To be imprisoned is to spend all of one’s time longing for the life one can no longer experience. In the dungeons, convicts spoke of the countless things they missed from their lives as free men; memories that, like coals, needed to be banked diligently to ensure their continued warmth. Women were always a favoured topic, of course – those they had been with and those they would never again see. Whores, wives, food, children, the dark thrill of particular forests. The smell and flavour of a lemon found on the ground beneath a tree. A river near a man’s farm where he could catch magnificent eels, a famous night of debauchery, a much-loved hound. But, for Lesage, it had always been Paris. Over the years he had worked hard at keeping the city alive in his mind; even in his worst moments he could recall almost every road, every building and bridge of the great metropolis. At night, deep in his dreams, he had strolled past the grand townhouses of the Place Royale, across the river to the fair at Saint-Germain, then back beneath the benevolent, lurid sculptures that adorned Notre-Dame before crossing the Pont Neuf with its gaggle of boats and barges floating on the river beneath like geese awaiting scraps of food.
The city had grown larger and busier in his absence. The previous evening, as soon as they entered through the Port Saint-Jacques, he noticed more signs of industry, many more houses, greater numbers of carts and barrels, larger piles of rubbish and ordure in the streets. When it came time to part ways with the troubadours, Monsieur Leroux had recommended the house of the widow Madame Simon in Rue Françoise, where Lesage was indeed able to find dingy rooms for Madame Picot and himself. It was clear that Madame Picot was terrified; as they hurried through the dimming city, she had gazed apprehensively upon the buildings and the crowds of people, at the runnels of muck in the streets. And this morning, when he suggested she remain indoors until he returned with intelligence about her son, she nodded with evident relief. She was a strange creature, as if she were uncertain, exactly, of how to use her own abilities.
He ruminated on the Queen of Coins he had turned up for her. It indicated the treasure, of that there was no doubt. But should he mention this to Catherine Monvoisin? Or wait? Something told him to wait. Prudence was generally the best course of action, he thought. Patience. Yes. He hurried across Rue Montorgueil with his chin tucked to his breastbone, unsure if he wished to be recognised or not. While imprisoned he had, of course, envisioned his return to Paris (men and women stopping him in the street to shake his hand, general outpouring of emotion), but now that he was here he thought it wise to keep a low profile. Besides, he felt ashamed of his threadbare clothes, of his wigless scalp. He certainly did not look his best.
Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he headed into the outskirts of the city. It was still sparsely inhabited, but there seemed to be more villas in Villeneuve than he recalled. Even here, he thought. The city has spread even to here. Although it was still early morning, there were quite a lot of people in the streets. Ladies, maids, merchants and beggars. Grey pigeons waddled here and there like little tutting nuns, their fat necks bobbing with disapproval. A cobbler was repairing shoes with his hammer. A scrawny peddler woman with a cane basket at her hip and two infants clawing at her skirts sang out her wares. ‘Peau d’agneau, conil, peau de veau . . .’
Three bearded gentlemen stood talking by the road. Smartly dressed, they were, with fine leather boots, luxurious-looking wigs, bright cloaks and ostrich feathers jammed into their hats. One of these men observed Lesage as he passed them, and the man’s idle, wholly uninterested gaze again made him aware, suddenly, of his own appearance and attire. Once he had commanded a degree of notoriety in this part of the city. There goes Adam du Coeuret, people would whisper. The magician who works with La Voisin. The great fortune teller. But no longer. Thus far he had managed to keep at bay his concerns that the world had irreversibly moved on and left him sinking as if into a swamp, but now this fear returned with renewed vigour.
He paused glumly at a street corner and considered how terrible it was to have once had prestige, to have been someone whom ladies and gentlemen sought for advice. Not only had he been able to imagine the future, but he could – with La Voisin’s assistance – even fashion it on occasion. Fate was certainly cruel.
A carriage rattled behind him. He adjusted his sleeves, then lifted his hat momentarily to arrange the little hair that had finally grown back upon his head. The hat, purchased in Marseille, was ill-fitting; it had been a hasty purchase. And the clothes they had given him at the port prison! Dirty, torn. He pondered the probable fate of the man whose clothes he now wore, however, and this cheered him up somewhat. In addition, the injury to his scalp was, at least, adequately covered. That was something. Yes, something.
