The Red Necklace (30 page)

Têtu was exhausted. Sleep, he knew of old, was the only cure for his state. Still, he waited until the last of the audience had left, for he was curious to know the identity of the spirit that had come to his aid. Once more the darkened, empty stage was filled with light, and he saw her standing before him. There was no mistaking who she was. No wonder Kalliovski had been so frightened. She was even more beautiful than he remembered: the only woman the dwarf had ever loved.

“Anis,” he said softly, “so it was you. I should have known you would have been here for him.” He held out his hand toward her and felt something brush softly against his cheek, smelled for a moment her intoxicating perfume.

“Be careful,” she whispered as she faded away. “You are not out of danger yet.”

“Anis, Anis,” said Têtu longingly into the impenetrable darkness. But she was gone.

He wiped his eyes. Was he becoming a sentimental old fool? He told himself it was just tiredness as, tears running down his face, he walked back into the wings. Grief once more had made the world seem unbearable.

“You should have lived,” he said quietly. “You should have raised your own son. You would have been so proud of Yann.”

Monsieur Aulard caught up with Kalliovski at the main door of the theater.

“Têtu would be delighted to see you,” he said, still holding tightly on to his black cap. “He is backstage. He was most impressed by your abilities with the automaton, and so was I. I hope that if you ever need employment, you will remember my humble theater.”

Kalliovski grabbed hold of Monsieur Aulard by the lapels of his coat.

“Tell him I will see him later, and as for you—the guillotine is a hungry lady. Be careful.” He let the theater manager go, and Monsieur Aulard stood there mopping his brow as he watched the driver flick the horses’ flanks with his whip, reassured to see that Kalliovski was not heading toward his mansion. Finishing his story, he told Didier and Têtu with pride, “I wasn’t scared, because I had my black cap.”

Têtu stayed quiet. He had said nothing about knowing who the spirit was. Some things, he thought, do not belong here. They live in the hinterland between this world and another.

“Still, for all our grand gestures and daring deeds, this is a disaster. We have failed dismally in our task,” said Monsieur Aulard dramatically.

"Don’t be so hasty,” said Didier, bringing out Yann’s coat and taking from it the packet of letters and the leather-bound black book. Têtu grabbed them, and nearly dropped the book when he realized what the binding was made of.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d gotten the letters?” he cried.

“But Yann was shot! How did you get hold of these?” asked Monsieur Aulard.

“You shouldn’t have taken it for granted that because he was shot, he failed,” said Didier. “There’s more to that boy than meets the eye.”

"You’re brilliant,” said Têtu.

“I didn’t do it. It was Yann.”

The two men stopped as Yann came shakily into the room. Didier rushed forward to help him to a chair.

“What are you doing up?” asked Monsieur Aulard.

"I’m feeling better,” said Yann. He looked as white as snow.

"You’ve done very well to have gotten all this,” said Têtu.

Yann smiled. “The letters were hidden inside one of the Sisters Macabre.”

“Sisters Macabre?”

“They are automata. One had a red chamber in her stomach, containing the letters. Another gave me this. She called it the Book of Tears.”

“Wonderful!” said Monsieur Aulard.

Têtu rummaged about until he found a little bag of herbs. He put it in a jug with some boiling water, strained it into a bowl, and handed it to Yann.

“Here, drink this.”

It smelled and tasted so revolting that Yann spat it out immediately.

"What are you trying to do, Têtu? Poison me? Give me some water. That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“It will do you good, make you heal quickly. Come on now, drink it up.”

Yann did as he was told, and shortly afterward his eyelids began to close and Didier carried him back to bed.

That night only Didier and Yann slept. Monsieur Aulard and Têtu sat up reading the love letters of Armand de Villeduval and Isabelle Gautier.

“It breaks your heart to read of such great love. And that poor little daughter of theirs, lost and neglected! To think that she’s to be given to that monster Kalliovski! We have to save her!” said Monsieur Aulard passionately.

"We must get back to the prison,” said Têtu. He picked up the Book of Tears and started to look through it. “What’s this?”

