The late afternoon was much too sunny, the merchants were barking too loudly and Rue Saint-Denis stank more pungently of rubbish and shit than Lesage recalled – and yet how wonderful it felt to be back in Paris, inhaling its unlovely urban stench. His head ached dully after the rowdy evening he had spent with François Mariette in a tavern somewhere near the river. It had been a long time since he had been able to indulge in such an exuberant manner and he was unaccustomed to such carousing. His head ached and his eyes seemed not to be working properly yet. Under his breath he sang his nursery rhyme: ‘Les ennemis ont tout pris, ne lui laissant par mépris, Qu’Orléans, Beaugency . . .’
His fears that the odd events of the past few days were merely a lovely – but, ultimately, cruel – dream were evaporating with every step. In his mind’s eye he reconsidered everything as a jewel merchant might repeatedly examine a rare stone to ensure he had not, in his excitement, mistaken mere glass for a ruby: there was his visiting Catherine Monvoisin yesterday; travelling with the troubadours before that; encountering the witch Madame Picot on the road; and, where it all began, his unexpected release from the dungeons. Yes. Quite the adventure.
He glanced down at the new clothes he had purchased with the money Catherine had given him. A wonderful grey cloak, boots in the latest style, a new hat and a red wig. The wig was of horsehair only, unfortunately, but he felt it conferred on him a slight but alluring air of mystery – and a hint of eccentricity. Yes, here was the dirt under his feet, and in his ears echoed the cry of a fishmonger; here was the usual congregation of women and children clustered around the Fontaine des Innocents like flies on a fresh wound. Undoubtedly, it was all true and real.
His thoughts were interrupted by someone shouting. A bearded man was gesticulating on a street corner. He was shoeless, with ragged clothes and a large wooden cross strung around his neck. A monk, judging by his appearance, fulminating about the apocalypse and damnation and so on. Angels and trumpets and disease and the dead rising from their graves; the usual things. Lesage had heard this sort of talk on countless occasions – in the squares of Paris and Naples, in the galleys, from dozens of Christ-haunted men wandering along the roads – and never paid it much heed. A Spanish hermit named Raphael had lived in a cave near Caen, where Lesage grew up, and was notorious for accosting passers-by with his tales of hellfire and retribution from his perch upon a log in a forest clearing. The end of the world was always near, Lesage thought to himself, and such doomsayers had become even more common in the years after the London fire.
A small, sceptical crowd had assembled to watch this monk. A man cursed, some boys giggled, someone tossed a half-eaten apple at him. Lesage navigated gingerly around a cart that had halted in the road so that its driver, a man of beefy proportions, might remonstrate with a washerwoman walking in front of him.
Ah, Paris! Laughter, scorn and an appreciation of the lusty theatre of the street. Lesage inhaled the spirit of the place and ambled onwards with his head lowered, taking care not to muddy his new boots. He hailed a passing brandy seller and gulped a cupful of the scalding liquid to clear his head. Terrible, beautiful stuff.
He had been gone an entire night and half a day, but later, when Lesage entered the tiny room at Madame Simon’s, it seemed Madame Picot had barely moved since yesterday morning; her wan face and dark hair, the restless fingers of one hand worrying at her fraying shawl like a pale, fat-legged spider dancing upon her knee. In her other hand she clutched a book.
She leaped to her feet at his entrance. ‘Did you find my son?’
Lesage shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. Not yet, madame. Not yet, but I’m sure we will.’
She seemed disappointed, naturally. ‘Where have you been?’
He wiped his sweaty brow to demonstrate his effort. ‘Here and there, madame. All over Paris. I have been asking some people I know. Searching for anyone who might be acquainted with Monsieur Horst or –’
‘And buying new clothes?’ She was regarding him with contempt.
‘Ah. Yes. A few items.’
‘With what money?’
Dear God, would she not shut up? ‘Are you my wife, madame? No. I don’t think so. I had a small amount of money. This is Paris. One cannot go about looking like a vagabond . . .’
‘Who did you visit?’
‘Oh, acquaintances. Some people. It’s a large city. I’m not sure which of my old friends might even still be alive. I am working as hard as I can to locate your boy, Madame Picot.’
She appeared unhappy with his answer but quizzed him no further, thankfully. Lesage’s attention was drawn to several feathers ebbing about on the floor. ‘Why are these inside the room, madame? Did a bird fly in through the window?’
But the woman waved away his query. ‘I know Nicolas is still alive,’ she murmured after a short silence. ‘He is somewhere in this city.’
‘Oh, of course, madame.’
