The Red Necklace

  Lefort the gatekeeper, whose domain this was, looked on like a small king of his castle. He had a squint, and dark bushy eyebrows that dominated his face and made up for the lack of expression in his eyes. He was proud of his work, showed no mercy on man or priest, let no one slip through his iron grip. He walked to and fro in his own bilious cloud of tobacco smoke, occasionally spitting out large yellowish gobbets of saliva.

  They all heard the mob before they saw what had brought it tearing onto the street. A large coach painted yellow, not unlike the one the king and queen had used for their failed flight to Varennes, was waiting to leave the city. Its grandeur was causing quite a lot of commotion.

  “It’s the king trying to escape again,” jeered one of the onlookers.

  Lefort quickly lost interest in the passengers from London and was walking over to the yellow coach when out of nowhere came a group of angry men and women, all wearing the red bonnet of liberty, armed with pitchforks, their sleeves rolled up, ready for action. Yann had never seen such hatred as he saw now, etched upon their faces.

  The coachman looked terrified as one of the men leaped at the yellow door, forcing it open with animal ferocity so that it fell off its hinges.

  “Shame on you,” he shouted at the occupants, “trying to smuggle out the wealth that belongs to France! You’re traitors to the Revolution! The enemy within, that’s what you be. Well, you’ll soon see how we deal with the likes of you.”

  The husband and wife and their two terrified children were unceremoniously dragged out, screaming.Yann, who had a sudden urge to help them, moved forward. He was stopped immediately by the hand of a fellow passenger who whispered urgently to him, “It isn’t worth it, sir. They’ll have you thrown in prison for your efforts. Believe me, there’s nothing we can do. Just thank the Lord you’re not a Frenchman.”

  Lefort waved away the cloud of tobacco smoke. Seeing that he had caught himself a mighty catch, he had no interest whatsoever in the London stagecoach. Without so much as a second glance, he let it go.

  Yann sat back in his seat. From the window he caught a last glimpse of a child’s frightened face. What had happened to this city, to its citizens, that they should have so much hatred for their fellow men?

  The gentleman whose hand had restrained Yann said, “This is a godless city. I get my business done as fast I can and get out again. Wouldn’t catch me staying here any longer than necessary. It’s a tinderbox that will self-ignite and go up in flames.”

  “What will happen to those poor people?” asked the woman whose clothes the National Guard had found so amusing.

  “They’ll be arrested and sent to prison as cattle fodder for the masses.”

  The coach rumbled on over the Pont Neuf, where the statue of Louis the Sun King had been torn down. In the distance Yann could see bonfires still burning.

  So this is Paris, thought Yann. He felt a thrill of excitement. For better or worse he was back home at long last.

  Monsieur Aulard had been well served by the Revolution. For the time being at least, all theaters were free to put on whatever plays they chose as long as they supported the Revolution, made fun of the clergy, and mocked the greed of the aristocrats.

  Wisely, seeing which way the wind was blowing, Monsieur Aulard had renamed his small theater the Theater of Liberty. In so doing, he had won the approval of no less a figure than Citizen Danton, one of the most influential men in the National Assembly. With such patronage the theater manager no longer needed to hire magicians to perform cheap fairground tricks to a half-empty auditorium. He now put on productions full of spectacular effects, filled with revolutionary zeal. There was never an empty seat or a dry eye in the house. The only other time the takings had been this good was in the old days of Topolain.

  Success had brought sobriety. He treated wine like medicine, doctoring himself with a certain amount each day and not one drop more. In times like these, a man needed his wits about him if he were to survive, for politicians, like audiences, are a fickle lot. What worked well today could be the end of him tomorrow.

  This self-imposed regime suited him. He looked younger. He had thrown out his ill-fitting wig and now, in the fashion of the moment, had the air of a man who didn’t spend too long worrying at the mirror. His clothes were new, but not flashy. Like an actor, he had reinvented himself for his role as a man of the people. A cockade was securely fastened to every one of his many jackets lest he should absentmindedly forget and find himself mistaken for an aristocrat.