But how strange it was to be back in Paris again after all these years – and at the street of his lover, no less. It was a moment he had fantasised about so fervently while imprisoned in the dungeons that, here at last, he feared it might reveal itself to be merely another cruel dream. A dream within a vision. He wondered about Catherine’s husband, the feeble Antoine. Was he still living or had she managed at last to kill him off? Many years earlier – when their love and desire was fresher and more impatient – they had cursed the poor fellow and buried a sheep’s heart in the garden, only for Lesage to lose his resolve and urge her to disinter the fetid thing when Antoine fell gravely ill. After all, to cuckold a man was one thing, to murder him quite another. Was anyone he knew still alive, for that matter? La Bosse? François Mariette? Abbé Guibourg? Lesage prayed that Catherine would still be living at Rue Beauregard, near the city’s northern walls, for she was his best hope of escaping the clutches of Madame Picot.
The high, ivy-covered wall bordering Catherine’s house was as he remembered. Lesage paused to catch his breath, then glanced around before opening the heavy door and entering the garden.
Catherine’s consulting pavilion was at the rear of the property. Lesage crept along the side of the main house, lifted the latch on a low wooden gate and, once inside, peered around the corner of the villa. The past assailed him like a great hound loosed from its chain, and he pressed a hand to his throat as if to prevent it from mauling him. Those walls, the gravel path, the windows glinting in the morning sun.
He had met Catherine when he first came to Paris in the spring of ’67, and had fallen under her spell almost immediately – as, it seemed, she had fallen under his. They were introduced by the Norman, Pierre Galet, whom Lesage knew from his youth. Ostensibly a shepherd, Galet had a profitable sideline supplying herbs, flowers and other useful and hard-to-obtain substances to numerous Parisian midwives, witches and apothecaries. Foxglove, powdered diamond, mandrake, unicorn horn, Spanish fly. With her curious mixture of piety and ruthlessness, Catherine Monvoisin was unlike any woman Lesage had ever met. Indeed, she often swore her powers were God-given, and that she had been using them since she was a girl – in which case, how on earth could they be wrong?
There followed a profitable partnership. Lesage and La Voisin had become famous among the city’s witches and fortune tellers and they rapidly established a loyal clientele and helped a great many people – for a suitable price, of course. People from all over the city consulted La Voisin: tanners, ladies, fishwives, sailors, soldiers, tallow chandlers, priests, seamstresses, butchers, laundresses, nobles. Each of them with their heart swollen with secrets and desires – which rarely differed from person to person. Please, madame, my husband beats me. My daughter is pregnant. My wife is standing in the way of my inheritance, if you understand what I mean . . . The appetite among aristocrats and commoners alike for a little illicit ritual was insatiable. Often it was no more than enhancement of a lady’s breasts or a cosmetic paste to improve the complexion, but Lesage and La Voisin also arranged marriages, drew up astrological charts and conducted ceremonies to secure loyalty or desire. There were the occasional concoctions to dispatch family members, of course, and Catherine specialised in taking care of prospective unmarried mothers, while Abbé Mariette could perform the necessary priestly devotions that gave charms their necessary power. Strictly speaking it was illegal, but no one bothered them. Besides, it was well known that half the priests in the city were engaged in some mischief or other; those that weren’t living with whores were drinking and brawling in taverns. La Voisin heard more about the goings-on in the city than almost any other person; if anyone knew or had heard of Nicolas’s whereabouts, it would be her. There was even a good chance she was involved in his sale.
And then, suddenly, there she was, Catherine Monvoisin, looking more regal than ever, if that were possible. She had grown plump, slightly rounder in the face and body, although this in no way detracted from her beauty. Her fine mouth, her compassionate blue eyes, her pale throat. She stepped from the shadows on the far side of the garden but did not notice him, so absorbed was she in securing a red velvet robe at her throat with a gold clasp. The cloak was thick, most handsomely decorated with gold trim and lined with dark fur; sibylline, as if she had finally ascended the throne she had coveted for so long. She was, truly, the queen of the Parisian underworld. Lesage stepped back and covered his mouth to stifle a gasp of admiration and alarm.
