“Thirteen Vendémiaire?” said the patient. “You were there?”
Always the same question, thought Eslée, when the subject came up. It was as if he had no past apart from it.
“Were you?” he replied.
The other shook his head. He was sitting up partially, pillows bunched behind his back. Eslée had lent him one of his nightshirts. It fit him well enough, although short in the sleeves. His color was good. The fever had broken and the wound was healing with no pink flush of infection. The doctor prided himself on his treatment.
“I knew someone else who was. A captain of artillery serving with Bonaparte. Is it true they opened fire on starving Parisians with cannon?”
“They were a rabble, put up by Royalist agitators to storm the palace.” Eslée shrugged. “That’s what the newspapers said. I was there in the capacity of a physician, not a coroner. My responsibility was to the survivors. I hadn’t time to examine blasted corpses to see if their bellies were indeed empty or full of brandy from aristocrats’ cellars.” He shipped a spoon with chowder from the bowl he was holding, blew away the steam. “The blood was red enough, that much I remember; not royal purple.”
“What sort of man can give such an order?”
“The Directory—our third government in six years—appointed him to manage the crisis. Bonaparte was an artillery officer, like your friend. I doubt his superiors expected him to settle things with a stern word and a swat on the arse. Open.”
The patient obeyed, swallowed when the spoon was withdrawn from his lips. “It’s very good.”
“I can’t claim credit. A local widow was kind enough to oblige. She’s an excellent seamstress as well.”
The man on the couch stiffened; winced when the action pulled at his dressing. “She knows about me?”
“I told her you’re a clerk on an errand. A very mundane one, of no popular interest. But if the people who sent you found out you fell ill, you might be sacked.”
“Did she believe you?”
“Does any woman, when it’s a man talking? But I vouch for her discretion. We’ve been acquainted for years, and I couldn’t tell you where she lived before she came to this village. I like to think she sailed across Europe from some fairy kingdom in a hot-air balloon. Again.” He held out the spoon.
“She’d do that?” The patient accepted the broth.
“I wouldn’t put it past her. Or anything else, for that matter. I sometimes wonder what keeps her in this sleepy place.”
“The way you speak of her, I think I can guess.”
“Less talk. More soup.”
Conversation fell off for a few minutes while the meal continued. When the man in the bed shook his head at another spoonful, the doctor set aside the bowl.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“We agreed that you’ll call me Meuchel.”
“You agreed. I abstained. Meuchel is the name of the major you represent. I saw the letter.”
His patient ceded the point with a nod. “English domestic staffs traditionally address visiting servants by their masters’ surnames. It avoids confusion belowstairs. A practical people, the British. Let’s leave it at that. I’ll be gone in a few days; there’s nothing to be gained by cluttering up your memory with superfluous detail.”
“Are you English?”
“An undiplomatic question. France and England are at war.”
“Not an answer.”
“The answer is no.”
“I thought as much. You have no accent.”
“I speak with a Parisian accent, like you. I have no nationality at present.”
“A lonely thing to confess.”
“Try to contain your probing to your skill with forceps.”
“You must throw me some little morsel, to surrender under torture. We’re a two-spy village, monsieur.”
“Not so sleepy a place, after all.”
“We’re a stone’s-throw from Paris. Bees swarm about the hive.”
The man who called himself Meuchel paled a shade. Eslée couldn’t tell if the pain was real or feigned, to avoid further questioning. His powers of endurance were superhuman, and he seemed able to dissemble not only in speech and expression, but in the flow of blood to his face; he could flush or become ashen at will.
Eslée got up, opened the same cupboard where he kept his instruments, and poured an inch of liquid from a small brown bottle into a glass, then returned to his chair beside the bed. He pressed the glass to Meuchel’s lips.
Meuchel smelled the contents. He clamped his mouth shut.
“A weak solution of morphine, diluted with alcohol,” said the doctor. “Just enough to deaden the pain, not bring on sleep.”
