"I see you’ve been promoted to your own cell,” said the turnkey as he walked her back along the corridor. He leered at her. His breath stank of stale tobacco and rotten teeth. “You smell nice. I like it when young ladies smell nice.”
He unlocked a door. “Well, here it is. Versailles itself can’t compare.” He chuckled as he bolted and locked the door behind him.
The cell had nothing in it apart from a bed, a bucket, and high up in the wall, a small window. At least, Sido thought, I don’t have to share it.
She slept badly that night, disturbed by screams and sobs from down the corridor. She lay looking up at the window, watching the moon as its large round face peeked in through the darkness, asking her what she was going to do.
She had no answer to that question. It seemed there was nothing she could do, other than accept Kalliovski. There was, as he had said, really no choice. It was a fait accompli. The thought of him touching her again made her shiver, and tears rolled down her face onto the lumpy mattress.
The next morning Sido woke to the sound of the bolts to her door being pulled back.
“You’re a popular couple of high-ups, ain’t you?” said the turnkey. “Get up, your lawyer wants to see you. Look lively.”
He led her to a whitewashed room with a table and four chairs, and closed the door behind him. Next to enter was her father, followed by Maître Tardieu and a clerk.
Her father appeared quite altered. His hair had turned completely white and his skin seemed to have fallen from him like the tide pulling away from a pebbled beach. All that remained was the haunted, frightened look in his eyes.
He turned on Maître Tardieu. "I won’t read the will. I refuse. You shouldn’t have let him change a word. I hold you responsible for this outrage, sir.”
"Please, Papa, Maître Tardieu is here to help us.”
The marquis’s voice rose, as did the state of his agitation. “Be silent, madame. Where are my servants? Take me back to my room this instant.”
“Please calm yourself.”
Her father lashed out at her, hitting her hard across the face. She stumbled, to be caught by Maître Tardieu’s clerk.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
For a moment Sido thought she was dreaming, for it was Yann who had caught her.
Putting his finger to his lips, he helped her to a chair. “Don’t say anything,” he whispered.
“It’s the only way to deal with ghosts, thrash them!” shouted the marquis at the top of his voice.
The turnkey, hearing the commotion, came rushing back into the room.
“What’s going on here?”
“That man,” said the marquis, pointing at the lawyer, “is no more than dog muck on my shoe. I will not speak to him.”
“Then hold your tongue,” said the turnkey. “You’ve ten minutes here and then I’ll be back for the pair of you.”
“No,” shouted the marquis. “Take me away now. Keep her from me. I’ve had enough of that dead woman. I say again, you can both rot in hell.”
“Better take him then. I’ll be as quick as I can,” said Maître Tardieu, looking despairingly at the turnkey and rubbing his aching temples. The heat and the smell were overpowering. He sat down at the table.
The door closed with a loud thud. Maître Tardieu looked around nervously and put a finger to his lips. He spoke almost in a whisper.
“Mademoiselle Sido, I tried to get to see you earlier this week, but it was impossible because you were ill. I think you should know that Kalliovski is applying to have you released as long as you agree to marry him. Is that what you want?”
“No, no. I honestly thought—”
“That Mr. Tull would get you to England,” interrupted Yann. “He was working for Kalliovski. You didn’t stand a chance.”
Maître Tardieu coughed. “May I continue? Time is of the essence. Your case comes up before the tribunal in less than two days. You and your father are accused of being counterrevolutionaries and of trying to escape from France, taking with you a vast fortune.”
“But that’s nonsense. We have nothing. You know we have nothing.”
“It matters not.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I am an old man, and there is much still on my mind and much that is unresolved. I want to rest easy in my grave.”
“I am sure you will,” said Sido kindly. “You have been very good to our family.”
“No, I feel that I have failed you and your grandfather, to whom I was devoted.”
“No, sir, you are too hard on yourself—”
“Please, mademoiselle,” Maître Tardieu broke in. He leaned toward Sido and whispered, “Put your trust in Yann Margoza. It is your only chance of escape.”
