'And what did you find there?' asked Flynn.
'I found a tapestry. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and must be worth a small fortune. Do you understand why I'm so puzzled now?' she asked. 'Why does a man like that have such a valuable tapestry with him?'
'Follow me and do as I do,' ordered the Frenchman.
'I will,' said Daniel.
'And don't breathe in too deeply.'
'Why?'
'You'll soon find out.'
Daniel arrived for work late that evening to be met by another duty sergeant. He was issued with a nondescript uniform, the most significant feature of which was the thick leather belt to which a large metal ring of keys was attached. His partner for the night was Jules Rivot, a fat, slovenly man in his forties with a dark complexion. Rivot's manner was less than friendly and his face was a study in solemnity. Daniel could smell the beer on his breath. He trailed round obediently after the Frenchman. Rivot was slow and methodical. Patently hating the work, he unloaded as much of it as he could on Daniel.
'Give this one more water,' he said.
'Yes,' replied Daniel, filling a cup with a brackish liquid out of a wooden bucket before passing it through the bars to a prisoner. 'What about food?'
'He gets none till breakfast and only if I'm in a good mood.'
That seemed highly unlikely to Daniel but he said nothing. Rivot's warning had been timely. The reek was so powerful at first that it made him retch. He'd been assigned to the cachots, cold, dark, slimy, vermin-infested cells below ground where people were locked away and often forgotten. Some had clearly been there for a very long time because their clothes had worn away to shreds. One man, a human skeleton with hair down to his shoulders and a beard down to his chest, was almost naked. Rivot showed them no compassion. He simply held up his lantern so that he could see the occupants of each cell. The prisoners knew better than to try to talk to him but the sight of a new face roused a few of them. They came to the doors and gave Daniel ingratiating smiles.
'Ignore the bastards,' advised Rivot. 'They all want favours.'
'They don't seem to get any of those.'
'Not when I'm on duty.'
'Are all the prisoners kept in these foul conditions?'
'These are the ones nobody cares about,' said Rivot. 'We bury them underground like so many corpses. It's just as bad in the calottes, the cells under the roof. They're open to the weather up there. They get soaked by the rain and burnt by the sun. In winter, some of them freeze to death.'
'What crimes have they committed?' asked Daniel.
'It doesn't matter.'
'Are they thieves or kidnappers?'
'They upset important people.'
Daniel knew that the King had sent many of the inmates there by means of lettres de cachet, a pernicious document that had victims thrown into a rank cell without any judicial process. There was no appeal against such an indeterminate sentence. Louis XI V's favourites were also indulged. If one of them suffered a slight or was openly insulted, the offender could find himself deprived of his liberty on a royal whim. During their dismal tour of the cachots, Daniel checked every name and looked through every set of bars. Relieved that Emanuel Janssen was not among the miserable wretches kept there, he feared that the Dutchman might be housed instead under the roof and exposed to the elements. In some weathers, that amounted to continuous torture.
Some time during the night, they had a break from their duties and shared a tankard of beer and a piece of bread with the other turnkeys. Rivot preferred to eat in silence but one of the men was more talkative. He told Daniel that not everyone in the Bastille was treated like those in the cachots. Those imprisoned on the middle level of the towers had a more comfortable time. Being locked up was their only punishment. To relieve the boredom, they were allowed books, writing materials, visitors, pets and, if they could afford to pay for it, excellent food and wine.
'We had a Duke in there last year,' confided the man, 'and he lived in luxury. He was even allowed to have his mistress in the cell twice a week.' Nudging Daniel, he cackled. 'It must have been interesting to watch them in bed together. They say she was a beauty.'
'Who looks after prisoners like that?' asked Daniel.
'Not the likes of you and me. We only deal with the dross down here, my friend. Only the lucky ones get to work up there. They can earn a lot of money sometimes.'
'By taking bribes, you mean?'
'By doing a few favours,' said the man.
Daniel was heartened for the first time. It might be that Janssen had been given privileges as well. If he was imprisoned somewhere on the middle level of a tower, his health might not have deteriorated. His tapestries had earned him substantial rewards. Janssen would be rich enough to buy concessions from his gaolers. That vague hope helped to sustain Daniel through the long, malodorous, depressing hours below ground with inmates who might never see the light of day again. He put up with Rivot's bleak companionship and learnt not to be startled when a rat darted across his path. When his stint finally came to an end, he climbed back up into the courtyard and had to shield his eyes from the sun for several minutes.
He looked up at the imposing towers, wondering in which one of them Janssen was being kept. Daniel would never have the time or opportunity to search them all in rotation. He had to find another way to locate the tapestry-maker. He remembered the ledger that the duty sergeant used to check people in and out. That would surely contain the names and whereabouts of prisoners as well. Daniel had to gain access to it somehow. For the time being, however, he had to content himself with what he'd so far achieved. He was inside the Bastille and he'd acquired a convincing disguise. Further progress would have to wait. What he needed most now was fresh air, the chance to wash and a reviving sleep.
Major Simon Cracknell came into Tom Hillier's life when he least expected it. The drummer had been on the edge of the camp with Hugh Dobbs, throwing missiles playfully at him and trying to dodge the ones that were aimed at him. Twigs, clumps of grass and handfuls of earth flew through the air until Cracknell suddenly appeared. Both of the youths immediately dropped their next missile and stood self-consciously to attention.
'Is this how you spend your time?' said the major, looking at the dirty marks on their uniforms. 'You should be ashamed of yourselves.'
'We're sorry, Major,' said Dobbs.
'How long have you been in the army?'
'Four years, sir.'
'Then you should have grown out of these childish games.'
'We were doing no harm, sir.'
'Yes, you were,' said Cracknell. 'Apart from anything else, you were soiling your uniforms. This regiment prides itself on its appearance and your coats are covered in filth. What the devil did the pair of you think you were doing?'
'It won't happen again, Major,' said Dobbs. 'Tom and I didn't mean to get dirty. It was just horseplay.'
'Disappear and clean up that uniform. No, not you, Hillier,' said Cracknell as he tried to leave with Dobbs. 'I want to speak to you.'
'Yes, Major,' said Hillier, stopping in his tracks.
'What do you have to say for yourself?'
'I apologise, sir.'
'How often does this kind of thing happen?'
'It's the first time, sir.'
'Don't tell lies, boy!'
'Hugh Dobbs and I have never done this before.'
'Then what's this I hear about your getting into a fight?'
