We sat in a clean kitchen, which smelled of cabbage, with scrubbed pots hanging from the ceiling. Joseph, face creased from his blankets, leaned on his elbows on the opposite side of the table, seated beside a younger, longer-haired version of himself, a man who introduced himself as Jean-Baptiste, one of Joseph’s brothers. The young woman that had opened the door — rather healthy in all her curves, I’d noticed — heated coffee at the stove while Joseph and Jean-Baptiste listened to everything I said, interpreted as necessary by Henri. Joseph rubbed his stubbled chin, pondering, as the young woman set down our coffee. I was grateful for it. I’d been too anxious to eat all day, and I was feeling the lack. After a long time, Joseph spoke rapidly in French, and I elbowed Henri’s attention away from the girl to tell me what he said.
“If the man is high in the imperial court,” Henri translated, “then there will be a heavy price to pay if we are caught.” The girl’s smile had vanished.
“Tell him that all they need to do is get the information and hold the man at my house. If they remain masked, then there is no need for the man to know who anyone is, and we only need to hold him long enough to free Jean-Michel and get a head start out of Paris. I have …” I glanced away from Henri. “I have a secure place to keep him. But also tell them that I believe this man will tell no one at the imperial court, that he will not risk admitting a failure. They can leave the door unlocked and slip back to their streets, and we will be out of Paris before he even knows he is free.”
After the translation, we waited, listening to the rasp of Joseph’s chin against his palm. Henri lit a cigarette. When Joseph spoke again it was soft, and Henri lowered his voice as well. “He says Jean-Michel was very good to Marie, his sister …” We all glanced at the curvy girl, who was flushing prettily. “… that he helped her out of a … a bad position.”
“Did he?” I replied, eyes narrowing. I’d hoped this Marie was Joseph’s wife.
Henri was still listening to Joseph, who was speaking with an occasional soft addition from Jean-Baptiste. Henri’s expression became surprised. “He wants to know if you know who trained Jean-Michel in silver, and the names of his parents.”
It was my turn to be surprised, both by the question and by the realization that I had no idea where Lane had learned his trade. I’d never thought to ask. The bodies around the table were still, waiting for my answer. “He must have learned it from someone in the village,” I said, “or perhaps from his father. But his father was a French soldier.”
“Moreau?” Jean-Baptiste asked after Henri’s translation.
“Yes, Jean Moreau. His mother was English, of the name Jefferies. Why …”
Henri didn’t bother to repeat this for Joseph and Jean-Baptiste, as they seemed to understand enough already. They consulted, their like heads close together. The pretty sister stood against the wall, chewing a nail.
“We will do it,” Joseph said in English, “for Jean-Michel.”
I only knew I’d been holding my breath when I let it out in relief. “And you can make him speak?” I said. “You can make this man tell you where Jean-Michel is?” This was essential, but I wanted no part of it.
“Yes,” Joseph said after Henri repeated my question, continuing the rest of his thought in French. When he was done, Henri’s dark eyes turned to me.
“He says that it will be a small blow to the emperor, but it will also be justice, for the old man.”
I nodded at Joseph and held out my hand. And though he was French and I was a woman, we shook like Englishmen. When we were done, I said to Henri, “Two more questions. Joseph said before that he had helped Jean-Michel find out about certain chemicals. Ask him if he can get me this.” I held out one of the little brown bottles Dr. Pruitt had given me, now nearly empty. “To make someone sleep.”
Joseph took the bottle while Henri spoke, sniffed the contents, and put one tiny drop on his tongue. He slipped the bottle into his pocket, muttering, and Henri said, “He says he will find out.”
“Also ask him what Jean-Michel wanted to know, what he has been waiting by the lamppost to tell him. Was it news of the man we’ve been speaking of?”
Henri asked, and then listened to the response. “He says no, it was not about the man, but a woman. Jean-Michel wanted the name of a woman in the hospital at Charenton.” Our eyes met briefly. It was the asylum we had visited. “He says he found the name.”
“And what was it?”
Joseph did not wait for a translation, but merely replied, “Therese Arceneaux.”
23
We made our way back in silence. The back alleys and boulevards had become sleepier in the hours before dawn. I followed at Henri’s heels, counting the repetitive motion of putting one foot in front of the other, a calming process that could be used as a background for sorting my thoughts. Lane had asked Joseph to find the name of a woman in Charenton, and the name had been Therese Arceneaux. I could not help but think of the woman who had stroked my hand, talking of her Charlie and Louis. The nun said she claimed the father of her child was the emperor of France, but she was a madwoman. Wasn’t she? There was certainly one man who believed it: Ben Aldridge, also known as Charles Arceneaux. And the emperor did not seem to be discounting the possibility either. I wondered what had led Lane to Charenton in the first place. He must have known that Ben was alive for some time.
I looked up and realized we were slipping through the street door of the courtyard, the sky the luminous sort of blue-black that comes just before the sun, the smell of earth and green a welcome change from the gutters and rubbish heaps of the city. We seemed to be alone but for a prowling cat, so we opened my back door, tiptoeing in like sneak thieves, and let it shut softly behind us.
Someone was in the kitchen, rattling the stove lids. “Go on through,” I told Henri, “I’ll see about getting us something to eat.” He nodded, rubbing his heavy eyelids, and moved down the corridor while I opened the kitchen door.
Marguerite stood at the stove, her head wrapped in a kerchief, her spoon dropping into the pot with a soft clatter when she turned to see who was behind her. The kitchen smelled of hot chocolate. Mr. DuPont, sprawling untidily in a chair at the table, seemed to wake up at the sight of me. “Ah,” he said cheerfully,
“Good morning to you, too, Mr. DuPont,” I replied, coming fully into the kitchen. I ignored the fact that he was once again not wearing a shirt. “What are you doing up so early, Marguerite?”
Marguerite lowered her eyes, turning away from me to fish her spoon out of the pot. She really was a lovely little thing, extraordinarily so.
Mrs. DuPont stood behind me in the doorway, a shawl around her nightgown, her hair hanging in a tight braid down her back, not a single strand out of place. “Marguerite,” she said in the calm, even way I found intensely irritating, “you have not spoken to Mademoiselle properly. Apologize at once, and then you will scrub the front sidewalk after breakfast.”
I glanced back at Marguerite, saw a slight twitch to her shoulders, and was stung to anger. No child deserved to be chastised for not responding properly to a lady dressed in Mr. Babcock’s pants. “Mrs. DuPont,” I said, “Marguerite is always polite, which frankly is more than I can say for you most of the time. And I’m quite sure my sidewalk is just as clean as it needs to be.”
Mrs. DuPont’s white face remained expressionless while Mr. DuPont shook his head.
Mrs. DuPont cut off this statement with a sharp,
