Terrified by the noise, the horses reared up. Dufort, distracted by the fireworks, lost control of the reins, grabbing at the sides of the carriage to stop himself from being thrown to the ground. The horses, now wild with fear, were galloping. Up ahead the road turned, and Yann could see that at this speed the coach would skid on the ice. He could hear Têtu shouting as he was thrown from side to side. With difficulty he scrambled down from the coachman’s seat.
“You’re mad!” yelled Dufort, as with one measured leap Yann managed to mount the first horse. Holding on to its neck for all he was worth, he leaned forward and whispered into its pinned-back ears. At the sound of his soft voice both horses became calmer and slowed down until they finally came to a halt, steam rising from their glossy coats. Yann climbed down and stroked their muzzles, talking to them in a language that the startled coachman was sure he had heard before.
“You’re a brave one and no mistake,” said Dufort, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I thought I was a goner back there.” He handed Yann his flask as they set off again. “There’s a thing! What did you say to them?”
Yann shrugged, looking back to see the last of the fireworks as they illuminated the château before it too disappeared altogether.
“The only other person I’ve seen talk to horses like that was a Gypsy man. I had a feeling you two had Gypsy blood.”
Yann wasn’t listening. He was wondering if Sido had been allowed to see the fireworks, or if she was still locked in her chamber. He smiled as he stared at the road in front of him. The thought of how angry the count would be to discover that the purse and the red necklace were missing warmed him.
Dufort shivered. “I always think them forests are full of eyes, all watching and waiting.” He laughed. “Tell you this, boy, I’ll be glad when I see the lights of Paris.”
Yann looked into the woods of beech trees, their silvery barks catching the reflection of the carriage’s lights. An owl hooted, and its haunting cry followed them as they made their way down the icy road. An hour and a half later he was allowed into the carriage, where, half frozen, he quickly fell asleep.
Têtu woke him just before dawn. The coach had reached the gates of Paris. Through a gap in the curtains Yann could see crowds of people all waiting to be let into the city in the hope of earning the price of a loaf of bread. The carts that had food to sell were being heavily guarded by police and soldiers. They were the first to be let in, while the begging and pleading from the crowd rose in volume.
“Get away with you,” bellowed the gatekeeper. “There’s no work in the city. It’s frozen solid like the rest of this blasted country.”
Groups of starving people were being forcibly turned back, while others yelled that they had papers.
At last the carriage came to a standstill.
“How are you, Dufort?” they heard the gatekeeper inquire.
“Why, Monsieur Gaspard!” said Dufort with genuine surprise. “What are you doing here? A new job, I see, and a good one.”
“A good one, this, dealing with the rabble every day? You must be joking! I only got it because the old chap had a heart attack. They say one man’s misfortune is another man’s misfortune.” They both started to laugh.
“Is the viscountess with you?” asked the gatekeeper.
“No, thank the Lord.”
“So why did she send you back empty?”
“She wants me to fetch her monkey. I’ll be back this way as soon as I’ve got the little beast.”
“A monkey,” chuckled the gatekeeper. “I’ve heard it all now. Away with you.”
The carriage set off again, lurching from side to side as it made its way over the cobbles and over the Pont Neuf, and then they were on the right bank of the Seine. There, in a narrow side street, Dufort stopped, climbed down, and unlocked the door.
“You did well, my friend,” said Têtu.
Yann was too tired to do anything other than take some coins from the purse and hand them to Dufort.
“This is too much,” said Dufort, looking longingly at the money in his hand.
“Keep it,” said Têtu.
"Very decent of you.You’re good people,” said Dufort, climbing up again and taking hold of the reins. “I reckon it’s me who should be thanking you for saving the coach. I owe you one.”
The snow had started to fall again. Yann put his hands deep in his pockets. He could feel the purse, and the weight of it reassured him that they had money left over; but the red necklace had vanished.
“Come on,” said Têtu.
With heads bowed, coats pulled tight around tired, cold bodies, they walked toward the theater manager’s apartment in the Marais, knowing they had the unpleasant task of breaking the news of Topolain’s death to him.