Catherine was muttering to herself, doubtless any number of the curses or prayers usually ready on her tongue, but upon hearing his footfall, she glanced up angrily. She narrowed her eyes. ‘You there. Who are you? Do you have an appointment?’
Lesage stepped out of the shadows.
‘What do you want?’ Catherine bellowed. ‘I am not ready. I’ll call my servant . . .’
‘Catherine, it’s me – Adam.’
She looked again, this time more closely. Her eyes widened. She whimpered and pressed a hand to her bosom. ‘My God, Adam. Is that really you?’
He took another step. ‘It is.’
She drew away, crossing herself and muttering more entreaties. ‘Ave Maria . . .’ She did not look afraid, for La Voisin seldom displayed fear but, rather, merely scorn for those things she did not yet fully understand. The woman was momentarily speechless, however, and glanced around, as if for assistance. The unfastened cloak dropped to the ground.
‘No, Catherine. Please. Don’t cry out.’
‘Is it a miracle?’
‘No.’
‘Have you come to torment me? But . . . I have confessed all my sins. Ask Abbé Davot. I have done nothing wrong.’
Lesage smiled. Still the same Catherine, whose motto might be: Always be bolder than the next woman. ‘That I doubt,’ he said, then added the phrase which Catherine herself employed to console those who were wary of requesting some occult task of her: ‘But we are all sinners in our way. It is how God made us, is it not? Imperfect.’
‘Please, monsieur. What I do is ordained by God himself. You can ask anyone. Helping people is all I do. Helping women. Men, too. Some charms, cosmetics, a little enhancing of the bust or other features. Women sometimes need help, that’s all. I baptise the babies if they show signs of life. They are buried in consecrated ground, if possible. I save their poor souls. As for the women, if they are whores, it is no fault of mine.’
Lesage knew that some of this, at least, was untrue, but he smiled nonetheless and walked across the garden towards her. ‘Let me help you with your cloak.’
She shrank away slightly, then stood her ground. ‘Is it really you, Adam?’
Lesage stopped and held out his hand. ‘Come, Catherine. I told you I would return. Do you remember when you visited me in Châtelet when I was arrested? And you promised to welcome me home, however long it took? Do you remember that?’
She laughed almost girlishly, obviously relieved. ‘I thought you were a spirit come to torment me. But you’re not, are you?’
‘Of course not. It’s me, Catherine.’
After a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and grasped his hand. She released him quickly, however, nodding approvingly, but seemed unconvinced. ‘You are much changed, Adam.’
Lesage began to weep. He was ashamed but unable to stop, as if some sorrowful tide had burst its banks. Finally, he managed to contain himself. ‘Oh, Catherine. I have spent years chained to a bench, rowing like a Turk. The things I have seen. Things no man should see. Disease, murder, violence, the vilest sodomy. No one could remain unchanged by such things. They made monsters of us.’
‘But is your sentence finished already, Adam? It has not been nine years.’
He shook his head. ‘No, no.’
‘Did you escape the galleys, then?’
‘Oh, it is far more bizarre than that.’
‘Then it must be bizarre indeed.’
He nodded, gathering his thoughts, still overwhelmed.
‘I saw you on the chain when you left Paris,’ she said.
Although it was five years ago, and much had happened in those intervening years, Lesage remembered that terrifying day only too well; the heavy chain at his waist and neck, the crowds along the route as the column of desperate thieves and killers shuffled along the muddy streets from the prison of Bicêtre in their convict attire of red cap, jacket and pants. It was not long after the feast day for the Nativity of Mary, but there was already a chill in the air. He had searched for her face in the crowd, looked for anyone he might recognise, but did not see a soul he knew. Certainly not Catherine. Boys jeered and threw fruit at the convicts. The Parisian summer had already been grim – river trade had been suspended due to an outbreak of plague and anyone with means had fled the city – but on leaving Paris that day, Lesage felt as if he were being herded into hell itself.
Catherine smiled and appeared to soften. ‘I promise I was there.’
He did not quite believe her but, as ever, a mysterious and painful tenderness towards her swelled in his chest. It was a sensation no other woman – not even his poor, long-suffering wife Claudette – had ever aroused in him. It was love, he supposed, or its nearest relative.
