by Otto Penzler
Sallambier grabbed my elbow and led me onto the dirt path winding down from the Buttes Chamont and on past ancient stone quarries in the lower land. These open pits and underground tunnels from Roman times were now used as refuse pits by the citizens of Paris. A place for garbage and human outcasts. A hiding place for deserters from the army. I pulled my elbow free of Sallambier’s grasp and fell into step behind him. Twice, he looked back over his shoulder to be sure I still followed.
After a long walk, we crossed a stone bridge over the Seine and passed by the great chains which would be stretched across the road by the nightwatch when curfew fell. Moving deeper into the city, where we were mostly ignored by the throngs of farmers, wives, and tradesmen going about their daily business, we made our way to a house near the building where the Abbess had business to conduct. Here, we waited in a doorway shadowed from the sun by the building’s overhanging second story. Citizens crowded the street, parting once for a drover moving a few sheep to market, and once for a line of chained convicts being prodded along by stern-faced bailiffs. We averted our faces from the convicts lest one call out in recognition and ruin our scheme. Their passing gave a flutter to my stomach.
Hours dragged by. Gradually, I became bored and found myself nodding off in the autumn heat, when Sallambier suddenly reached over and flicked my ear with his thick index finger.
I started to yelp in protest but caught the warning in his face. He pointed at the doors to the building across the street. My gaze went to the Abbess and her Door Keeper descending upon the paving stones and proceeding in our direction. We waited until they passed. Then quickly, we stepped out of our doorway and moved into position, me behind the stout Abbess, while my newly appointed warden, the hulk with the mangled nose, edged closer to the elderly Door Keeper.
“Now,” whispered Sallambier in his grating voice which seemed seldom used.
“In a minute,” I muttered back.
I took a breath and prepared to steel myself.
“Now,” he whispered again.
“Not yet,” I murmured.
All would have gone well in the next couple of minutes, except Sallambier shoved me forward before I was truly ready. My right hand was barely reaching for the purse at her waist when his abrupt push from behind caused my left forearm to crash into her plump right hip.
She squawked in disgust and whirled in my direction.
My right hand had already lightly encircled her purse, but her sudden turn toward me drew the purse strings taut against her belt, and she felt the tugging at her waist. She quickly seized my right hand with both of hers, holding on with all the fervor of a drowning woman. And then she filled her lungs and screamed.
That high pitch split my eardrums.
Farmers and housewives, all the passing citizens of Paris, stopped their activities to see what was causing such a commotion.
I struggled to get free.
The Door Keeper rushed in to help his employer, but someone in the crowd jostled the old man, knocking him to the street. That’s when I saw Sallambier stepping forward to politely assist the Keeper up from the paving stones, brushing him off and apologizing for any mishap. Several times, the old man tried to break away from Sallambier’s helpful grasp, but he only succeeded in barely brushing the left shoulder of his Abbess with his outstretched fingertips.
At this new touch to her person, the Abbess paused in surprise, swiveled her head away from me, and drew in another deep breath.
I didn’t wait for the second shriek. Taking advantage of this distraction, I wrenched my hand loose from the Abbess’s clutch. Somehow, in all the turmoil, she managed to maintain hold on her precious purse still tied to her belt. No matter that, I ran for my very life, all the way to the Buttes Chamont.
At last, safely back at the ruined villa, I ducked into our hovel and collapsed on my bed, panting for breath. Sweat coursed down my heated face.
What to do now? I had escaped one trouble and was left confronting another. What could I tell King Jules? I’d obviously failed him. No purse to split two ways, even if my share was only to be a third. Of course, had I gotten the purse as planned, I could have lightened its contents a little before giving it to Jules for the agreed upon dividing. No chance of that now.
This whole mess of me being caught in the act was obviously all Sallambier’s fault, but since his intervention with the Door Keeper allowed me to escape from the Abbess, I needed to be careful laying any blame on him. He might take it wrong, plus I obviously knew who Jules would then side with. No, no, I’d have to come up with a very good story for Jules, a believable one.
Two hours later, I was still polishing the details of my excuse and wondering if maybe it might just be best to hide out in the quarries for several days, when someone quietly entered the hovel.
“You were lucky to get away.”
I quickly recognized the Chevalier’s voice behind me and tried not to flinch.
“That’s because Sallambier kept the Door Keeper from getting at me,” I muttered. “Otherwise, I’d been locked up in the prison for sure.”
“So, that gargoyle-faced assassin is now your hero?” inquired Remy in his know-it-all way.
“I didn’t say I liked him, only that he helped me out of a predicament. Unlike some who pretend to be my friend and then act otherwise when trouble comes.”
“Oh, he definitely helped you.”
I detected a faint hint of sarcasm.
“How would you know?”
Remy sat down at the far end of my bedding and faced me.
“I was curious as to Jules’s sudden interest in your pickpocket abilities, so I followed you and Jules’s assassin into the city.”
“I didn’t see you there.”
“Then you can say I did my job well. In any case, I watched Sallambier deliberately push you into the Abbess.”
“His timing was bad,” I freely admitted, but then I paused to consider Remy’s statement. This was a good turn for me, now I had the Chevalier as a witness to verify my excuse to Jules.
