A Spark Unseen

Henri paused, listening. “He says he has much family in Paris, brothers and cousins, all men that can close their mouths — he means hold their tongues, Miss Tulman — and that Jean-Michel pays for little jobs to be done, finding out about things, about the buying and selling of metals and certain …” Henri hesitated. “… chemicals, and the building of ships, and that this has put bread on the tables of his nieces and nephews. He says that Jean-Michel has no love for the emperor, or this war. …” The translation halted as Joseph sighed. “But always, he says, Jean- Michel is searching for a man.”

I did not have to ask the name of the man. It was Ben Aldridge. “And what did Jean-Michel find? Ask him that.”

Henri listened to the man’s response and said, “He does not know. He says Jean-Michel never tells him why, or what his information means. …” Henri smiled at the flow of French coming from the slouching man, his eyebrows rising slightly. “But he says that if Jean-Michel asked him to fight another Waterloo, then he would fight another Waterloo, and sing while he did so, and that his brothers would do the same. Because Jean-Michel, he is like them, but he is not like them. He is noble.” Henri put his dark eyes on me. “That must have been a very large favor your servant did, would you not agree, Miss Tulman?”

I didn’t answer. I was watching Joseph, who was still speaking, his eyes on mine. “He says after Jean-Michel left the silver shop, they were to meet regularly at Rue Trudon, but now Jean-Michel is not here. And he says there are men watching the house.”

I drew a quick breath. “English or French?”

“French,” Joseph replied directly. “They are … discrets.”

“The men are discreet,” Henri translated. “Combien?”

“Trois,” the man answered.

Three Frenchman watching the house. The emperor, then, not Mr. Wickersham. I retrieved the slip of paper I’d found beneath Lane’s bed, sliding it across the dining-room table until it lay beside the fish. “Does this mean anything to you?” I asked.

Joseph glanced at it and shook his head, pushing it back toward Henri, who told him what it said. The man frowned. “Soyez prudent, Mademoiselle.”

“He says you should be careful, Miss Tulman,” said Henri.

“Ask him if he saw Mr. Babcock,” I said. “The small man who arrived in the carriage with me.”

When he had finished asking, Joseph spoke quickly. “Yes,” Henri replied for him. “He left with two of the men who had been watching. Early in the morning, the day before yesterday.”

I let out my breath. Mr. Babcock left with two Frenchman. So that crime was at the hands of the emperor, too. The fury that had accompanied my grief stretched out for the idea of Napoleon III like Uncle Tully’s snaking blue electricity was drawn to the next pole. Obviously the emperor must believe the weapon my uncle could produce was powerful indeed, much more valuable than one lawyer’s life. But how could he know that my uncle was not dead? Unless it was French agents that had opened Uncle Tully’s grave, and not Mr. Wickersham’s men?

Joseph was still talking. Henri interrupted with a quick question, listened, and then said, “He says it did not look like an unfriendly meeting. But he did not see the little man come back. I do not think he knows your friend is dead.”

Joseph’s face blanched at the word. “Mort?” he asked, looking back and forth between us. Henri spoke, evidently explaining while Joseph shook his head. When Henri had finished, the man spewed forth French at such a speed that I could not catch a word.

“He says your business is dangerous, that he worries for his family and Jean-Michel, and that he and his brothers will watch no more.” When Henri stopped talking, Joseph gave me one more long look and held out a calloused palm.

“He wishes you to give him the key, Miss Tulman,” said Henri.

“Wait. Ask him where we can find him, and will he come to us if he hears of Jean-Michel?”

This was done and Joseph said, “Rue Tisserand,” as he nodded. I put the key to the dining-room door in his hand. He said something quickly to Henri, unlocked the door, left the key in the lock, and after another moment I heard the front door slam. The slouching man was gone.

I turned to Henri. “What did he say? At the end?”

“He said that I should watch out for you, for Jean-Michel’s sake. That Jean-Michel used to talk of your beautiful hair.”

I got up and went to the sideboard, to see if the tea might still be hot, but mostly to keep Henri’s teasing eyes away from my face. I touched the red cap that sat there.

“Such amusing times I spend with you, Miss Tulman. Truly, it is never dull.”

I did not find it amusing in the slightest. Henri lit a cigarette. I let go of the hat, but did not turn around when I said, “Mr. Marchand, would you take me to the Tuileries? Are there public rooms?”

He blew out smoke. “I might take you, perhaps. If you are truthful with me.”

I turned around. “You think I am dishonest?”

“Maybe you do not lie, and yet you do not always tell the truth.”

“I can go to the Tuileries on my own.”

“No, Miss Tulman,” he said, teasing set aside. “No, I think you cannot.”

I thought of Mr. Babcock, canny and shrewd in his horrible waistcoat, and felt a sharp ache in my chest.

Henri asked, “Who are these Frenchmen that watch your house?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yet you thought they were perhaps English.”

“It seemed a logical question.”

“And who is this man Jean-Michel was looking for?”

I saw Ben Aldridge as I’d last seen him, his look of curiosity as I aimed the rifle scant seconds before his boat became a fireball. “He is no one. A dead man.”

Henri smiled as he blew a puff of smoke. “And you were also looking for a dead man, Miss Tulman. And now you seem to have found him.”

I had found nothing. Nothing that had brought him to me. I grabbed a handful of the red cap. Ten days since Lane had not returned to Mrs. Reynolds’s house, seven weeks he had lived there before that, and Mr. Wickersham had informed me of his death nearly two months ago. What had happened? He had left British employ and become the protege of Mrs. Reynolds at about that time, that much was certain. But to what purpose? Certainly not to “pursue his art.” I knew Lane better than that. Could he have been arrested quietly, as a spy? Is that why Mr. Wickersham could or would not claim him? And yet Joseph had said he was to meet Lane six days ago at Rue Trudon, and Lane had been gone from Mrs. Reynolds’s for ten. Had he left on purpose? And if so, what had happened since? Joseph had not seemed aware of Lane’s ties to Britain or Mr. Wickersham, or anything concerning my uncle at all, but perhaps this was calculated as well. All Joseph had admitted was Lane’s dislike of the emperor, the man who had killed Mr. Babcock.

My thoughts swirled in confusion, and I felt the tears once again threatening my eyes. “I do my utmost for the house of Tulman,” Mr. Babcock had once said. And as Uncle Tully was at this moment sitting safe in his attic, that must have been exactly what Mr. Babcock had done. To the very end.

I looked up to find Henri watching me closely. All this time I had been still, squeezing the knitted yarn of the red cap. “Will you take me to the Tuileries?” I asked again. A flimsy clue at best, but it was all I had.

But before he could answer, Mrs. DuPont flung open the dining-room door. She was animated, flushed, actually suffused with a pale pink color that made her look distinctly … alive. I felt my eyes grow wide as she hurried to the table and handed me an envelope. Large, made of thick, pale ivory paper, and with a very official- looking seal pressed into red wax. I cracked the seal, looked over the contents without comprehension, and silently handed the letter to Henri.

He ran his eyes over the words and said, “I think there will be no need to escort you to the Tuileries today, Miss Tulman. You are invited there tomorrow. To the emperor’s ball. And you are invited by Napoleon himself.”

Mrs. DuPont erupted into excited speech that seemed to be for no one but herself while I looked again at the invitation. I saw my name now, formally inked in the midst of the print, and I felt the challenge, just as clearly as if