“But sir, I can’t leave my father here.”
Yann was concentrating so hard on Sido that he didn’t notice the look of anguish that crossed the lawyer’s face at these words.
“Sir,” said Sido, rising, “are you ill?”
“It is nothing.” He clasped his chest. “My heart is not as strong as it used to be.” Yann helped him to a chair. “Please, mademoiselle, think of yourself. Unlike others, you have family in England waiting for you—”
Yann, now almost desperate, interrupted. “Danton is stirring people into a fever of hatred against all those held in the prisons. It will explode and you will be caught in it unless we do something.”
Along the corridor they could hear the sound of boots and the click-clack of dogs’ claws against stone.
“I am going to come for you,” said Yann. “When I do, you must be ready.”
The turnkey opened the door. “Well, old lawyer, is she going to plead innocence? That the horse had a mind of its own and took off to see an old mare in England?” He laughed heartily at his own joke.
Outside the prison, Maître Tardieu gulped desperately at the fresh air, his hand holding the railing tight. Overcome by the heat, he felt unsteady on his feet. Yann led him into a nearby café and ordered him a drink.
“What can we do?” asked Yann, looking at the gray face of the lawyer. “She’s not going to leave him and I can’t see any way of getting that madman out.”
“I can assure you he isn’t worth it. Mademoiselle Sido, though, is a different matter; she has courage and dignity. She is a true de Villeduval—takes after her uncle and grandfather. The late marquis’s first wife, you know, was just like her son, a weak-minded woman who ended her days in an asylum.”
He picked up his glass and drank. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he continued. “I wanted to say something in the prison, but I couldn’t bring myself to voice it. After all, it is only rumor and hearsay. I deal in proof, in evidence: That is the raison d’être of a lawyer. Gossip is not to be trusted—it could not be upheld in any court of law. All the same, there is Mademoiselle Sido left to rot in hell’s waiting room. How did it come to this?”
Yann was barely listening. He pushed his hand through his hair. “There must be a way of getting her out.”
"I debated with myself about telling her,” said Maître Tardieu. “Maybe I should have. It might have helped.”
"What might have helped?” said Yann, turning to look at the lawyer.
“It was rumored that Armand de Villeduval and Mademoiselle Sido’s mother were lovers, and that they were planning to flee to England, taking the child with them. My late master told me on his deathbed that in the portmanteau that had gone missing were letters that led him to believe . . .”
Yann sat bolt upright. He finished what the lawyer was about to say. “That Armand de Villeduval was Sido’s father?”
“Precisely. Find the letters and you may well have enough evidence to make her change her mind about leaving the marquis, for I believe there is blood on those pampered pink hands of his.”
“Where do you think those letters are, sir?” asked Yann.
“The first place I would look is in Kalliovski’s apartment.”
On the wall opposite the café, scribbled in dripping red pa
int, were the words Kill the enemy within.
Yann knew there was hardly any time. The only way to get her out was to be bold—and bolder.
chapter twenty-eight
The letter that Monsieur Aulard had just signed sat worryingly on his desk. Never had a piece of paper frightened him so much. He knew it held the power to snuff out life itself. More to the point, his life.
What was that children’s game, he thought bitterly to himself, the one with paper, stone, and scissors? Which one was it that won over paper? With a shudder, the answer came to him. Scissors—the guillotine! Yes, his neck was on the block. He was about to send two tickets to Citizen Kalliovski inviting him to bring one of his famed automata to the theater that very night. The letter said that an old friend of Topolain’s wanted to talk to him about the threads of light, and it was signed, “From a well-wisher.”
This hadn’t been Monsieur Aulard’s idea; far from it. He could not imagine what the threads of light were. It was part of Têtu’s master plan to get Kalliovski away from his apartment so that Yann could break in and search for Armand’s letters.
“Do you really think Kalliovski will take the bait?” he asked.
