asked himself over the past few days, and he responded with the only conclusion he’d been able to draw. ‘Magic cannot accomplish everything we want, as you well know. Some things are God’s will and that’s all there is to it. Life, death. There are forces that may never be harnessed.’
Catherine leaned back in her chair. ‘I think we can find this boy and bring him back here.’
‘And then?’
‘Then we tell her that we’ll kill the boy if she doesn’t release you immediately.’
Lesage groaned. Why did women always complicate things? ‘But what if she doesn’t?’
‘Oh, I think she will.’
‘I would die before going back, Catherine. Honestly. I would drink poison myself.’
Catherine leaned forward and patted his knee. ‘No need to be so dramatic. We’ll find a way, I promise.’ She sat back with a terse smile on her face. ‘But you’ll be pleased to know that I did hear something of a fellow who might be involved in the trade of children.’
‘Monsieur Horst?’
‘I don’t know if that’s his name, but he and his assistant bring orphans to Paris and deposit them somewhere outside the city while they wait to sell them on. Perhaps they trade with one of those brutes like de Rais – who knows? Hopefully the woman’s son has not yet been passed along the chain.’
Lesage shuddered at consideration of the terrifying Gilles de Rais and the hundreds of children he had slaughtered in the years after serving alongside Jeanne of Orléans. Although already long dead when Lesage was a boy, his father would threaten to sell him and his brother to such a monster if they didn’t do as they were told. You go into his castle, his father would taunt, but you never come out. He kills you and then he fucks you in every hole he can find – and then he makes new holes with his halberd . . .
Catherine went on. ‘The man who arranges to sell the orphans in Paris is called Willem. A Norman, one of your countrymen. He could know something of the boy’s whereabouts – if he’s alive. You can find him at La Pomme de Pin in Rue de la Cité. Go there tonight and buy him a cup or two of wine and I’m sure he’ll tell you what he knows.’
Lesage pondered this information. What a nightmare this was all proving to be. Freed only to be enslaved again. ‘Should I tell Madame Picot?’ he asked. ‘After all, I’m only useful to her while her son is missing.’
Catherine was silent for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Yes. Tell her. What’s the harm? You haven’t freed the boy yet, so you’re still useful to her. Keep stalling her while we figure out exactly what to do. Get the boy, bring him to me.’
It seemed as wise a course of action as any, and it was better than nothing. Lesage moved to get to his feet, but Catherine motioned for him to stay where he was. From the house she fetched a bottle of ale. She poured them each a glass and sat back, as if toasting a bargain concluded to their mutual satisfaction. ‘Did I tell you about Madame Aubervilles? My God . . .’
Distracted, Lesage shook his head. Catherine didn’t quite seem to understand that he had been in prison and heard almost nothing of the happenings in Paris. She rattled off any number of scandals, revelling in her tales of infidelity and murder. Dukes and duchesses trying to kill one another, someone’s lady-in-waiting who had three abortions in a single year, the baker near her on Rue Saint-Étienne who couldn’t get it up. Lesage suspected that Catherine’s love of gossip had, in fact, been the impetus for her career in magic and fortune telling. After all, what better way to encourage all manner of people to reveal their deepest secrets and desires? What Catherine Monvoisin and her rivals really traded in, of course, was trust – which led to the sharing of intimacies. How many times had he watched her farewell some lady of the court who was visibly distressed after revealing a terrible family secret, a secret that – often accompanied by gales of laughter – would promptly be shared with him?
He sipped his warm ale and smiled or nodded when it was required.
‘You know,’ Catherine said, ‘sometimes I have terrible moments of doubt about my own powers and I rush to Bonne-Nouvelle and ask the Lord for guidance. I light a candle and I pray and eventually the feelings go away. None of us know what we are truly capable of. Our hearts are quite mysterious even to ourselves, aren’t they?’
Lesage glanced down at his palm. Spitefully, he thought again of the treasure map tucked away in the purse next to his heart. Sometimes, like now, he detected its reassuring warmth, as if it were a promise merely waiting to be fulfilled.
