Lesage trailed along the narrow forest tracks behind Madame Picot, fretting still about how they might get to Paris. It was, after all, much too far to walk – especially with the woman injured – and they had no money for transport. Had she made a proper spell? What kind of witch was she, really? Perhaps not a very accomplished one, after all. This thought consoled him slightly – perhaps he would be able to find someone in Paris to unwitch him? Surely La Voisin would know some sort of conjuration or could locate something in one of her many books? Then he remembered the wolf Madame Picot had summoned and his confidence ebbed.
He comforted himself with thoughts of Paris. Paris. The city trembled on the far horizon of his imagination. The smell of bread, its bustling women, the hoarse cries of boatmen drifting up from the muddy old Seine. Truly a city of dreams. Sometimes, while rowing in the galleys under the ferocious Mediterranean sun, he had glimpsed cities floating on the water, magical palaces with towers and churches, shimmering with life. He’d heard of convicts who, convinced of their own imminent deliverance, leaped into the water at the sight of such palaces and paddled into the distance. Always a mirage, of course; as they drew closer, the buildings would reveal themselves to be no more than a heat haze upon the water, some broken wood, three fishing vessels flinging out their nets. Paris, however, was no illusion, and he would arrive eventually and somehow escape the spell of this wretched woman.
‘You’re fortunate I am your guide,’ he called out to Madame Picot as he scurried after her. ‘Paris is a most dangerous city, oh yes. Filthy, my God. Full of rats and other vermin. Bodies lying dead in the streets. Horrible carrion birds everywhere, living off the refuse. You know, I’ve heard some people refer to it as the City of Crows. And a man I know told me that many of these crows are inhabited by the souls of dead witches. Yes.’
Lesage paused to catch his breath. ‘And the Parigots themselves are a very coarse people,’ he continued. ‘It’s where the worst in all of France come together. Violent, rough. Speaking all sorts of hideous tongues and dialects, several of which I speak myself, of course. Oh yes. You are lucky, madame, to have a man of the world such as myself at your disposal.’
Alas, it was indeed true what he told her of the city; despite its pleasures, Paris was a dirty, stinking place of muddy streets and dim houses. One saw all types of people and heard all sorts of garbled languages in the street. There were men and women, it seemed, from every corner of the globe. Thanks to his years travelling as a wool merchant, however (and his time in the galleys with all manner of despicable foreigners), Lesage could understand and make himself understood in a wide variety of tongues. After all, one could not do business without at least a few words of the dialects they used in the more backward parts of the country – not to mention those merchants in other cities and ports. He understood most villagers in the Pyrenees quite well, for example, with their language like that of bears; a little of what they spoke in the Low Countries; Italian and Spanish, of course; plus an assortment of other tongues, some Latin. Versatility was what a man needed in this day and age. Versatility, oh yes. Besides, the woman might be a witch but it was clear she knew almost nothing of the wider world. What was the harm in some embellishment?
But Madame Picot stopped and raised a hand for him to be silent. Dear God, what now?
She scowled at him. Scowled! As if he were a child.
‘Be quiet,’ she whispered. ‘Do you hear that?’
He strained, but heard nothing other than the endless birdsong of the forest and the rustle of leaves in the trees. They were probably leagues from anywhere.
Madame Picot revolved slowly on the path, features fixed, listening. Lesage was afraid she might again darken the sun or – he dreaded to think – something worse.
Then, without another word, she stepped off the track and disappeared into the undergrowth. He glanced around, then followed. Soon enough, he heard what Madame Picot had doubtless been referring to. A melody picked out on a flute – high-pitched and tremulous, like that of a lone forest angel. Soon they came to a glade in which a number of people were gathered in the dappled sunlight. A crow launched itself from a tree branch and disappeared into the arboreal murk, leaving one of its black feathers to flutter to the ground.
There was a wagon with a canopy of brightly coloured patchwork fabric affixed to its side. Another, larger tent was set up nearby. Smoke from a fire rose in a single grey thread. Clothes were spread out to dry on bushes. There was a handcart piled with household possessions. A donkey was tethered to a tree, a lute rested against the wheel of the wagon. It was, quite obviously, a family of troubadours.
Lesage had seen such performers, usually Italians, on numerous occasions at the fair at Saint-Germain or on the Pont Neuf – juggling, dancing, telling stories of courage and singing their bawdy songs. This one was a motley group indeed; several adults, plus a number of children scattered about. A girl with one frosted eye gazed at him and Madame Picot with her head aslant. A boy was tossing several balls up and down in the air and a tall, dark-haired woman cradled her baby in one arm as she bit into a red apple.