‘We walked all the way to Toulon chained together like that,’ he said when at last he could speak. He bent down to retrieve her heavy cloak and patted it free of dirt. ‘Please, Catherine. Let me help you with this.’
She considered him, then turned around so that he might secure the clasp at her throat. ‘I need your help,’ he said when it was done.
Catherine spun around. ‘What have you done, Adam?’
‘No. Nothing. I have done nothing.’ Suddenly exhausted, he lowered his voice and shook his head. ‘I can barely bring myself to say the words out loud.’
‘What is it, man? I hope you are not bringing trouble to my door.’
‘May I sit down?’
She hesitated. ‘Of course.’
Lesage eased himself onto one of the chairs beneath the tree and rubbed a hand across his face. ‘I have been thoroughly bewitched. A young woman . . .’
Catherine narrowed her eyes, then held up one hand for him to pause in the telling of his tale. She turned aside. ‘Marie!’ she yelled in the direction of the main section of the villa. ‘Get out here now.’
There was a sound of running feet and, presently, a fretful-looking girl with a coal smudge on her chin peered out through the doorway. Lesage recognised Catherine’s daughter, who was no longer the child she’d been when Lesage had last seen her, but was probably now thirteen or fourteen years old. Almost a grown woman, good enough to eat.
Marie started at seeing Lesage, but greeted him courteously, then cowered in the doorway. And no wonder – God alone knew what tasks the poor girl’s mother had her do around the villa. Helping at her ghastly ceremonies and holding the hands of ladies while Catherine poked about inside them with her giant syringe, burning blood-heavy cloth and the curdled clots of vestigial babies. He shuddered at the thought of the oven in the nearby consulting pavilion and those who’d been devoured in its fiery mouth. No. Catherine Monvoisin’s business was certainly not suitable for such a sensitive girl – or any girl, for that matter.
‘Is there anyone here to see me?’ Catherine asked Marie.
‘One lady has arrived in her carriage, madame. She asked me –’
‘Tell her she will have to come back later. And leave us alone for a little longer.’
The girl hesitated, perhaps considering whose wrath it might be preferable to incur, but Catherine shot her an impatient glance, effectively deciding her daughter’s mind for her. Marie curtsied and vanished. ‘Yes, madame.’
A wise decision, Lesage thought; he suspected there were few ladies in the capital who could be as fearsome as Catherine Monvoisin. She indicated for him to continue.
Lesage herded his unruly thoughts. Where to begin? So many years of suffering since he left Paris in chains. Already it was hard to believe he had survived. Men falling dead by the road, the lashings and hunger, nights knee-deep in snow, murder and rape. Eventually, he told Catherine a little of his time in prison, of the battle with the Genoese galley, of his miraculous release from the dungeons and of meeting Madame Picot – the Forest Queen – on the road at dawn. He told her of the woman’s black book and her knife, of the enormous wolf she had conjured from the forest, of travelling with the family of troubadours. Of the darkness she had invoked and of her apparent – what was the word? – unworldliness, despite her powers.
‘She seems to know very little,’ he said, ‘but at the same time she knows so much. I think perhaps she has never even left her village before.’
His voice trembled as he told his tale. Catherine did not interrupt him, merely listened with hands clasped in her lap, nodding every so often, exclaiming with interest or surprise. When he finished, she said nothing for some time. This only increased his anxiety.
‘Power does not always come with the experience to use it wisely,’ she said at last.
This wasn’t a useful observation, but Lesage nodded nonetheless.
‘And this woman freed you from the dungeons to help find her son?’
‘Yes, although I am not sure what she expects me to accomplish.’
‘You have many skills, Adam.’
‘That is true, but they do not extend that far. I cannot see through walls. I am no mercenary. No soldier.’
‘Nor are you a saint.’
‘Indeed. But she seems to believe that I am some sort of, I don’t know, spirit.’
‘Perhaps you are?’
‘Catherine, please. That’s not funny.’
‘But she will free you if you find her son?’
‘No. That is the worst of it. She says not. She says I am not fit to be left to my own devices. Besides, who knows where the boy is? He might be anywhere.’
‘What’s the name of the man who took the boy?’
