Voltaire's Calligrapher

I knocked repeatedly until the door was finally opened. The boy painter had been asleep and stared at me blankly.

“Arsit, this is the friend I told you about. You need to look after her until her father, M. Laghi, comes to get her.”

I handed him the amount we had agreed on that afternoon. It would have been easy to cheat Arsit; he seemed completely unaware of the value of money, but I felt sorry for the boy painter.

“I’ll use this opportunity to talk to her about art. I’ll tell her the story behind every statue, and I won’t even charge for it.”

Clarissa was awake now.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“You need to stay here until your father arrives. The abbot’s men will be looking for you both.”

“Why? What has my father done?”

“Nothing yet, but it won’t be long.”

“At one time I thought you’d rescue me from my father and help me escape. Instead, here you are turning me over to him. You call that love?”

Around us the crowd of statues seemed to grow larger and cast a disapproving murmur in my direction. Fingers and swords pointed at me. Arsit furrowed his brow in silence, as if he had to show a certain amount of indignation toward me and yet didn’t want to get too involved-as annoyed as any child by incomprehensible adult problems.

Clarissa disappeared among the statues, without a word, as if she knew her way, as if she were returning to her birthplace.

Arsit looked at me with wide eyes, slightly overwhelmed by the sense of responsibility. He counted the money-or pretended to count it-and then, as if accepting his position as king of that underground world, ordered me to leave with a wave of his hand.

The Locked Door

The one hundred copies Hesdin had printed were soon sold out among the Pont Neuf booksellers, where a whole community of obsessive readers went in search of forbidden words. Most of them were spies, paid by the Church or the police to obtain texts and study them. Even innocent readers wanted to join their ranks, as this assured them unrestricted access to books and the money to buy them. In exchange, they simply had to add a title to the Index every now and then. There was no higher prestige than the sparkle of the flames; they only increased the mystery surrounding a book-and its price.

Ever since the Encyclopedie appeared, the number of these undercover agents had grown. They were the first to leap on every new release and vie for the copies. One informant didn’t know another: each believed he was the only spy in a world of innocents. There were readers trained in Athanasius Kircher’s cryptography who could decipher any code; others interpreted the pages in terms of political allegory; and the most keenly intelligent, prepared to arrive at innocence through the complexities of intellect, were charged with the literal meaning. Through one method or another, every interpreter found a hidden truth.

The Jesuits had come to dominate the literal interpretation, which was actually the most difficult. Believing that an attack on the Dominicans might improve their position, they disseminated their own version of The Bishop’s Message. At the time, I had no idea of the journey that story had taken and believed it had been swallowed up, like so many other books printed in Paris every day. Often they would shine while a conversation or a dinner lasted and then disappear without any need for bonfires.

I walked past the Auberge du Poisson, afraid to go in until I was sure no one was waiting for me. If Von Knepper had kept his word, the other message, that brief confession, would already be engraved on a metal plate and would have taken over the automaton’s memory. I took a stroll and soon discovered one of the abbot’s guards. Tired of the wait, he was pretending to be blind, stretching his long, yellow fingers out to passersby who were trying to avoid him. He had begun to take his disguise so seriously that he was whispering who knows what threats into the ears of pedestrians, reaching out for them with his cane, its sharpened tip encouraging charity. He was a failure as a spy but a success as a beggar, and the hours of waiting had filled his pockets. I walked away with my eyes closed, like a child hoping not to be seen. I wandered the city for the rest of the day, not knowing where to spend the night that was coming, the night that had arrived, the night that was ending.

Very early the next morning, almost unintentionally, my footsteps led me to L’ecole de Medecine. Perhaps Kolm would still be there, testing his machine. The iron gate was open. When I reached the long, empty corridor, I could hear the sound of keys in the distance. I was so afraid of that noise, I had to convince myself the sense of danger was only in my imagination.

The room where Kolm was searching for the perfect machine was locked, but there would be no shortage of keys to unlock it. Signac, accompanied by the blind pretender, was suddenly beside me. The keeper of the keys held a lamp over my head, while his colleague brought the sharpened tip of his cane to my throat.

“All our lives, we open and close doors without realizing the consequences,” Signac said. “It’s like in the fairy tales: one door leads to the treasure and the other to the dragon’s den.”

Signac handed me a key. I knew something terrible was going to happen the moment I opened the door. I recalled the story of the Syracusans: perhaps I had come to the room where an executioner was waiting for me.

The key turned easily in the lock. It took some effort to push the door open, however, as the end of a rope was lodged between it and the frame. The door finally gave way and the rope was released.

I heard the whisper of the blade and then the impact. I don’t know whether Kolm had ever managed to test his machine on a cadaver, but it worked perfectly that time. The blade slid down the greased rails and cut cleanly. The head fell on the wooden floor and rolled to my feet. Kolm’s eyes were still open.

Signac lifted the lamp, and I could see that the machine looked exactly like the illustration of the Halifax gibbet. Kolm’s body was tied to a long table. His hair and the collar of his shirt had been cut to facilitate the blade’s work. I was still holding the key that had made me the executioner’s executioner.

“Do you know what Kolm said when I explained my plan?” Signac asked with a push, forcing me to walk down the corridor. “Now anyone can be an executioner.”

I heaved a sigh of relief at leaving that bloodstained room. The blind pretender walked ahead. The keeper of the keys came behind, locking doors as he passed.

Silas Darel

We crossed the central patio with its thorny plants and blue leaves used for calligraphic pursuits. In the middle of the courtyard were two deep ponds made of black marble. There were sturgeon, squid, and a fish that glowed in the deep: all of them were used to make ink. In no hurry, the keeper of the keys and the blind pretender led me across patios and up stairs.

We finally came to the calligraphy hall. Tomes as big as coffins stood on the bookcase. An astonishing collection of quills and inks filled cabinets and shelves. The smell of the inks mingled with the stuffy air. In among bottles stacked in the shape of a tower, a star, a cross, I saw a human skull that was used as an inkwell and quills so enormous it was hard to imagine what bird they had been plucked from. The two guards who had brought me moved away, leaving me apparently free. Such implements could only have belonged to Silas Darel. I began to look all around me, in search of the great calligrapher, when I saw a small office. It was down a few stairs; I had to duck my head to enter.

Darel was working and didn’t look up. His hands were so white and fine it was as if a sudden movement might break them; his long nails looked like slivers of marble. He was concentrating on every stroke, writing slowly and forcefully, giving the words a definitive quality. This contrasted with the faint shadow of his hand on the paper and was itself another form of writing that seemed to say: for every word that remains, countless others