Madame Picot grasped his sleeve. ‘What is that creature?’
Lesage followed her gaze and noticed – could it really be? Yes! – a monkey on a chain squatting by the wagon. Good Lord.
A fellow around Lesage’s age was the first of the adults to notice them hovering at the edge of the clearing, and he stood from his card game. The flute player halted his song. One by one, all the members of the group stopped what they were doing and stared at them. The forest fell silent.
‘Good morning,’ the man called out eventually.
He was dark-skinned, narrow-shouldered and wore a beard trimmed in the Spanish style. Strands of black hair trailed from beneath his cloth cap and an uncertain smile twitched along his lips.
After an awkward pause – in which Lesage waited for the witch to speak, for it was she who had led them here – he introduced himself and Madame Picot to the troubadours.
The strangers declined to offer their names, merely nodded. A most suspicious gathering.
‘You are entertainers?’ Madame Picot asked.
‘Yes,’ the bearded man answered.
‘Are you performing for the birds in the trees?’ she asked with a wave of her hand.
The man grinned, perhaps as surprised and impressed by her spirit as Lesage was. A gold ring glinted in his ear as he glanced around at his companions. ‘We would perform for them if they would pay us in anything other than song,’ he said.
‘You are going to Paris, then?’ Madame Picot asked.
‘Yes, madame.’
‘We are searching for some men who have my son. Perhaps you have seen them?’
The fellow shrugged. ‘We see many people on our travels, Madame Picot. What do your friends look like?’
‘These men are no friends of ours, monsieur. One of them is called Monsieur Horst. My boy is named Nicolas Picot.’
Some of the troubadours exchanged glances; it was clear they had indeed seen this Monsieur Horst.
Madame Picot stepped forward. ‘You saw them, didn’t you? When did you see them? Where?’
‘They made camp not far from us here in the forest, but they left before dawn.’
‘Were they going to Paris?’
‘I suppose so. They took the road to the north. They had several children in their covered cart. They were orphans, one of the men told me.’
Madame Picot turned to Lesage. Her face, previously so wan, was flushed with colour as she smiled.
‘Why do you seek them, madame?’ asked the woman with the apple and the baby, who was by this time standing with one hand resting on the shoulder of her older daughter. She nibbled her apple, wiped the back of her wrist along her mouth and flung away the core. The baby emitted a little croak and was comforted by the woman.
Lesage cleared his throat. ‘They have stolen the boy,’ he said. ‘We think they intend to sell him in Paris.’
The gaze of each of the troubadours swung across to him, like that of a many-headed creature. Even the monkey paused in its chittering to stare at him with its big brown eyes.
‘These types of villain are well known hereabouts,’ Lesage went on. ‘You’re lucky they didn’t take any of your own beautiful children, madame. They would fetch a fair price. As servants, I mean. And other, worse things. The baby . . . There is quite a trade in this sort of thing, as I am sure you have heard. Sorceresses sometimes make use of them . . .’
The woman nodded. ‘I have indeed heard. And who might you be, monsieur?’
Lesage hesitated. There, in his chest, fluttered the joyful thrill of invention. He placed a hand on Madame Picot’s shoulder, as the woman had done with her own daughter. ‘I am . . . a friend of Madame Picot’s family. An old friend of her father’s. And her son’s, of course. Nicolas, that is. The child’s father died of fevers. The child’s brothers and sisters are . . . all dead. Her brother was killed tragically in the wars. Nicolas is the only true family she has left and she will not survive very well without someone to help her. We have been seeking these terrible men for days so we might rescue the boy and alert the authorities to their trade. I can assist her for a time, but I must return to my own family in Normandy. But a woman, all alone in the world . . .’
When lying, Lesage knew, it was advisable to cleave as closely as possible to the truth. The tale he told was a convincing one and, fortunately, Madame Picot did not contradict him.
There was no need to elaborate; everyone knew that women who found themselves in the world without family were fated to become servants, whores or thieves – probably all three. If such women were fortunate, they might be taken on as a maid somewhere and not beaten or taken advantage of in a more despicable manner. Whatever happened, a miserable existence beckoned.
There was another lengthy silence as the troubadours ruminated on the paucity of Madame Picot’s prospects. At last the tall woman spoke again.
‘I am sorry to hear that, madame. I myself have lost children and a sister to smallpox,’ she said.
Lesage grimaced in an effort to convey his sympathies. ‘And . . . how far is Paris from here?’
It was the bearded man who answered. ‘Hopefully only two or three days, depending on the weather and the road. We are in a hurry. We are told they are threatening to close the city gates against plague and we need to arrive in time for the summer season.’