“Just blank paper,” said Monsieur Aulard.

“I think not,” said Têtu. As he held it up to the heat of the candle flame, page after page of writing appeared. “You see? It’s sympathetic ink that can only be seen once it’s been heated.”

On the title page were the words
The Red Necklace,
and the following pages listed the names of all those who had borrowed money from Kalliovski, how much they owed, and what secrets they had given up for the loan.

“So much blackmail! Is there anyone he hasn’t bought?” mused Monsieur Aulard.

“There may be a few who were not blinded by his wealth and connections, but only a few, I’d say,” replied Têtu.

The dawn chorus had started when Monsieur Aulard at last put the book down. As he did so, a sheet of thin folded paper fell out, covered in elaborate flowery handwriting. He pored over it.

“Têtu, this is what we’ve been looking for!” he exclaimed. “If Sido is in any doubt about leaving her father, this will not fail to convince her.”

It was a letter from the present Marquis de Villeduval, addressed to Count Kalliovski, asking him to arrange the deaths of his wife and his half brother and of their daughter, Sido.

chapter thirty-one

Citizen Kalliovski’s carriage made its way slowly through the busy streets toward the Tuileries Palace. It was a warm night, busy streets toward the Tuileries Palace. It was a warm night, the buildings still retaining the heat of the hot summer. Nothing had cooled down, not the temperature, not the citizens, not the Revolution, not the war. The gated city felt like a vast witch’s cauldron, the flotsam and jetsam of its population slowly rising to the top, ready to boil over with frustration, hatred, and murder.

Kalliovski had not yet been home. There had been no time. The note that had been delivered to him at the theater was from Citizen Danton, telling him of a meeting that he should attend if he wanted Sido de Villeduval’s release papers signed. He sat cursing the fact that he was already late, angry with himself for having stayed so long at the theater, and wondering why Têtu had brought back Anis’s ghost. He raised his gloved hand and brought it down hard on the side of the carriage. Damn it, tonight of all nights. He didn’t need to think of her. He had sworn he would never think of her again.

He took out his pocket watch. He was now over an hour late. The carriage edged along, slower than a funeral march. He banged loudly on the ceiling with its painted cherubs.

“Can’t you go any faster?”

“No, sir,” the coachman called down. “Too many people.”

Kalliovski thought angrily that Danton would not have the manners to wait for him. No, they would all have conveniently forgotten just how much he had helped by supplying the money to buy extra pikes and arms. It was all well and good, wanting the citizens of Paris to put an end to the traitors in their midst, but bare hands and fine words weren’t enough. They needed weapons to be successful.

Tonight’s meeting was unofficial, by invitation only. It would be the last chance for Danton, Marat, and their cronies to trawl through the prison registers and to make quite sure that no one important had been rounded up by mistake, for tomorrow the killing would begin. Justice, for what little it was worth, would then be in the hands of the people: sheep, the lot of them, led by Marat, a leader of sheep who had ignited their imaginations with his clever words. What use was it, Marat argued, for a man to go off to fight for his country when the prisons were full of counterrevolutionaries? They would break out at the first opportunity and kill the innocents at home while the men of Paris were away fighting.

Kalliovski gave a thin smile as he thought, Oh world, beware of clever sheep. They are the truly dangerous ones, for they understand the stupidity of the flock, know just how easy it is to lead the people to slaughter.

At last the carriage stopped at the palace and Kalliovski made his way through the ill-lit entrance hall and down the forsaken corridors. Portraits of solemn, stiff-looking men in powdered wigs still hung on the walls in their gilt frames. How horrified they would be if they knew what was being discussed behind closed doors tonight! Not long ago the place had bristled with footmen and attendants, with dukes and princesses, with gossip and rumor and tittle-tattle. How many times had he been called upon to help some distressed viscount or embarrassed prince out of a difficulty? He had made a great deal of money from their follies. Now he saw no one, heard no one, just the click-clack of his own boots, and the scratching of Balthazar’s sharp claws, upon the marbled floors.