I continued with my narrative. “But then you also saw Sallambier help me by detaining the Door Keeper.”
“No, boy, the assassin did just as Jules no doubt instructed him to do.”
“How so? Jules gave no such instructions to the man in my presence.”
“I’m sure he didn’t, but when Sallambier helped the Door Keeper up from the street and dusted off his clothing, he was actually busy making wax impressions of keys hanging from the Keeper’s waist. You, my little friend, were supposed to be caught, a diversion to allow Sallambier to do as Jules intended. If necessary, you were expendable.”
“What?”
“Exactly, so I contemplated what purpose Jules would have for keys to the Benedictine Monastery.”
My feelings were still wrapped up in the betrayal of being taken for a fool. However, the Chevalier’s words did explain why the Abbess’s purse had felt lighter than Jules had led me to believe. That meant Jules had lied. He didn’t really believe in my stealing talents. Oh, he and that mangled-nose monstrosity of his were going to pay for their trickery just as soon as I found a means for revenge. But in the meantime, I couldn’t help being curious about the keys.
“And what did you decide about his purpose?” I inquired.
Remy gave me that arrogant smile of his. If he only knew how much I hated that look of having superior knowledge.
“The Door Keeper always carries at least two main keys on his person, one for the monastery itself, while the second key is rumored to fit the staircase door leading down from the interior of the Val-de-Grâce Church.”
“Stairs descending beneath the church?” This was new. I crossed myself. “You mean, down into the eternal fires for heretics and sinners?” For good measure, I made the sign a second time.
Remy laughed.
“There are some who would call it a staircase leading to sin, but most, like me, consider it merely to be a source of very worldly pleasure.”
I was confused. “What’s on the other end of this staircase?”
“Do you not listen to gossip in the marketplace, boy? Perhaps you are too young and it is a matter of history now.”
The Chevalier could be exasperating at times like these.
“Just tell me.”
“Very well. After our Sun King was born, his previously barren mother promised the Benedictine nuns that she would build them a church as thanks. But there was a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“When the original architect, François Mansart, started the foundation for Val-de-Grâce, he found a great emptiness beneath the ground.”
“An emptiness like the pits of Hell?” I tried again.
“No, this emptiness was one of the network of tunnels from the old Roman stone quarries. What better place for the Benedictine monks to store their alcoholic beverage of brandy, sugar, and aromatic herbs? Thus, the monks built a staircase from the church down to the tunnel. That second key supposedly fits the door that goes down. It’s my guess that Jules plans to steal the Benedictine liquor after Sallambier finds where it’s hidden.”
I nodded my head in understanding, but had no idea yet how to use this information to my own advantage.
Remy stood up to leave. To me, he seemed in a hurry.
“Where are you going?”
“To keep an eye on Sallambier while he makes his false keys from the wax molds. When he is almost finished, I will go before him and hide in the church to see if I am correct in my assumptions.”
I rose from my bed and headed for the door.
“I’ll go too.”
Remy blocked my way and sternly shook his head.
“No, boy, you’ve gotten yourself in enough trouble for today. You stay here, and away from Jules.”
I sat back down and played the role of reluctant, but obedient. Let Remy think what he would. For my part, the reluctance was real.
With a further warning to stay away, the Chevalier left me.
Of course I waited until he was out of sight. If he only knew that never would I force myself to be obedient to his demands. He had no claim on me.
My feet soon found the dirt path leading to the Valley of Grace. In my reasoning, if I went to Val-de-Grâce Church now, then I would be well hidden before either Sallambier or Remy arrived. And, since one must feed his stomach as well as his soul, I managed en route to acquire an unguarded crust of bread, two shriveled carrots, and a chunk of fairly fragrant cheese for my supper. By the time their shrill-voiced owner finished arguing with her husband, I doubted he would have much appetite for them anyway.
At the church, the door stood partly open with no one in sight, either outside or inside. Now the problem was to find a hiding place, one that Remy would not be likely to use for himself. As for Sallambier, he was probably busy making himself a key for the staircase door. He would come when the church was locked up and empty, assuming they locked the huge front doors at night. My knowledge of this and other facts about the actual workings of the church were sadly lacking. I felt a twinge of remorse in not having come here more often for the good of my soul, my very salvation. But, after my bread and cheese were gone, that feeling soon left me alone.
At the sound of leather scuffing on stone, I glanced hurriedly around. Someone was coming and I still had no good hiding place. I dived to the floor and crawled forward under one of the heavy wooden pews used by the rich folk. Incoming footsteps continued down the aisle. There was a pause, and then I heard the wood creak in a pew somewhere in front of my hiding place. A sinner no doubt, clicking his rosary and come to seek redemption. However, by the way this one kept sniffing loudly, I assumed he also had a bad cold and was praying for better health. For the time he took on his knees, his sins must have been many. Before his list of concerns with the Almighty had been completed, I nodded off into sleep on the stone floor.