This was pleasing information indeed. ‘May we travel there with you? Monsieur Horst and his associate attacked Madame Picot when they took her son. She was badly wounded in the shoulder by an arrow and it’s most painful for her to walk far. She could perhaps travel in your wagon? Show them, Madame Picot. Show them.’
She drew back her shawl to reveal the blood-encrusted neckline of her dress. It was indeed a grim sight, and gasps and general grumbles of disapproval emanated from the gathering.
‘I am sorry for your strife,’ said the man, ‘but we are not in the habit of taking on travellers. We have trouble enough feeding our own families.’
‘But we can help your performance,’ Madame Picot announced.
Chuckles from the troubadours. A few of them exchanged words in a dialect Lesage didn’t recognise.
‘Is that a fact?’ one of them asked eventually, barely concealing his mirth. ‘Can you tell stories, madame? Sing or dance?’
‘No, but my friend here is a great fortune teller. He is most accomplished at reading a person’s future in his deck of tarot cards. He was taught by a great Arab scholar.’
This bold declaration caught their attention and there followed a round of murmurs. The troubadours exchanged impressed glances. Lesage, however, was unsure of the wisdom of uttering such claims; travelling entertainers, after all, were themselves a deceitful and wily tribe and it was dangerous to attempt to fool them.
Madame Picot had by this time, however, grasped Lesage’s hand in her own. He attempted to squirm free as discreetly as possible, but to no avail. Injured or not, the woman was strong. Stronger – and, perhaps, more cunning – than he first thought. The troubadours looked at him with renewed interest and there appeared no elegant way to escape the situation.
He loosened his collar with his free hand and smoothed his weathered coat. ‘Yes. My name is Lesage. At your service.’
The man with the cap introduced himself as Vincent Leroux, and the woman as his wife. Then, the troubadours debated among themselves in their dialect.
‘What are they saying?’ Madame Picot whispered to him.
Lesage hadn’t the slightest idea, but before he was compelled to confess this fact, the tall woman with the baby approached him with a faintly mocking smile.
‘Is it true what Madame Picot says about your skill with these cards?’ she asked.
‘Of course, madame.’
‘Then come, Monsieur Nostradamus. I am most curious, for I have never seen this done before. Tell me what these cards say about my future.’
Lesage sensed Madame Leroux appraising him sceptically as he settled himself beneath the coloured canopy on a stool facing her. As usual, a woman’s scorn aroused in him a complicated amalgam of resentment, self-pity and reassurance; there was no doubt that his unlovely physiognomy – in these matters, at least – comforted his customers, for no one fully trusted a handsome man. Still, he wondered how a mere travelling entertainer had acquired such hauteur. If honest, he would be compelled to admit the woman intimidated him.
He glanced around to ensure they were sheltered from prying eyes, as he had requested. Over the years, he had found that a sense of intimacy – not always possible – generally aided the experience, especially with married or widowed women; they invariably delighted in someone giving them their full attention, even if the man doing so was as unattractive as he.
Lesage heard people talking outside, the clucking of tongues, as the troubadours dismantled their camp. He took his tarot cards from his satchel, but Madame Leroux spoke before he could begin, and her voice was laced with suspicion.
‘Do you not sense, monsieur, that we have met before?’
He hesitated. Did he recognise her? Leroux, Leroux, Leroux. Did he? No, but who could tell? How many thousands of cards had he interpreted over the years, how many charts had he drawn up?
At last he shook his head. ‘No. I don’t believe so, madame. I would certainly have remembered a woman as lovely as yourself.’
Clearly unimpressed by this cheap flattery, she continued to inspect him, brow furrowed, before shrugging off the matter. ‘Come then, monsieur.’
Lesage unwrapped the cards from the threadbare scarf. He muttered a few Latin words under his breath, in prayer or supplication, before taking up the deck and shuffling them with a show of great concentration. Then he held out the cards to her. ‘Now, Madame Leroux. I want you to place one hand on these and close your eyes.’
She did as he asked, thus affording Lesage the opportunity to scrutinise her face and any other uncovered parts of her body, such as her weathered forearms and neck. There was much to be deduced about someone from the clothes they wore, the way they sat and the pendants or trophies they hung about themselves. Like many of her ilk, Madame Leroux wore battered silver rings on several of her brown fingers – some of them bearing astrological markings – but there were no remarkable scars or bruises on her body. She was thin-lipped and strong-jawed, a woman who had seen many places. Her black hair was greying around the temples. Her headscarf was green and blue, probably foreign, her dress made of brown fabric. Around her neck a rough wooden cross hung on its length of string. She was an attractive woman, no doubt, simultaneously sturdy and soft. Strong nose, dark lashes and brow. A luxurious, piquant warmth rose from her throat. The back of her hand covering the deck of cards had a few minor scars, but her nails were in quite good order. No missing fingers, no fever blemishes in evidence. In short, there was nothing from which he might hang a bold prognostication. He would do a simple spread, then. Five cards.