Count Kalliovski, returning to his chamber in the early hours of the morning, looked into the heart of the fire. It had been a good night. He had watched as more money was lost than won at the gaming tables. The little black leather-bound notebook that he privately called the Book of Tears was full of IOUs with the trembling signatures of desperate souls longing to borrow more, sure that their luck would change.
Men’s morals were as insubstantial as tissue, and about as transparent, he thought. Oh yes. He had bought himself more foolish-minded men and women, who would soon be asked to pay him back with interest.
He put the Book of Tears on the desk. It was only then that he noticed the absence of the red necklace. A cold fury overtook him. Balthazar made a low growl, and he spun around.
“Who’s there?” he said to an empty room.
The count went over to the bed, felt in the drapes for the purse, and cursed out loud when he found it gone. With rising anger he summoned Milkeye.
“Where are they?”
“We’re still looking, master.”
“Why haven’t you found them?”
“They could be anywhere in the labyrinth of secret passages behind the walls,” said Milkeye. For such a big man he seemed to have shrunk in size.
“Show me,” said the count coldly.
Milkeye opened the hidden door.
The count took a candle and disappeared into the passage. Coming back into the room, he turned his icy gaze upon his servant, and pinned him up against the wall.
“I made you and I can destroy you, and I will. I want both of them. Do you understand?”
“Alive, master?”
“No, dead.”
chapter eight
Monsieur Aulard was not a morning person. The previous night he had been out drinking with some actors. Now, red-faced and snoring, he was fast asleep.
It took him a few minutes to realize that the terrible banging sound was not coming from the inside of his head, that it was something quite detached from him.
His parrot, Iago, who was sitting on his usual perch shipwrecked amongst the shambles of the bedchamber, joined in the commotion by screeching, “Wake up, naughty boy, wake up!” In a desperate attempt to silence the noise Monsieur Aulard threw his wig at the parrot. The knocking just kept on, getting louder and more urgent.
Finally, barefoot and shivering, Monsieur Aulard dragged himself out of his warm bed. His head felt like a rotten apple. His apartment looked as bad as he felt. The source of the noise was coming from the front door. He fumbled with the lock until he finally managed to open it. Two Yanns and two Têtus floated before him. They were swaying back and forth, overlapping each other.
Something was missing from this unsettling picture. There should be a third person.
“Where’s Topolain?”
Têtu walked into the apartment, followed by Yann. Even half awake and with a thumping headache, Monsieur Aulard could see that the dwarf was in a bad way.
“My dear friend, are you unwell?” He looked back at the door, expecting to see Topolain come panting up the stairs behind.
“Topolain’s dead,” said Têtu with a sob.
“Dead!” repeated Monsieur Aulard. “Dead? Not Topolain! He was larger than life. How can he be dead?”
“A bullet,” said Têtu, his face collapsing as tears appeared in his watery red eyes. “He was shot like a dog.”
“No, no, no!
Mort bleu!
Yann, speak to me, tell me this is a nightmare!” He grabbed hold of the boy’s flimsy coat so that the sleeve came away from the armhole with an unforgiving ripping sound.
“Count Kalliovski shot him,” said Yann.
“But why would Count Kalliovski kill Topolain?” His teeth were beginning to chatter. He pulled his housecoat tight around him and abstractedly went over to the fireplace, throwing a few wet coals onto the burning cinders. It had the immediate effect of puffing clouds of smoke back into the chamber and he started to cough as Yann opened the window.
The bitter coldness of the air cleared the smoke and Monsieur Aulard’s head too, long enough at least for him to realize that he was in deep trouble. He sat down heavily on an armchair whose horsehair insides were spilling out. It creaked alarmingly under the weight of his hangover.
“The trick must have gone wrong. It must have been an accident.”
“It was no accident,” said Têtu. “The count knew exactly what he was doing. He tampered with the pistol.”
“But why would Count Kalliovski, who is famous and respected, murder a mere magician?”
It was the question Yann had been asking himself all the way back to Paris, a question Têtu up to now had refused to answer.