‘Horst. Monsieur Horst. Do you know anything of him?’
‘Horst, you say? No.’
‘Are you sure?’
She scratched at her ear. ‘Yes.’
‘Who knows what these ruffians might do with him. One of them shot Madame Picot with an arrow and left her to die. The boy is probably already dead by now.’
He said this hoping that Catherine would contradict him. But no.
‘Yes,’ she muttered, ‘quite possibly.’
‘Then I will surely be sent back to the dungeons. It is even more imperative you help me. Please. Is there some way you might be able to free me from her? A charm or spell? I spent years in the galleys and not once did I mention your name to anyone – not even when they threatened to put me to the question.’ This was not quite true – he had never been threatened with torture – but Lesage felt the need to press his case. ‘I was loyal, Catherine. Loyal. Remember what we always pledged? Corvus oculum corvi non eruit.’
Catherine seemed annoyed to be reminded of this. From the cleft of her ample bosom she fished out the gold cross she wore on a chain around her neck and lodged it between her crooked front teeth. Thinking, thinking. Lesage waited, perched on the edge of his chair. He felt sick with worry.
‘The woman has only one child?’ Catherine asked.
‘Only one still alive.’
‘Why not simply . . . get rid of her?’
He groaned. ‘I wish it were that simple. I must, in fact, look after her. If she dies, then I will be returned immediately to the galleys. I am like her . . . her shadow. Without her I cannot exist in this world.’
‘I see. Well, that is quite an impressive charm. Often with this kind of enchantment it is only the conjurer himself who might dispel it. She has a book, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose the first thing is to ensure this woman does not suspect her son is dead. As long as she believes there is hope for him, then you remain useful to her. I’ll ask some people if they have heard of him. This is a terrible situation. And I’ll look at my books today to see if there is some way to unwitch you.’
‘Sometimes she can hear what I am thinking.’
‘Truly?’
‘I told you. She has great powers, Catherine. But what if she doesn’t believe me?’
Catherine dropped her cross beneath her blouse, as if into a grave. ‘Dear God, man. Did you lose all your sense in the galleys? You can convince her that her son is still alive. I suspect you will not have lost your gifts of persuasion. Lie to the bitch. I know you’re capable of that. If she really is as provincial as you claim, then she’ll believe you. Besides, a mother will wait a lifetime to be contradicted over the death of her child. Trust me. Some sorts of love make fools of us all.’
Despite his despair, Lesage allowed himself a wry chuckle. ‘Except you, Catherine.’
She blushed at this – a little pleased, a little irritated – and shifted in her chair. ‘Oh, no. Even me. Tell Madame Picot you have heard no word of this Horst fellow. Reassure her. Bide your time while we find a solution to your troubles.’
Lesage was flooded with relief. Any previous misunderstandings between he and Catherine – and there had been several over the years – seemed to have been forgotten during their time apart. They spoke further, of different things. She told him that his former accomplice, Abbé Mariette, was back in Paris. This was no surprise; although Mariette had been arrested and put on trial in ’68 with Lesage for their various impieties, the priest – whose cousin was a magistrate – had merely been banished from Paris and had, Catherine said, reappeared in the capital after only a few months.
‘He is living now in Rue de la Tannerie with his latest whore. You should go and see him. I’m sure he would be happy to see you. Go over there this morning. Mariette will almost certainly be in. Priests like to fuck in the morning, you know, so they have plenty of time to confess before the day is out.’ At this witticism – doubtless well-used – she laughed uproariously. ‘And your wife? Does she know you have been freed?’
Freed, he thought bitterly. Hardly. ‘No. I am sure she thinks of me as long dead.’
Of this Catherine approved. ‘Is there anything else, Adam? Your cheek is twitching. Why does it do that?’
He began to prepare an explanation but, really, there was none. He was sometimes aware of this tic, which had begun in the earliest days of his imprisonment, but was powerless to control it. He shook his head, embarrassed. ‘I don’t know. Something happened. So much has happened to me in the past few years.’
‘You poor man. My poor Adam.’
They sat in silence for a time.
‘I have changed my name,’ he said at last.
‘Oh yes? Why is that?’
‘I felt it would reflect a new beginning, my new life as a free man. I am now . . . Lesage.’