  It was well over three years since Jacques Topolain’s body had been left sitting in his office chair, holding the sawn-off head of the wooden Pierrot. It was a memory that continued to haunt Monsieur Aulard. So terrified was he of Kalliovski paying him another visit that he had taken the precaution of promoting Didier from caretaker to bodyguard. It was Didier’s job to follow Monsieur Aulard wherever he went and to check that nothing and no one was waiting for him in his office.

  This morning Monsieur Aulard was more jumpy than he had been in a long while. Last night amongst the audience he could have sworn that he saw Kalliovski; but then again, he seemed to see the man waiting for him on every street corner.

  Yann stood in the rue du Temple and wondered if this could possibly be the building he remembered, for it had undergone a huge change. It no longer looked as if it was about to topple into the street but stood upright and proud, with Théâtre de la Liberté painted large and bold across its front. A revolutionary flag was draped across its façade like a badge of honor.

  He walked around to the stage door and stepped inside, reassured to find that here at least little had changed. It smelled, as it always had, of stale tobacco, wine, and slapstick makeup. Madame Manou was sitting as usual in her sentry box, lit by a single candle.

  Yann’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark. He smiled when he recognized Madame Manou.

  “May I see Monsieur Aulard?” he asked.

  “Not another,” sighed Madame Manou. “What are you? A writer? An actor? A musician?” She peered out at him. “You must be an actor, by the looks of you.”

  Yann was about to contradict her, but she went on, “I don’t know what this city is coming to, theaters popping up everywhere, actors on every street corner, musicians in every basement, writers in every attic. And you know what? They all want to work here.” She lifted her shoulders in disgust. “Have you any idea how many stairs there are up to Monsieur Aulard’s office?”

  “Eighty-two,” said Yann.

  “Hein? How do you know that?” said Madame Manou, quite taken aback.

  “I used to work here. You probably don’t remember me. My name is Yann Margoza . . .”

  Madame Manou leaned out of the box for a closer look. “No, never! Get away with you! You, that street urchin? The Revolution is working miracles.” She peered around the side, looking for Didier, and then remembered that the old bear had gone out for a loaf of bread. She had not the slightest intention of walking up all those stairs herself, no matter what that fool Aulard had to say about it.

  “Don’t need me to show you the way, then, dear, do you?”

  Yann went up the wooden spiral staircase two steps at a time, smiling at the memory of a younger version of himself running up. He stopped at the door and knocked.

  “Come in,” said a familiar voice.

  Yann entered to see Monsieur Aulard sitting at a desk piled high with manuscripts. Pieces of paper littered the floor like autumn leaves.

  Monsieur Aulard looked shocked. “How the hell were you allowed up?” he said angrily. “Where’s that fool Didier? What do I employ him for—”

  "Don’t you remember me?” interrupted Yann.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t. Are you an actor?”

  “No.”

  The theater manager pushed his chair back. “Then you want to be an actor,” he said. “You and the rest of Paris, my friend.”

  "I was Têtu’s assistant. I worked with the magician Topolain. I have been away in E
ngland and have just returned.”

  Monsieur Aulard stood up. “You’re Yann Margoza? Is it possible? My word, yes, I can see it now. It is you!” He laughed. “Your eyes should have told me. You always had the most extraordinary eyes.” He seized Yann’s hand. "Who’d have thought you’d turn out such a handsome fellow!”

  Yann smiled. “Who’d have thought to see you so sober and successful, Monsieur Aulard!”

  “The cure, my son, is the Revolution,” said Monsieur Aulard proudly. “Never in all my life have I done so well.”

  "I’ve come to see Têtu.”

  “Hush,” said the theater manager nervously, looking around him as if he half expected the door to be flung open and Kalliovski to be standing there, pistol in hand. “Walls have ears,” he said. Taking Yann by the arm he whispered, “Come with me.”

  Yann followed him down the stairs toward the stage door, where Didier was just coming in with his bread.

  “Do you need me?” asked Didier.