"Because,” said Têtu wearily, “Topolain recognized Kalliovski, and instead of keeping quiet he let his tongue get the better of him. Topolain knew him from a long time ago, when he was called by another name.” He spoke so quietly that Monsieur Aulard was not sure that he had heard him correctly.
Yann could see that if Kalliovski was a fraud he would want no one knowing it. Still, Têtu’s explanation raised more questions than it answered. He put a half-frozen pan of wine on the fire to boil, searched through the mess to find some glasses, and cleared the table as Têtu took one of the loaves from out of his jacket, where it sat before them like a golden brown sun.
At the sight of the loaf, Monsieur Aulard’s attention wavered from his immediate grief. “Where did you get that?” he asked.
“From the Marquis de Villeduval’s kitchen.” Têtu broke off a piece and handed it to him.
The hot wine and bread worked their magic on Monsieur Aulard. With a huge sigh he went to get dressed, reappearing with his wig placed lopsidedly on his head, his waistcoat buttons done up wrong, and his shirt hanging out.
“I have a full house, all tickets sold and no performer!”
“You’ll have to find someone else,” said Têtu.
“Mort bleu,”
said Monsieur Aulard. “I tell you, if I weren’t so kindhearted, I would have you two thrown onto the streets for your failure to protect Topolain. Why, he was one of the greatest magicians France has ever seen!” He wiped his eyes and, putting on his heavy outer coat and scarf, opened the front door, letting in a blast of icy wind from the stone stairwell. “You can’t stay here, you know.”
"Don’t worry, we’ll soon be gone,” saidTêtu. “Count Kalliovski is after us too. We had trouble getting out of the château alive.”
“
Mort bleu!
You know who he is too, don’t you?”
“Yes, for my sins, I do.”
“Who is he, then?”
“That,” said Têtu, closing his eyes, “would not be worth my life to tell you.”
Monsieur Aulard arrived at the theater and started to make inquiries to see who could fill Topolain’s place for the evening performance. He sat at his desk and opened the bottom drawer, where he found what he was looking for, a none-too-clean glass and a bottle of wine. He pulled out the cork and poured himself a drink. It tasted good. He closed his eyes, taking another sip.
He opened his eyes with a start. There, sitting in the chair before him, was someone he had never seen before, but who he knew at once was Count Kalliovski. It was as if the devil himself had appeared from nowhere.
The shock made him choke on his wine, spraying it over his desk. Desperately he tried to recover himself.
"Mort bleu,
you gave me the fright of my life,” he gasped. Pulling out an overused handkerchief, he wiped his mouth and then the desk. “I didn’t hear you, monsieur!”
“Where are they?” demanded the count.
“Where are who?” said Monsieur Aulard, hurriedly refilling his glass.
The count’s hand in its black leather glove moved effortlessly toward the stem. With his fingers spread, he pinned the glass firmly to the table. “You know very well who I am after. The boy and the dwarf.”
“I know no such thing,” said Monsieur Aulard, trying to summon up much-needed indignation. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me where Topolain is.”
“Topolain is dead. I’ll wager you’ve been told as much by the dwarf. It was I who pulled the trigger. A most unfortunate
accident,
” said the count with emphasis.
Sweat was beginning to form on Monsieur Aulard’s forehead. The room felt uncomfortably hot.
Kalliovski leaned forward and stared menacingly at him. “I need information.”
Monsieur Aulard felt an icy trickle of sweat creep down his back.
“You will tell me where they are hiding. I know you know where they are,” said the count, standing up.
“I assure you I do not. I haven’t seen them,” said Monsieur Aulard. Each word he spoke sounded shakier than the last.
“You have until the curtain goes up at seven to tell me,” said the count. “If you fail”—here he gave a mean, thin-lipped smile—“if you fail, I hope for your sake that you have made peace with your Maker.”
The door closed behind him as poor Monsieur Aulard waited to make sure that he had gone. Then, grabbing hold of the bottle, he drank what was left.
It was three o’clock and still snowing when Monsieur Aulard trudged up the stone stairs to the front door of his apartment. It swung alarmingly back and forth on its hinges.