Whom did he prefer? This bunch, with their bull-like orators and clever sheep, rich in words but not much else? Or the king and the aristocracy, foolish, narcissistic people who could hardly babble out a sentence without tripping over their own protocol, but whose pockets were lined with gold, ready for the taking?

The question remained unanswered as Kalliovski entered the large antechamber adjoining the room where the meeting was being held. The imposing double doors were firmly closed. He was surprised to find so many people waiting, a motley group who must all, like him, have paid handsomely for release papers to be stamped.

Kalliovski walked past all of them and knocked loudly at the main door. It was opened by a lizard of a man with hooded eyes.

“I have a note from Citizen Danton summoning me here,” said Kalliovski. He was about to walk straight past, but the man put out a firm hand to stop him.

“Not so fast, citizen.”

“Do you know who I am?”

The lizard-man studied him carefully, from his immaculate black coat and high necktie right down to his shiny black boots.

“Well-heeled,” he said, slamming the door.

Kalliovski did not take kindly to such treatment. His blood boiled at the injustice of it. After all he had done for this miserable crew, he had no intention of waiting. Carefully brushing off any trace of the hand on his coat, he knocked again loudly. The same man opened the door.

“I have come for the release papers for Sidonie de Villeduval. I was told that they would be ready by now.”

“Then you have been misinformed, citizen. Look around you. You’re going to have to wait like everyone else. You’re no bleeding different. Equality, remember? That’s what it’s all about.” And once again the door was slammed shut.

Kalliovski was outraged. Such rudeness would not have been tolerated under the old regime. The man would have found himself in the Bastille for his impertinence. He went to knock on the door a third time. No one dismissed him like that.

“Sir, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a thin, anxious-looking man, getting up from his chair. “They’ve already arrested one person for being impatient. I am hoping to get my son out of prison. They took him in the middle of the night—for what, we haven’t been told. My wife . . .”

He stopped, seeing the look of indifference on Kalliovski’s face, and quickly returned to the safety of his chair.

Once more Kalliovski took out his pocket watch to check the time. His well-constructed plan must not fail at this last important stage. As soon as he had Sido’s release papers, he would go straight to the prison and have her freed, and then without further delay they would be married. He had even found himself a Catholic priest, one of the very few who was not languishing in prison, to carry out the deed. He wasn’t going to risk having a revolutionary wedding, not with the Duke of Brunswick so close to victory. He wanted the certificate to be aboveboard, to hold Papal weight, for then and only then would the considerable fortune finally be his. He might not have had the mother, but fate would give him the daughter and her inheritance. Revenge becomes all the sweeter, he thought, when it has been ripened by misfortune and then served cold, icy cold.

He smiled to himself. If the Duke of Brunswick were to invade Paris, he would have no hesitation in changing sides again. He was well aware that to have allegiances, to take a stand, to hold a firm political view, was the recipe for a short life. When the winds are liable to change quickly, it is best to be a reed and know how to bend. He had one motto, and it had not failed him yet. Have no mercy, show no mercy.

He walked back and forth, Balthazar by his side. Still the door remained closed. He had not bargained on this delay. He had planned to have Sido out of prison by now.

Time was dragging its feet, refusing to go any faster, as if it were hoping to keep night pinned to the stars. At last it let go and the inky dark sky gave way to the bloodred dawn.

The door of the antechamber opened. Everyone turned to see who the new visitor was. One of Kalliovski’s henchmen entered the room.

“What is it?” Kalliovski asked brusquely.

“I’m sorry to report, sir, that there’s been a break-in at your apartment.”

“You must be mistaken. Milkeye wouldn’t have let anyone get past him.”

“I am afraid I’m not, sir.”

“Where is Milkeye?”

“Out cold, sir. We can’t wake him.”

“Anything taken?” Kalliovski’s voice was like the hiss of a viper.

“No, sir. Milkeye must have shot the intruder. There’s blood all over the place.”

“Any sign of a body?”

“No.”

“Anything else?”