A smoky hazel gaze studied him. The man drank, then screwed up his face. “Faugh! I smoked opium once. It tastes just as bad either way.”
“You’ve been to China?”
“One needn’t go so far to chase the dragon. Are you asking these questions for yourself or the policeman you went out with this morning?”
Eslée hesitated, nodded. “I should have known you saw. I didn’t want to upset you, but Constable Malroux was most insistent. I think you know I kept your secret. Otherwise he’d be here, asking these questions and more. Unlike the widow, I have but one skill, and interrogation isn’t one. In any case, my lips are sealed by the oath of my profession. Do you still insist you shot yourself with your own pistol?”
“I thought we’d laid that to rest.”
“I said I knew a bit about firearms. The ball I took from your hip is a musket ball. I confirmed it by comparing it to the muzzle of your pistol. It was too big.”
“Of course it lost its shape when it struck bone.”
“The apothecary here has scales, to measure his pills and powders. I can ask him to weigh the ball and compare it with one of these.” He drew something from his waistcoat and opened his hand under Meuchel’s nose.
The Viper stared at the ball of lead. He smelled fulminate of mercury. He snatched at his sheet, pulling back the corner near his head.
“Yes, I examined your belt with its curious pockets. Did you think I couldn’t find where you hid the key? Not even a man of iron can hope to hold it in his hand indefinitely.”
“Doctor, that’s no ordinary ball.”
“I know. I saw what one did to one of your victims.”
“You must lay it down.”
“And these too?” He reached into another pocket and showed him what he’d withdrawn. The balls whispered against one another as he rolled them back and forth on his palm.
“Doctor, believe me when I tell you there’s enough explosive material in that handful of lead to blow this building to splinters.”
“I’m prepared to believe you killed those two men in self-defense. You were carrying a lot of money, possibly as part of your mission, whatever it is. You lied to avoid being questioned by the authorities. I can overlook all that, but I must know if these devil balls are intended for French use.”
“They’re intended for mine. I was chosen in place of an armed escort, for purposes of traveling unnoticed. It’s a dangerous assignment for one man. The protection is necessary.”
“Evidently. Your grand mission was nearly brought to calamity by a pair of ordinary brigands.”
“I was careless. I never make the same mistake twice.”
“Are you a mercenary?”
“I’m paid, the same as any soldier.”
“Ten thousand pounds?”
The man’s expression was bland.
“It could be nine thousand, Doctor. I’m allowed some discretion as to expenses.”
Eslée shook his head. “If I could be bought, I’d have kept it all. In any event, what would I do with so much money? I couldn’t spend it without attracting notice. No, Meuchel, you can’t tempt me.”
“Then I appeal to your patriotism. At this stage of the transaction, the motives of my superiors may be misinterpreted and my mission declared an act of war. The fate of great nations rests with you.”
“You exalt me.”
“I entreat you.”
“I’ve seen governments fall like tenpins. I’m no longer certain whether I’m a citizen of France or of whoever occupies Paris at the moment. You wave the flag, I say, ‘Which one?’ The white flag of the House of Bourbon or the tricolor of the Republic or one of Bonaparte’s guidons? Is this treason?”
“Nothing so committed. Boredom, perhaps.”
“I wonder what that flag would look like.” Humor entered the doctor’s tone. “How I’ll miss these talks when you’re mended and gone. You’ll be on your way to glory, but for me it’ll be back to my corns and carbuncles.”
“You agree to my terms?”
“I haven’t a choice. My first loyalty lies with a Greek physician dead more than a thousand years.”
“Then put those damn things back in my belt, and be careful about it. The town needs a doctor, and your balloon woman her friend.”
“Depend on that. I’d rather handle tarantulas.”
“I’d be more confident if you’d accept money.”
“You can repay me by walking out a whole man at the end of the week.”
He said nothing. Eslée hadn’t that long to live.