  “No, no, just be outside my apartment in an hour’s time.”

  “Wait!” called Didier as they left. “Aren’t you Yann?”

  “Not now!” said Monsieur Aulard firmly, as if he were directing the scene.

  “But—but—” said Didier.

  Yann turned and mouthed, “Good to see you too.”

  Monsieur Aulard set off up the boulevard and led Yann into the maze of streets that he knew so well. He walked at a brisk pace, checking behind and in front of him at every corner to be sure that they were not being followed.

  "How is Têtu?” asked Yann.

  “He’s all right. It’s good to see him again, after all this time. He turned up the other day, just like that, as if nothing had happened.”

  “What did happen?” asked Yann. “I’ve only just heard that he’s still alive.”

  “Didier found him bleeding to death in the courtyard of the Hôtel d’Angleterre, and carried him back to the theater. You know, he never said a word. I wasn’t even aware that Didier was living in the theater, right up in the attic. He carried Têtu up there, removed the bullet and nursed him back to health. There was Têtu, right under my nose, and I knew nothing!”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Like you, only recently. He left the theater as soon as he was better, and went to work in the provinces. More than that, I can’t tell you.”

  They stopped next to a battered wooden door. Monsieur Aulard produced a key and opened it, holding on to the iron handle and leaning out slightly to see if they were being watched.

  “He’s staying with me now. I still feel very worried about the whole thing.”

  “I can see that,” said Yann, smiling.

  The street was all but deserted. Satisfied that they were not observed, Monsieur Aulard hurried Yann into a wide courtyard. They walked up the stone stairs to the first floor and entered a much larger apartment than the one Yann remembered. Iago the parrot still sat on his perch, looking, like his owner, in better health.

  Monsieur Aulard went over and opened the shutters, peering out to check that there was no one down below. Sunlight flooded the room. Yann could tell by the state of the apartment that Têtu was around. He couldn’t imagine the theater manager keeping it this neat and tidy. As if to prove the point, Monsieur Aulard threw down his hat, and then he disappeared into the next room.

  Yann stood looking down through the windows to the cobbled courtyard. It was overgrown and unkempt, plant pots lay neglected, and a cat, long and lazy, had spread itself, asleep, across the step, warming its belly in the sun.

  “Yannick, is that really you?” It was the high-pitched voice he knew so well.

  Yann rushed toward Têtu, lifting him off his feet and hugging him tight as tears rolled down Têtu’s cheeks. “Oh, it is so, so good to see you!”

  "Put me down and let me get a proper look at you,” said Têtu, wiping his eyes and walking around Yann, studying him carefully. “Well, what a fine gentleman you’ve turned out to be. Look at your clothes! Can you speak English? Oh my word, what your mother would have given to see her handsome son all grown up. Tell me, can you read and write?”

  “I can,” laughed Yann, “and I speak English like a gentleman, without even a trace of an accent.”

  Têtu clapped his hands and danced with joy. “Well, well, who would have thought it!” He paused, his face suddenly solemn. “Do you forgive me, Yannick, for letting you believe I was dead?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I have so much to thank you for, Têtu. Never once have I felt unloved or unwanted. Without you, I would have been left to die. You have been both mother and father to me.”

  “No, no, Yann, stop it, there’s no need to say all that. Love needs no justification. You were always wanted, right from the very beginning. Whatever happens, don’t forget that.”

  "You’ve been incredibly brave,” said Yann.

  “Rubbish. You know, it was never my intention to get shot. Finding myself in that strange predicament, I felt fate had intervened. I tell you this, Yannick, it was the hardest thing I have ever done, not to let you know I was all right.”

  By now Têtu had brought out some bread and cheese and put them on the table. He sat down and looked at Yann, who was still standing, the sunlight illuminating his face.

  “Those things I used to be able to do—read minds, read the future,” said Yann, “those gifts left me the night Topolain was killed, the night the Pierrot said, ‘I see you all drowning in a sea of blood.’ I still have no idea why I said it.” He stopped and sighed. “For a long time I felt responsible for what had happened. If I had kept quiet . . .”