‘Don’t fret,’ said Catherine, placing a hand on his knee. ‘I’m sure we can find a solution to your problem with this damned Picot woman and, soon enough, we will be more powerful than ever before. And richer. Imagine it, Adam. We are thriving here as never before. They cannot get enough of our services. Later today there will be so many people here seeking our assistance. People from court, men and women from all across Europe. Last week a woman came all the way from Florence to see me about a problem she was having with her lover. There are people of great quality waiting to get in. Sometimes there are so many clients waiting that we employ musicians to entertain them while they wait. It’s like a festival here in summer. Everyone comes to us now. And when they hear you have returned to Paris, well . . .’
She went on with her grand plans for their future together. Astrological charts, charms for effecting marriages (always his forte, admittedly), the rates they could charge. Perhaps they could even move to larger premises? She got up from her chair and flung open the curtains. A knife-strike of daylight pierced the room. Motes of dust fussed about angrily in the air like tiny creatures roused from their slumber. Lesage’s attention wandered. Sparrows twittered in the tree outside and a mule brayed on the street somewhere beyond the walls. So much had happened, so little had changed. It was as if he had never left.
Back in her tiny room, Lesage relayed this information concerning her son to Madame Picot.
‘And this Willem person knows where Nicolas is?’ she asked.
‘He might. Yes.’
She pondered this for a moment. ‘And the Devil told you this?’
He couldn’t stifle a chuckle. ‘Well, you know what the Germans say – where the Devil cannot go, he sends an old woman.’
She gathered up her shawl. ‘Then I will come with you to meet this fellow.’
Alarmed, Lesage moved towards her. ‘No, madame. That won’t be necessary. It’s probably best if I meet with him alone. These sorts of men are often no better than villains themselves. Dangerous. Very dangerous. You will be much safer here, I think. Such taverns are the drinking houses of rogues. They are not fit for women.’
‘Nowhere, it seems, is fit for women, monsieur.’
‘But what if something were to happen to you?’
She waved away his protest. ‘I appreciate your concern, monsieur, but much has already happened to me in recent days.’
Why would she not listen? Lesage opened his mouth to speak, but managed to quell the urge to tell her that his anxieties were not for her wellbeing but, rather, for what her continuing good health meant for his own; if he had a choice he would poison her without delay.
They walked along Rue Saint-Denis towards the river, past the cemetery, then cut through to Rue des Lavandières so as not to venture too near the Conciergerie – about which he was fearful and superstitious. Carts and hubbub, the hoarse cries of the fishwives and vinegar girls, battalions of pigeons parading about in the dirt. Madame Picot walked beside him, gazing around at the city’s buildings and people. Lesage recalled his first trip to Paris all those years ago, and in the terror and amazement in her eyes he recognised his younger self.
He was young, perhaps seventeen years old, when he first came here with his father, who had been born and grown up in nearby Rue Saint-Martin. How provincial he had felt when his father pointed out the places he knew: the huge bridge with the muddle of houses across its length; La Place de l’Estrapade, where boys rented out lanterns to guide visitors through the labyrinth of the university quarter; the stinking tanning factories alongside the River Bièvre; the enormous gardens alongside the Quai des Tuileries where, it was said, a tiny red man cavorted at night when the French crown was under threat. Even at first glimpse, the city exerted a strange allure for Lesage, which was twinned with a sort of disgust – like lusting after a whore.
He and Madame Picot emerged onto the Quai de la Mégisserie to the hearty stink of fish offal and mud baking in the summer sun. A grey cat sat on a low stone wall serenely licking its paw. There, above the bustle of the Pont au Change and the other quays to the east, loomed the two towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral, gleaming in the setting sun as if placed there by God himself. It was one of his favourite views of the city and he felt an odd surge of pride at being able to show it off to Madame Picot.
‘Is this not the greatest city in the world, madame?’ he said to her as they picked their way around a pile of food scraps. ‘I have been to many others in my time, but Paris is by far the greatest. Rome is a terrible place, Marseille. No. Paris has it all. In that cathedral over there they have the crown of thorns, madame. Yes. Yes, they do. The one worn by Christ himself. A true relic.’
Madame Picot shaded her eyes with one hand and gazed around her. She did not seem as enamoured of Paris as he, and he felt disappointment that she did not share his reverence.