"He won’t be able to resist,” replied Têtu.
Monsieur Aulard stared transfixed at the letter, remembering only too clearly the Pierrot’s head sitting in the lap of the dead Topolain.
“I still don’t understand why Kalliovski killed Topolain,” he said.
“It was because Topolain let slip that they’d met before in St. Petersburg. Topolain used to do card tricks to entertain the gamblers. The man who was later to take the name Kalliovski was there.”
“Why didn’t Topolain just keep quiet?”
“Why indeed? He wasn’t thinking straight. He was trying to impress and said the first foolish thing that came into his head. Kalliovski didn’t want his cover blown. He couldn’t be sure that one day Topolain wouldn’t remember the exact circumstances of their meeting. He could not allow anyone to have that power over him.”
“Why? What would it matter?”
Têtu sighed. “Is your knowledge box not working? Has your brain shut up shop?”
“I just want to be clear,” said Aulard, offended.
“It was in the gambling dens of St. Petersburg that the self-styled Count Kalliovski started his meteoric rise to fame and fortune.”
Yann heard with a start the word that Têtu was thinking but not saying. Usually Têtu’s mind was shut to him, but one word had slipped under the barricades. A word that sparkled like a diamond in the mud, too bright to be missed. Gypsy.
What Têtu was really saying was: “He was a Gypsy we used to know.”
“A Gypsy,” said Yann out loud.
Têtu spun around. “I never said that.”
“You thought it.”
“It’s a figure of speech, that’s all.”
“Not one that you would ever use.”
“Yann, forget it, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“What does it matter?” said Monsieur Aulard. “What’s wrong with you both, that we’re now arguing over a word that Têtu never said?” He threw his hands in the air. “Mort bleu, my life is on the line and you ... are beyond belief !”
Têtu looked closely at Yann. “That is the first time you’ve been able to do that. You’re getting good.”
“When you’ve both finished talking, could we get back to the matter at hand? I have invited Kalliovski to the theater. Why would he come here?”
“For the same reason he wanted us to perform at the marquis’s château. He wanted to see if we could work the threads of light.”
“I’m lost. Threads of light? What are they? No, on second thought, I don’t want to know. In case you haven’t noticed, Paris is nearly under siege, the enemy is only miles away, men are going off to fight, and we will have an empty house tonight. No one will come, especially not Kalliovski.” Monsieur Aulard was struggling to keep his composure.
“In that you are very wrong,” said Têtu. “Your theater will be full and Kalliovski, I can assure you, wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Perspiration now dripped down Monsieur Aulard’s forehead and his hands were shaking. He was trying to stop himself from crumpling up the paper before him. He wanted to refuse to have anything more to do with this foolhardy plan.
“Are these letters really so important?” he said pathetically. “Why don’t you just get the girl out? Leave Kalliovski alone.”
“I could, if she would leave her father. But she won’t,” said Yann flatly. “I need to be able to show her some evidence that her father was involved in the death of her mother, and maybe prove who her real father is.”
“Wait, wait, not so fast. Didier, my medicine!”
"No,” said Têtu firmly. "You need your wits about you.”
“Mort bleu! Are you telling me you don’t believe the marquis is her father?”
"Yes,” said Têtu. "We think it was his half brother, Armand. And we are sure that the marquis, with Kalliovski’s help, had something to do with their murders.”
“Murder? This gets worse with every word! We should report it to the authorities and let them deal with it. For goodness’ sake, you are magicians! I run a theater! This is out of our field.”
“We are the only people who can save Sido,” said Yann, “and if we can do this well, then maybe we can get other people out and save them from the guillotine.”
“Tell me I’m not hearing this. Have you lost your mind? That’s a criminal offense! We could be accused of counterrevolutionary activities, of being spies. I can see it now, your heads not on the poster outside my theater but on pikes with pretty ribbons of blue, white, and red.”