She smiled and leaned forward on her chair. ‘Very good. Very suitable, too. Come now. Give me your hand. Let me see what lies in store for you from now on, Lesage. Let’s see about your future.’
There was no point resisting. He placed his right hand in hers and for a moment she caressed his fingers. The touch of a woman. Dear God. Hot tears welled in his eyes again. Displays of tenderness were agony for a man who had not experienced such a thing in so many years. Lovely. Many of the things Parisians said about Catherine Monvoisin were indeed true. That she was ferocious; that she had dealings with agents of the Devil; that she drank far too much wine. Yes, but what of her feminine softness, her willingness to help people in need, her vast store of kindness and wisdom? Her nature was more varied than most people knew, and it was almost certain that her great powers had been granted to her by God himself. She was not always charming, not always sweet – who could claim to be? – but she meant well.
‘You know, that bastard La Reynie is still making life hard for us,’ she said.
Lesage groaned at mention of the man’s name. Nicolas de La Reynie, that inveterate quibbler, had been appointed to the new position of lieutenant general of the Parisian police shortly before Lesage was sentenced to the galleys. Although Lesage had never actually met the fellow, he had glimpsed him during his time at Châtelet prison. He was renowned as a fierce man, so scrupulous – always casting his imperious eye over crowds, seeking felons among them as a weaver sought frayed thread in his cloth.
‘He has the ear of Louvois and the King,’ Catherine went on. ‘One can barely do a thing these days. You know, they even have lanterns on some street corners that are kept lit all through the night! Imagine that. Absurd. As if we cannot handle a little darkness. Lucky we are so far away up here. Did you hear that La Brinvilliers was almost arrested for murder, but she managed to escape to England? Scandalous. They got her lover’s valet instead. Hamelin. Tortured and broke him on the wheel only a few months ago. Quite the gruesome performance, it was. The executioner certainly took his time with that one.’
Catherine enjoyed executions and always attended them if she could. It was the spectacle, the sense that justice had been served, the opportunity to pray ostentatiously for a damned soul. She was well acquainted with the executioner – some said that they were lovers – and he passed along items stripped from the dead that were useful for her conjurations: hair, fingers, teeth.
‘He confessed to everything, of course, poor fellow. Poison. La Brinvilliers had been providing this Hamelin fellow with arsenic to kill all sorts of people. Her father, her two brothers. She herself had been visiting patients at the Hôtel Dieu for years in order to perfect her potions. Killed dozens of people before turning on her own family. It has been the talk of the whole town.’
‘And did you . . . ?
She shook her head. ‘No, no, no, no. It was nothing to do with me. Her lover cooked up the mixtures. A cavalry captain called Sainte-Croix. He poisoned himself accidentally, the fool.’
Catherine gripped Lesage’s hand more firmly and lowered her voice to a growl. ‘Let me ask you again, Adam: you have not brought any trouble to my door?’
‘Pardon? No. Of course not. Do you think I am a spy of some sort? Catherine!’
Catherine didn’t answer. Instead, she scrutinised him for a moment longer before closing her eyes and arranging her features into her most genial expression. Summoning the muse, she called this. Then she opened her eyes and inspected his palm. ‘Your lines have grown prominent, Adam.’
‘Lesage.’
‘Oh yes – Lesage.’
‘Great suffering, that is easy to see. Your years on those boats must have been difficult. Hardship. Yes. But here, this is interesting. The line of wealth has grown much stronger. How could that be?’
Lesage peered at his palm. She was right. His money line had grown much clearer.
She pressed him in creamy tones. ‘Is there anything you’re not telling me? Did you become rich?’
Such probing disturbed Lesage. La Voisin had always been able to see the truth behind what people said. This, after all, was part of her gift. He thought of the treasure map folded in the purse in his pocket. Already that morning he had sauntered past the site in Rue Saint-Antoine where the money was hidden. He had, in fact, intended all along to share the fortune with her, but his circumstances had changed in the past few days and he thought it wiser to keep this particular secret for a while longer. It was a skill, wasn’t it? Knowing when to divulge certain things. Speak too soon and the advantage was often lost. For one thing, there was Madame Picot, who – despite her apparent naivety – seemed more powerful than Catherine. He sensed, also, that Madame Picot could be more easily swindled once she had helped him retrieve the money. Besides, he was as yet unsure if he wished Catherine Monvoisin to share in his good fortune. So he shook his head and hoped neither his manner nor his tone of voice would betray him, for if La Voisin was a formidable ally, she was a deadlier foe.
