Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (31 page)

“Do you suppose the invitation was a hoax? It is quite deserted here.”

“Fear not, you shall see otherwise.”

I was not persuaded by Dupin's confidence, but followed him even so. Better together than alone if we were to be attacked by the mysterious thief. When we reached the door that led into the bazaar's courtyard, Dupin rapped upon it in a peculiar manner. Madame Tussaud's son opened it moments later, wearing a white mask that obscured the upper part of his long face but not his identity. He looked uncomfortable in his elaborate attire: a powder blue coat cut longer in the back than the front, pale trousers that buttoned above his calves, silk stockings striped with blue, an ornately embroidered waistcoat and a large white cravat. His hair was powdered, his skin made up to match the white mask and his lips stained crimson.

“Your papers?” he asked.

Dupin presented his documents and Monsieur Tussaud nodded his head in acknowledgement, but did not divulge that he had met us before. He handed us each a printed number. “Weapons must be left here with your cloaks.”

A veritable armory of weaponry had been deposited with Monsieur Tussaud: pistols, daggers and swords. Dupin did not relinquish his walking stick with its concealed rapier. Indeed, he affected a limp as we made our way toward the stairway that would lead us to Madame Tussaud's grand exhibition chambers.

When we reached the top of the stairs, we were transported to another world. Ethereal music floated down from
the orchestra concealed up in the balconies, and we were immersed in heavenly blue light. The splendid chandelier had been fitted with globes of sapphire glass, which tinted the light that fell from it, and the walls were hung with azure draperies. This smaller salon was partitioned off from the grand chamber by a cobalt blue curtain appliquéd with a magnificent dragon soaring across it. The plate glass, Louis XIV gilded ornaments and some blue ottomans remained, but the wax figures had been removed. In their place were revelers whose faces were concealed by masks; many were beautifully crafted from exotic feathers or spangled materials, some were elegant but plain, and others endowed the wearer with demonic features. But the masks were far less bizarre than the costumes. Most of the ladies wore simple white gowns with red shawls and a ribbon of scarlet silk or velvet knotted at their throats. Oddly, their hair was cut very short at the nape of the neck, which made the red ribbon all the more visible. Some women wore red ribbons in a
ceinture croisée
, across the back of the bodice.

Dupin noticed my gaze. “They have assumed
la toilette du condamné
. Women who were executed had the hair cut so it would not interfere with the efficiency of the blade.”

“The red ribbons make reference to the guillotine's action upon the neck?”

Dupin nodded. “As we previously discussed,
le Bal des Victimes
is for victims of the Terror, but also aristocrats who escaped execution. Many of the latter cannot be considered victims at all for they were as vicious as our persecutors and should wear blood on their hands rather than their necks. See those with the dog ears.” He indicated a group of men aged sixty years or more with hair cut very short at the back but worn long on either side of the face like the flopping ears of certain canines. Their clothes were elaborate and expensive:
knee breeches, long-tailed coats with large lapels, silk waistcoats and lacy cravats. “Muscadins. In their youth they formed mobs to terrorize suspected Jacobins, many of whom they executed without trial or bludgeoned to death in the street.”

Dupin led the way to an elegantly arranged refreshment table. He helped us each to a goblet of wine. “Very fine,” he muttered after tasting his. “From the best French cellars.” It was not clear if his words were colored with nostalgia or anger, but it seemed better to divert him from a surfeit of either emotion.

“Shall we explore further?” I pointed to a gap in the curtains.

When we stepped into the next salon, we found ourselves in a sunlit room, or so it appeared. Here the walls were swathed in lemon-colored fabric as were the food-laden tables. Huge Chinese lanterns of yellow silk were suspended from the ceiling and glowed like artificial suns; they were reproduced ad infinitum by golden mirrors hanging on the walls. I noted that a number of men were dressed in an antique fashion and wore long curling locks rather than closely cropped hair or the dogeared styling.

“And what is their allegiance?” I asked Dupin.

“They were—or descend from—assassins who killed Jacobins for money. While we might describe the Muscadins as hotheads, these were the cool-headed plotters. Their desire for revenge is understandable, but I have little sympathy for their tactics.” Dupin looked carefully around the room.

“Do you know the face of the man you are searching for? Valdemar the thief?”

“I was shown a portrait of him in his youth. His looks were most particular. I am certain I will recognize him.”

“And Delamar, our host?”

“I know nothing of him beyond this.” He indicated the room with a wave of his hand.

“Shall we view the next chamber?” I was curious to see the entire design. Monsieur Delamar was certainly a connoisseur of the elaborate spectacle.

We made our way into the next room and found that it was all in green. Jugglers in suits that matched the leaf-colored draperies entertained a group of revelers. Magnificent ferns inside large glass cases formed a luxuriant perimeter. A tapestry cleverly constructed all in shades of green depicted a large apple tree with a serpent woven around it, a verdant fruit clutched in its jaws. A colossal chandelier with crystals shaped like oak leaves hung from the ceiling, its gas jets housed in globes of emerald glass.

“Do you suppose there is a meaning behind this design or it is purely for effect?”