  “Yann, it had nothing to do with that. It would have happened whatever you said. Remember the red necklace that you found?”

  “And you took.”

  “Yes, but that’s not important. I’ve been making a few inquires. Did you know that a red necklace just like it was found round the neck of a Madame Perrien, a friend of Kalliovski’s?”

  “And a similar one was found in London, round the neck of a Madame Claumont,” said Yann. “Mr. Laxton believed it had something to do with Kalliovski.” He thought back to his vision of the woman lying in a field. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember if she too was wearing a red necklace.

  Têtu interrupted his thoughts. “Cordell told me about Sido de Villeduval and her forthcoming marriage. A terrible business. There is no question we must try and rescue her. I would do it myself, but my size is against me; once I’ve been seen, once I’ve been heard, I’m hard to forget. I didn’t want you to come back to Paris and put yourself in danger, but when Cordell told me how you’d turned out, it seemed to me you would be the person to rescue the girl. Cordell thinks you’re very clever. I know you’re very clever, but I also know you’re better suited to adventure than to studying.”

  “You’re right.”

  “A pity, though, your gifts leaving you like that. You were quite remarkable when you were younger. So, what can you do now?”

  Yann sat down at the table and cut a thick slice of bread. “Throw my voice, ride, fence, read, write . . . oh, and . . .”

  Over on the shelf opposite he saw a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He pulled at the threads of light.

  Monsieur Aulard entered the room and stood there dumbstruck to see a bottle suspended in midair. The cork was removed and the bottle tipped up, filling two glasses, before all four objects landed on the table without a drop being spilled.

  Têtu’s face broke into the widest grin. “Why didn’t you tell me you could see?” He leaped up and flung his arms around Yann.

  “How fortunate that you have returned to us with such magic in your fingers,” said Monsieur Aulard, putting on his hat. “If they ever tire of revolutionary zeal I am going to give them magic the like of which Paris has never seen.”

  "No,” said Têtu firmly, "you are going to do no such thing, is that understood?”

  Monsieur Aulard shrugged his shoulders. “Understood,?
?? he said sadly, opening the front door. “Maybe when the Revolution is over . . .”

  "If we live that long,” said Têtu.

  After Monsieur Aulard had gone Têtu began to talk about the situation in Paris.

  “Things are very bad indeed, and getting worse each day. The National Guard have started doing nightly raids to smoke out aristocrats, or priests who haven’t sworn allegiance to the Revolution, breaking down doors, pulling up floorboards. The jails are full to bursting.”

  Yann and Têtu sat talking till late. Yann told Têtu about Tobias Cooper, and about his life in London with the Laxtons, and Têtu told him a little about his three years living and working in the provinces.

  At last Yann said, "I’ve told you everything, and as usual, Têtu, you’ve told me nothing about yourself. I’m glad to see you haven’t changed one bit. You’re still the same mysterious person you’ve always been.”

  "Now,” said Têtu, changing the subject, "let’s talk about how we’re going to get Sido de Villeduval out. This is going to be difficult and dangerous, Yann. We’ll have to plan very carefully. We just might be able to save the girl on her own, but I can’t see how we’ll ever get the marquis out undetected.”

  “But I’ve brought papers for both of them,” said Yann.

  “It makes no difference,” said Têtu. “We have Kalliovski to reckon with, and he has a razor-sharp mind. He has spies. Nothing escapes his attention.”

  Yann got up and went over to the window. The cat, now awake, one leg pointed skyward, was balancing precariously on the narrow windowsill, busy cleaning its sleek fur.

  “I had a letter this morning from the marquis’s lawyer, Maître Tardieu,” Têtu went on. "It’s addressed to Cordell, but as he is away he had it forwarded to me.” He handed a sheet of paper to Yann.

  “There’s nothing on it. It’s blank.”

  “In times such as these, when wise men fear even their shadows, it is prudent to take precautions. It has been written with sympathetic ink.”

  He lit a candle, and as he held the letter up to the flame the words began to appear.