‘No,’ he said as lightly as he could, ‘of course there is nothing I’m not telling you. One cannot make money in the galleys, Catherine.’
Still with his hand in hers, she leaned closer until their foreheads almost touched and he was enveloped in her fragrant female humidity. A storm of memory sprang up; she had always generated her own weather. So many happy afternoons had he spent with Catherine at the wooden table here beneath the linden tree – drinking wine, flirting, spinning their vast and intricate web. Her ambition, Lesage often thought, was to gather a compromising scrap of information about every man and woman in the capital to use as leverage for her own success. The department of births, deaths and marriages, they called themselves, to roars of laughter.
‘I have missed you,’ she murmured. ‘Paris has not been the same without you.’
His throat was so thickened with desire he was unable to speak for a moment. He coughed. ‘And I have missed you, Catherine. But what of your husband? Is he . . . ?’
‘Antoine is still alive,’ she said ruefully, ‘but knows enough to stay out of my way. I barely see the man. But I thought of you often. Said so many prayers for you, lit candles at Bonne Nouvelle. Yes, perhaps it was my magic that freed you?’
‘I only wish it were so,’ he said. And regretted it instantly.
She cast aside his hand and fell back into her chair. ‘You think this woman of yours is more powerful than me, is that it? This Madame Picot? This fucking peasant?’
‘No, no. It’s not that, Catherine. I only meant that it would, of course, be preferable to be under your spell. I would – willingly, of course – fall under your power. I’m sorry. My God. I didn’t mean anything by it. Please . . .’
He reached for her hand, which she surrendered – but only after a display of reluctance. Her mouth creased into a shy smile.
‘I’m sorry, Adam –’
‘It’s Lesage now, remember.’
‘Oh, yes. Lesage. I’m sorry. But pay me no heed. I am a foolish woman, sometimes. Jealous. It’s only because I have missed you so much. I’ll find a way to release you from this woman.’ She smiled, this time coquettishly. ‘And where are you staying?’
‘We have rooms in Rue Françoise, with Madame Simon. A widow.’
‘I see.’ She paused. ‘And this peasant? Has she beguiled you in other ways?’
‘No. No. It’s nothing like that. To be honest – and I know this sounds absurd – I am afraid of her.’
Catherine brushed his cheek with her finger. ‘But you are afraid of me, and that has not stopped you from enjoying my company on many occasions.’
Lesage opened his mouth to speak then hesitated, unsure if he could articulate a denial with adequate conviction. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘love makes fools of us all, Catherine. Is that not so?’
She smirked, appreciative of his wit, then rummaged in her robes to produce a purse that chinked when hefted in her palm. ‘Here. I told you your money line had grown prominent and, of course, I was right. Here’s a start.’ She held out the bag of coins by its tied-off neck, but mockingly, as one might dangle a parcel of sweetmeats before an ungrateful beggar. A fresh smile formed on her lips. Or, rather, not quite a smile but, at the same time, so much more. ‘And meanwhile, I will seek a solution to your dilemma, Adam. I’m sure we can think of something. Come and see me again tomorrow. And why don’t you bring Madame Picot? I would very much like to meet Paris’s latest witch.’
He paused. How best to phrase this? ‘I’m not sure, Catherine. At the moment, she knows no one in Paris. She doesn’t know the city at all. She’s afraid and I think that the fewer people she knows, the better it is for me – for us. Wouldn’t you agree?’ He cupped his hands, as if cradling a bird. ‘Then I can keep her contained, at least.’
Catherine appeared dissatisfied with his answer but nodded nonetheless. ‘Very well. Off you go, then. I have clients waiting already. But please – buy some new clothes before you come back here. You look like a bear handler.’
Lesage accepted the pouch. He loved money, of course – its very sound and smell – and yet this particular bag of coins did not make him feel as cheerful as it ordinarily would, for it seemed he was now indebted to not one witch, but two.