‘When I came here as a young man,’ he went on, ‘I, too, was fearful. The city seemed so large and impossible to understand. Streets like a maze, the noise and chaos. But I have come to love it.’ He felt an inexplicable desire to expound on this affection, as if such an explanation were a door he might hold open for her to share in his appreciation.
Madame Picot did not seem to be paying him much attention, however, but was instead staring down at the riverbank in front of them. He followed her gaze. Down among the fishing boats and baskets and laundry boats and sails and nets, men were shouting and a woman was pointing towards the river. A shirtless man was wading into the murky green water towards something floating further out. It was a dark and bobbing shape, a vessel or some bundles of goods that had perhaps come adrift. There arose more shouts and cries of alarm in all sorts of languages. ‘Quickly, quickly. There she is!’ Some of the horses roped to boats shook their withers and stamped their hoofs in fright. Residents in the houses honeycombed atop the Pont au Change had flung open their shutters and leaned from their windows to watch the commotion and call out advice and encouragement.
People bustled past them to see the cause of the hubbub and Lesage and Madame Picot found themselves drawn towards the river, where a crowd was gathering. The shirtless fellow was staggering back to the bank, stopping now and again to steady his footing in the greasy shallows. In his arms he cradled a person. It was a woman with her head thrown back and her dark hair trailing in the water like wet cords connecting her to the river.
Finally, the man was able to make it clear of the water, where he squatted among the bales and baskets and lowered the woman to the muddy bank. The crowd had, by this time, obscured Lesage and Madame Picot’s view of the scene but they managed to push their way through to the front. A woman was crying and praying, someone else called for a priest. The woman on the bank was clearly dead and probably had been for some time. The skin of her face was blue and her mouth was agape. Eyes dull as oysters, mud smeared on her cheek and a yellow birch leaf stuck to her neck. Truly a ghastly sight. Lesage had, of course, seen plenty of corpses in his time – who hadn’t? – but they never failed to shock him. Death was not something he liked to think about.
Men and women in the crowd crossed themselves and murmured prayers for the poor woman, as did Madame Picot.
He looked down again at the body. Beside him, Madame Picot uttered a cry and Lesage reflexively grabbed her arm, as if to p
revent himself from falling, for they had both at the same time recognised the dead woman on the riverbank.
It was the troubadour Madame Leroux. Drowned in a river, precisely as he had foretold.
23
La Pomme de Pin was dim and low-roofed, and its air was grey and soupy with tobacco smoke. Lanterns and a few candles glimmered in the gloom like the lights of distant villages glimpsed through fog. In one corner a boy played a boisterous tune on his violin, and a crone slumped on a low chair by the wall. The customers were mainly men, an ill-assorted lot with filthy breeches, hunched shoulders and restless eyes. In the middle of the room, at the largest and best-lit table, five or six soldiers were arguing loudly over a game of cards.
As a rule, Charlotte did not frequent establishments built for men and their whores and wine. Such places intimidated her, and she was relieved to have Lesage as a companion on this occasion. Perhaps he had been right to scold her for disparaging the very qualities for which she had summoned him? After all, it was akin to having a soldier for a valet.
They paused in the doorway while Lesage peered through the smoke at the groups of drinking men. ‘Wait for me here,’ he said, and then he moved among them before she could object, asking if anyone knew of Willem the Norman. One group shook their heads in answer to his query, then another. Eventually, someone pointed to the corner, where a man sat alone at a table fondling his clay pipe. This fellow was thin and ancient, the skin of his face as darkly wrinkled as an old apple.
Lesage approached and conferred with the stranger, but Charlotte was unable to hear what they were saying over the noise of the tavern, its music and gruff din. Several of the soldiers were yelling at each other. Lesage motioned to the tavern keeper for a jug of wine, then he and this stranger talked for some time with their heads close together in a distinctly conspiratorial manner that made her uneasy. Despite his professed loyalty to her, Charlotte regarded Lesage with suspicion. Most men were untrustworthy at the best of times and this creature was really no man at all. She recalled what Madame Rolland had told her of the unpredictability of magic. Yes, he was a queer fish, indeed. Eventually, Lesage swivelled on his bench, pointed to Charlotte and, after further whispered consultation with the stranger, indicated for her to join them.
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