The baby, he noticed with a slight start, was staring at him with its watery black eyes, which resembled a pair of plums marinating in oil. The child looked sweaty, unwell. A fly landed on its cheek and walked around in erratic circles before buzzing away again. The child didn’t even appear to notice, let alone object. Most unsettling.
‘You may open your eyes now, Madame Leroux. Thank you.’
On his scarf Lesage laid out five cards in a loose cross, making cryptic noises of surprise and deliberation as he did so. Madame Leroux watched him attentively.
With fingers interlaced beneath his chin, Lesage stared for a long time at the cards. Three of Batons, the Chariot, Knight of Cups, Page of Coins and, lastly, the Star. He nodded thoughtfully and waggled his head from side to side as if in mute discussion with himself. What he had understood instinctively upon encountering this magical world all those years ago was that people were really paying for the performance of magic as much as for the magic itself. It was like seeing a theatre show of Molière’s. A black mass, some mumbled words in Latin, the tap-tap on the bedhead with a wand made of hazel. Smoke and mirrors. Why, his own particular monkey trick – which had been so successful for him, and of which he was inordinately proud – involved little more than a ball of wax, some saltpetre and a fireplace. Poof! Your message has been delivered to the Devil. They paid for warnings, yes, but also – and perhaps more importantly – for reassurance, for hope and some version of faith. On one hand they desired mystery, but on the other hand they wished it explained.
‘Well?’ Madame Leroux urged with some impatience. ‘What does it all mean?’
‘Yes, madame. Here we have the past in these two cards, so things which may have happened to you already. The things that perhaps influence your future, of course. Three of Batons. A lot of responsibility, a heavy load. It indicates that you are a most caring woman. This, in symmetry with the Chariot – do you notice the beautiful, yellow-haired lady borne by the two white horses? – indicates devotion and fertility, both of which are most important in a woman, of course. It suggests to me that you are also most devout. Important also in these godless times, what with the heretics of the reformed church everywhere. Don’t touch the cards, please. Thank you, Madame Leroux. Only I may handle the cards while a reading is in progress. But it really is an excellent spread. Here, the Knight of Cups, also on horseback. But I can see some sadness in your life, something damaged right here – do you notice the cracked vessel? A broken heart when you were a young woman, perhaps? Was there another man who might have gone away? And has there been pox somewhere in the immediate family?’
‘My sister. And two children. As I told you.’
‘Ah yes, of course. How sad.’
‘Common, too.’
He ignored the scorn in her voice; best, perhaps, to concentrate on her future. ‘Yes. It is the times we are in, I am afraid. But here, this is more pleasing. There seems to be no suggestion of shameful death for you, madame. No indication of melancholy, I am happy to say . . . Your health is robust, Madame Leroux. That is clear. There is some wealth, but not a great deal. The times will sometimes be hard for you. But wait. Oh . . .’
Madame Leroux fixed him with her blue eyes. ‘Yes? What is it?’
Lesage nodded, as if an idea were being communicated to him from a voice audible to him alone. ‘I see more death in your family.’
Surprisingly, the woman laughed. ‘You will need to do better than that, Monsieur Lesage. Predicting death in these days is a simple matter. We are all fated to die, are we not? And most of us before our allotted time. What can you see that I myself could never foretell?’
‘Well, I –’
‘Who will die, and of what?’
‘I am reluctant to predict with precision, madame.’
‘You should try to if you wish to travel with us. A peasant audience can be a dangerous beast if you do not give them what they have paid for. I have seen them throw men into a pond if they suspect anyone of cheating them out of their money.’
Lesage exhaled and attempted to smile. The woman was right, of course. People were unpredictable.
‘Water,’ he said at last.
‘Water? What of it?’
‘You should take great care around water, madame. See this here? The woman of the Star card with her vessel beside the river?’ He shrugged, as if to convey that he had seen this all along but had been reluctant to speak it for fear of upsetting her. ‘I see death by water.’
‘My own death?’
‘Well, these are your cards, madame.’
‘Rivers? Ponds? Buckets?’
‘River, I would say.’
‘At what age? Soon?’
He looked again at the cards. ‘Not for some time,’ he said after further thought. After all, it was wise not to be too explicit.
‘And these cards of yours . . . ?’
‘The tarot.’