‘It was in the cards, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, yes. You saw this for yourself. Most clearly. Alive as you or I.’ He indicated the book in her hand. ‘You have been praying, madame. A wise course of action, I think. It might settle your troubled imagination.’
With a sour smile, she displayed her book. ‘This is no Bible, monsieur.’
He saw it was, in fact, her magic book, and he recoiled.
‘Your name was Adam du Coeuret before?’
He was too startled to speak. Dear God, what else did she know?
‘I know that you were a great magician. And that you worked with a famous witch called La Voisin, who lives in Paris, in a place called Villeneuve.’
Lesage pressed a hand to his cheek to stay its twitching. His thoughts. The woman knew his thoughts. He nodded.
‘What sort of magic could you perform?’ she asked.
‘Oh, we helped people to achieve their desires. We told their fortunes, made predictions. Often a prayer for help with a marriage or birth. Catherine is most adept at making various concoctions for love and that sort of thing. To help women attract a rich husband. She could enhance their looks with creams. Cosmetics. Nothing serious . . .’
‘And poison?’
‘No,’ he said cautiously. ‘If the truth be told, most of what we did was harmless. Fooling people out of their money.’
‘Is it true that she murders unborn babies?’
He hesitated. ‘I have heard rumours of such acts, madame.’
‘But not seen them yourself?’
‘That is women’s business. I’m not privy to these things, naturally.’
‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘People have their reasons. One can never truly know another person’s heart.’
‘That is why you ended up where you did.’
He nodded, embarrassed.
She looked him up and down. ‘Do you not tire of doing evil deeds?’
Aggrieved, Lesage stepped forward. Who did this fucking bitch think she was – Queen Marie-Thérèse? He was tempted to slap her face. Any other man would surely have done so – or worse – by now. ‘Is it not the case, Madame Picot,’ he hissed, ‘that certain unsavoury qualities of mine are precisely the reason you summoned me to your side? I think it was not for my handsome looks or my gentle manner. Nor my educated way with words. You know, I am the kind of man who might normally press you against the wall and slit your throat on a dark night. But isn’t that what you desired of me? Isn’t it, madame? Tell me: you didn’t want a cowardly merchant, did you? A baker? A decent fellow? No. I thought not. You wanted a cutthroat, madame, and that is what you got.’ This was untrue, of course. He had never really physically assaulted anyone, much less carried out any threats of murder. Even that boy Armand on the docks in Marseille he left unharmed – apart from a bruised ankle, perhaps.
Madame Picot shrank back, but held his gaze. ‘Don’t threaten me, monsieur. Take me to see this La Voisin. Perhaps she knows something about my son or Monsieur Horst?’
‘No, no, no. I already visited her. Yesterday. Unfortunately, she has never heard of this Horst or of your son. But she will ask her colleagues.’
‘I see. Do you know of a woman called Françoise Filastre, who also lives in Paris?’
Lesage gestured vaguely. Again he was unnerved; it was impossible to determine what the woman did and didn’t know. Lesage did indeed recall La Filastre, who was young, quite well-bred, lovely in appearance, married to a coachman. But he hesitated before answering. ‘Yes, madame. I might have heard of someone of that name, but –’
‘Perhaps she would know something?’
‘But how do you know of this person, madame? It seems you are more familiar with Paris than you told me.’
‘No, monsieur. I have never been here before in my life. But I am eager to find my son and get away from here.’ She crossed to the door. ‘Come. Take me to see this woman.’
‘Do you not think it would be much safer to stay indoors, madame? It’s quite late. I am not certain where La Filastre lives and it might take some time to find out. I can go see her and I’ll come back immediately. Yes, and –’
She flourished her black book with a trembling hand. ‘You have not been very useful so far, monsieur. Perhaps I should send you back to the Devil immediately? All it takes is one word, said three times, and you are banished once more.’
Her threat was a hard, thin blade nosing about his ribs, and his anger drained from him immediately. Why could he not keep his mouth shut?
‘Please don’t send me back, madame. I beg you. These things take time. Paris is a huge place, as you can appreciate. Many thousands of people. I am doing my best. It won’t take long to find your son. Please, madame. No.’
He had not intended to plead in such a degrading manner and he was embarrassed and appalled to find himself on his knees with his hands clasped in supplication, as if his limbs had arranged themselves without direction.
Madame Picot lowered her black book, apparently appeased. But she shook her head authoritatively. ‘No. I will go with you. Come. I’m told she lives in Villeneuve, along with the other witches of Paris.’
‘But how would you know such a thing, Madame Picot?’
The woman gestured to the feathers on the floor. ‘A bird told me, monsieur.’
And with that, she slung her shawl across her shoulders and disappeared down the stairs, leaving Lesage to trail after her, cursing under his breath.