I might have slept through until Morning Mass, but a cool chill on my backside and the grating squeak of opening and then closing door hinges brought me awake. Except for the flickering of candles set in rows along the walls, the light inside had a dim grayness to it. Still, it was good enough for me to watch the worn leather boots of a man as he proceeded down the aisle and across in front of the altar without a single drop to his knee as someone once told me you are supposed to do in a place like this. He then proceeded over to a door in the vestibule behind the altar.
This had to be Sallambier. I poked my head over the wooden pew and peeked, but the man had already unlocked the door and descended. As a precaution, I waited to see if anyone else followed. There was no other movement in the church. Remy’s plans must have gone awry, else he was somehow already in front of me down the staircase.
The partially open door beckoned.
With great stealth, I left my hiding place and crept to the top of the stairwell. From down in the tunnel came soft sounds and the yellow glow of a torch disappearing along a stone corridor. It was either hurry, or be left behind in eternal darkness. My feet flew down the stairs.
Having reached the cellar floor, I hurried forward to the first branching out of the tunnel. It was dark to my front and dark to the right. I pressed against the left wall and peered around that corner. The man with the torch had stopped at another intersection and was using a piece of chalk to mark one of the walls. After he finished, I waited while he continued walking straight ahead. Before I could follow, he returned to the intersection and erased the previous chalk mark he’d made. Then he turned and drew a white arrow on a different wall.
Ah, I told myself, he must have run into a dead end in the tunnel. This time, when the man started off in a new direction, I let him get farther out of sight before I stepped out to follow.
I only got three steps.
A large hand covered my mouth, stifling any attempt to cry out. I tried to bite the fingers of that hand, but then another strong hand grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and lifted me off my feet. At my ear, I heard a whispered voice.
“Be quiet and I’ll put you down.”
I tried to nod my head in compliance, but my entire body was suspended by the neck and I’m not sure anything above that point could move.
“I told you to stay behind,” continued the voice.
The ground felt good to be beneath my feet again. I rotated my neck to get the kinks out.
“Jules owes me for this afternoon’s purse stealing,” I retorted, “and this may be my only chance to collect my coins, one way or another.”
“You didn’t actually get the purse,” countered Remy in a whisper.
“That was Sallambier’s fault. You yourself saw him push me, and since an agreement is an agreement, Jules owes me. I won’t let him cheat me.”
Remy gave a grunt of exasperation, then we stood there in silence.
“Sallambier is leaving us behind,” I said at last.
The Chevalier turned the setting on a bull’s-eye lantern at his feet, and a single narrow ray of white pierced the tunnel’s dark.
“Don’t worry, boy, Sallambier will probably run into several filled tunnel shafts and other dead ends before he locates the monk’s cache of Benedictine. We don’t want to be too close in case he doubles back and finds us instead.”
“He’s marking the walls with chalk so he knows which corridors he’s already searched,” I volunteered.
“That’s good to remember,” Remy replied. “Now stay behind me.” He picked up the lantern and set off down the tunnel.
To my right, I distinctly heard the skittering of little rat claws on the stone floor and thus made sure I did not linger far behind the Chevalier.
“Stay farther back,” muttered Remy, “you’re stepping on my heels.”
Occasionally, we passed by iron torch brackets mounted on the walls. All brackets stood empty, but on the ceiling above them were soot and black scorch marks from previous torches over the years. At other twists and turns, we passed chiseled inscriptions in a foreign la
nguage.
“Those are Roman writings,” remarked the Chevalier.
Twice we came upon stone engravings, and these seemed to interest the Chevalier the most. At these, he whispered to me tales of ancient gods, emperors, the history of a long ago civilization.
Bah, what did I care? I was here to collect what was owed to me. The next time Remy started one of his lectures on history and old literature, I went off on my own. After all, I could see the glow of Sallambier’s torch reflected far down the corridor and it hadn’t seemed to move for some time now. Maybe he had found the Benedictine cellar. I would go see.
Advancing noiselessly down the tunnel, I at last came to the doorway where Sallambier’s torch, now set into an iron bracket, lit the roughly chiseled room beyond. I peered carefully around the edge of the stone entrance. Only a bare side wall was in view. I’d have to move over farther in order to see what was in this room.
Two steps sideways and my vision caught the rounded top of a wooden cask. Another step and I could see several barrels and casks stacked against the back wall. We’d found it. And then my view was suddenly blocked.
Sallambier.
Even in his surprise at seeing me, his reactions were faster than mine. For the second time this night, I was grabbed by the neck and lifted off the ground, only this time it was by the throat instead of the nape.
“I had wondered where you disappeared to after your escape from the Abbess,” Sallambier grated in that raspy voice of his.
He carried me deeper into the Benedictine cellar. Then his eyes noticed the small leather pouch swinging from my belt, a place where most citizens kept money or other valuables. He turned to cast more light from the torch onto my person.
“What did you bring me?”
When he drew his knife I thought I was dead, but he merely sliced through the leather thongs on my pouch. It dropped to the floor. His fingers tightened on my throat as he bent over to retrieve the bag. I began drifting into unconsciousness, but I first remembered Sallambier stuffing my leather pouch into a pocket of his jerkin. It was later that the sudden slamming of my hindquarters onto the stone floor jolted me partially awake.