‘This is the future, then?’
Lesage repeated for her the analogy he had given Monsieur Scarron – of God’s plan resembling a river and how its natural course might be altered if one is forewarned. Madame Leroux gazed down at the cards for a long time, stroking her cheek with a beringed thumb, apparently ruminating on all he’d told her. Then, abruptly, she indicated the baby wedged in her arms. ‘Read my baby’s cards. Tell me what the future holds for my boy, Jean.’
Lesage was reluctant. ‘I’m not sure there is much to be read for such a baby.’
‘But surely there is everything? An entire life?’
‘How old is he?’
‘He was born not long after Easter.’
Less than a season old. Lesage took up the cards and shuffled them. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Three cards will be enough for the baby, I think. Ab aeterno . . .’ He touched the deck to the child’s forehead, then put out three cards.
They were not good cards at all. Lesage recoiled. Never before had he seen such a combination. The House of God, the Devil, and the Nameless Arcanum with his bloodied scythe. They suggested bloodshed, chaos, violent death. The child would be lucky to survive the year. Despite this, Lesage reassured Madame Leroux and made one or two vague predictions – Jean could become a good blacksmith, he should be alert around strange women, the boy needed to be wary of the plague, for it would surely seek him out if she weren’t careful.
When he had finished, Madame Leroux nodded and rose from her stool. She seemed impressed. ‘Thank you for the warnings, monsieur. I will keep my son as safe as I can from the disease. I myself will take great care around water, for it is true that I cannot swim.’
Lesage got to his feet. ‘Do we have an arrangement, then, Madame Leroux? Will you take us to Paris?’
Madame Leroux looked perplexed. ‘Of course, monsieur. The woman’s child is missing. We must assist her as best we can.’
Lesage’s warning over baby Jean’s possible encounter with plague added more urgency to the troubadours’ journey and they made swift progress. Despite his odd circumstances, Lesage was pleased; Paris was all he wanted to see and now they would get there soon enough.
Including Lesage and Madame Picot, there were nine of them in the troupe. Vincent and Agnes Leroux and their three children: Marguerite, Antoine and the baby boy, Jean. The other man was Guillaume Boucher, Agnes’s young brother-in-law, a widower travelling with his only surviving son, Charles.
On account of her injury, Madame Picot was persuaded to ride in the donkey-drawn cart, along with Marguerite and Charles. She sat staring straight ahead, chin tilted upwards, as if expecting to detect the presence of her son or Monsieur Horst by smell, rather than any other sense. Whenever they encountered a merchant or trader on the road, she asked if they had seen some men with several children in a carriage. A Monsieur Horst? Nicolas Picot? Some shrugged, others nodded, a vague pointing finger indicating further along the road. That way, they said, or, This morning we saw some people very much like that, it might have been them, who knows, we didn’t ask who they were. There were further rumours of plague, warnings of bandits, stories of the King’s victory at a siege in the Low Countries.
The other members of the troupe took turns pushing the handcart, which was piled with cooking utensils, clothing and the various costumes and other items they needed for their performances. They stopped at a market town, where Madame Leroux told several lively stories to the children and adults gathered in the square by the church. She was a wonderful storyteller and regaled them with the tale of ‘The Ant and the Grasshopper’, of ‘The Milkmaid and her Bucket’. Next, Monsieur Leroux sang the famous ‘Ballade des dames du temps jadis’, accompanied by his daughter Marguerite on her recorder. Lesage knew the song, of course – who in the world had not heard it? – but was touched afresh by its lament for Heloise, and by its persistent refrain: Mais où sont les neiges d’antan? So beautiful that the audience was struck quiet.
Meanwhile, the hideous monkey, Roland, wearing a red hat on its head and a bell around its neck, cavorted and was a great asset to the show, frightening and delighting the crowd with its antics. The boys juggled and Lesage read the tarot cards for several villagers using a simple wooden box as a makeshift table. Madame Picot assisted him in this, moving through the crowds to ask if anyone wanted their futures told by the one and only Lesage, and then escorting them to where he sat. Those she brought to his table were simple folk, farmers and merchants, a sad-eyed former soldier with only one arm. And what did Lesage see in his cards; what did the Wise One foretell? Death, of course, the infidelity of woman or man, perhaps an accident with a plough. Take great care around Italians, my dear; be wary of women with green eyes; never ride a grey horse; don’t take in a three-legged dog. The usual things.
Afterwards, Lesage watched Madame Picot as she moved among the crowd collecting coins and asking if anyone had seen her son or this Monsieur Horst. None had, or none who admitted to it. Then the troubadours tallied the money they had made, packed up all their things and set off.