"So we just do nothing?” said Yann. "We sit back and let the slaughter begin? Should we be glad to be part of it? I love France, but I’m not going to join those who think that slaughtering French citizens will do any good. All I want to do is to try and stop this insanity.”
Monsieur Aulard swallowed. “Spoken like a true hero! But do we have to stick our heads above the parapet?”
"Spoken like a true coward,” said Têtu.
"Listen,” said Yann, "none of us can afford to turn our backs on what’s going on. There are spies everywhere in Paris. The press has been shut down. Free speech does not exist—speak out of line and see where you end up. So much for liberty! Look how many people have been rounded up in midnight raids, and not just aristocrats and priests. The prisons are full to bursting. Don’t you want to help us?”
“It’s still better than the old regime,” said Monsieur Aulard weakly.
“It won’t be if the leaders of the Revolution have their way. They’re calling for all the prisoners to be killed, talking about tearing them limb from limb, ruling by terror and terror alone.”
“They don’t mean it literally, I’m sure,” said Monsieur Aulard.
Yann threw his head back and burst out laughing. “Oh, I see, so we’re expected to be able to tell the difference. A man will stand there reading the poster and saying to his friends, ‘Good old Marat, the people’s friend, uses such fine and descriptive words. What he meant to say was ...’”
Monsieur Aulard sat back in his chair, defeated. He had no idea how he had managed to let himself be hoodwinked into this mess. If he was caught, dear Lord . . . Couldn’t he just go back to the good old days? To yesterday, even, when all he’d had to concentrate on was giving the public what they wanted, a show full of patriotic drivel and heads on pikes, a pantomime of folly.
He was so busy making up his own epitaph that he hardly heard what was being said. He looked up wearily as Didier started talking. That was another thing. Didier, yes, Didier, whom he employed to protect him, now seemed to be working full-time for Têtu. Oh, he thought miserably, for what I am about to receive, may someone help me.
“Well, Didier, did you find out how we could get into Kalliovski’s apartment?” asked Yann.
“Yes, yes, I did,” s
aid Didier. “Citizen Kalliovski has one servant whom he leaves to guard his apartment. His sole task is to make sure that no one enters while his master is away.”
“How do you know?” asked Monsieur Aulard. Despite his anxieties, he was impressed with Didier’s skill. Who would have thought the old mooncalf had so much going for him in the upstairs department?
“I’ve become friendly with the concierge of the building where he lives, on the rue Payenne.” Didier blushed. “She’s called Jeanne.”
“How long has this fellow been with Kalliovski?” asked Yann.
“She says he’s been with him the longest of all his servants. Got a funny eye.”
"Milkeye,” said Yann.
“Do you think she’d let Yann deliver a basket to Kalliovski?” asked Têtu.
“If we went in by the side entrance, I don’t think she’d mind.”
“Tomorrow,” said a mournful Monsieur Aulard, “is the second of September, my birthday, if any of you are interested. My last birthday, no doubt, for as sure as there is a sun in the day and a moon in the night, I shall be murdered by Kalliovski. When I am dead, and if you haven’t been guillotined, Didier, would you be so kind as to put lilies on my grave?”
Têtu jumped up from his seat and turned on him furiously.
“This is not about you! This is about an innocent girl who will be killed if we don’t act. This is about saving lives. This is about Yann. He is the one you should be worrying about. If you don’t wish to be involved, go home and put your head under a pillow. But if you want to try and find some semblance of bravery, you could pull yourself together and stop being a big girl’s bonnet.”
Monsieur Aulard looked crushed by the impact of the dwarf’s words. It was true he was a mouse of a man when it came to bravery; still, he was doing his best.
“Take this and put it on,” said Têtu, pulling out a black cap from his jacket pocket.
Monsieur Aulard looked at it. All the questions he wanted to ask and dare not sat heavily on his bushy eyebrows.
"Well?” said Têtu. His voice hadn’t softened at all. "What are you waiting for? Just put it on. Don’t make such a drama out of everything.”