“An attraction to gaudy embellishments and the grossly theatrical tends to indicate a diseased mind,” Dupin stated.

“But this is a masked ball. One expects theatrical diversions. Perhaps the designer wishes to see the effect of the diverse-colored atmospheres upon his guests.”

Dupin scanned the furnishings. “Green is the color of life, but also of putrefaction.”

“One is said to be green with envy.” I indicated a white mask tinted that very color by the light cast upon it. “And yet the tapestry—the tree of knowledge, the Garden of Eden.”

Dupin considered this. “Interesting. Most interesting. Perhaps there is a message.” He moved quickly toward the next room and again I followed.

The fourth salon was hung with orange draperies and had a joyous atmosphere. A huge golden brazier shaped like a dragon's head stood at the room's center, naked flames flaring from its mouth. An invisible orchestra played a lively tune and revelers danced energetically on one side of the room. Opposite them were tables swathed in topaz fabric and
heaped with food, drink, and glimmering candles. A crowd of elderly men gathered there eating heartily as if consuming their last meal.

“Energy and gluttony,” I observed.

“Indeed,” Dupin said. “Let us get closer.”

“They are the correct age?” I nodded at the elderly men.

“It would appear so.” Dupin made his way to the table and helped himself to wine and sweetmeats. I did the same. As we ate, he studied the men before us intently. One wore a full mask, and I noticed that Dupin carefully examined the man's
chevalière
and shoes, but moments later he indicated the passageway ahead of us. “Shall we?”

“Wrong man?”

“I cannot see the design upon the
chevalière
, but the stone appears to be carnelian rather than onyx. More importantly, he is too tall and his shoes were not designed to give him extra height. The thief is not a man of the crowd—he believes himself superior. It is unlikely we would find him in modest conversation with others.”

We left Apollo's room and, passing through the curtained archway, entered an arctic world. The chandelier was of frosted glass and glowed like ice. Ballet dancers buoyed up by sequined tulle floated through a birch tree forest on a winter's night. The guests sat upon white velvet sofas or large snowy cushions.

“Winter, frost, ice . . .” But I could discern no pattern. The ladies with their white dresses were almost invisible against the walls, but for the blood red shawls and ribbons.

“Chevalier Dupin!
Je suis ravi de vous voir
.” A bent figure shuffled toward us. She wore a full mask, a peculiar doll's face that contrasted oddly with her cropped iron-gray hair. Her snowy white dress was decorated with red ribbons in a
ceinture croisée
.

Dupin leaned to kiss her hand. “Madame, we were wondering when we would find you. You remember my brother François? My twin?”

Madame Tussaud extended her hand to me. “Of course. I am happy to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, Madame.” I kissed her chilly hand.

“What do you think of the ball, my dears? Have I done well?”

“Most spectacular. I was not aware that you had an affinity for such events,” Dupin said.

“Neither hostess nor reveler at any such ball previously, although I believe my stay in prison, awaiting the jaws of the guillotine with Joséphine de Beauharnais gives me the pedigree for attendance.” She touched her bent fingers to her gray coiffure. “My hair was cut off, but my head spared due to my facility with wax. It is very fine to have a talent that saves one's life.” The ancient eyes beneath the doll's mask scrutinized Dupin and then me.

“Your talent would not have saved you, Madame, if you did not have the presence of mind to suggest that it might be useful to your adversaries.” Dupin smiled.

“You are quite correct, Chevalier.” Again, the glint of dark eyes under the perfect doll's face, like a strange insect struggling within a chrysalis.

“Why are you mistress of this particular victims' ball?” I asked. “Has my brother's presence in London inspired you?” Dupin shifted quickly to stare at me. Perhaps he thought my question impolite, but it was pointless to avoid the obvious.

The doll's face tilted to one side, quizzical and innocent. “As I believe I made clear, the thought of hosting
le Bal des Victimes
has never occurred to me,
François
. It was conceived of by Monsieur Delamar. He paid for all costs and recompensed me generously for my time and efforts. At my advanced age, such
generosity cannot be disdained.” The doll's face did not alter expression, but the ancient crone beneath seemed to be smiling. “You will surely find the answer to all your questions if you progress to the next salon and the final chamber after that.”

“Seven rooms,” Dupin muttered. “Seven.”

“Thank you, Madame Tussaud. You are delightful and astute company, and the ball is clearly a spectacular success,” I said.

“
Mer
ci, Chevaliers. Go now and find the answer to your mystery.”

Dupin and I bowed and left the peculiar vision of youth and decrepitude behind us.

“Seven rooms. What are your thoughts?” Dupin asked as we approached the door molded in the white curtains.

“Seven days of the week. Seven deadly sins. Seven colors of the rainbow. Shakespeare's seven ages of man.”

Dupin nodded. “But what analogy is the creator of this spectacle reaching for?”

“As Madame suggests, we must examine each room before we find our answer,” I said, stepping through the arch into the next world.

We found ourselves in a violet-colored salon. A table was placed at the room's center. It was filled with a hundred or more large candles, beautifully arranged and encased by four panes of amethyst glass. Dainty violets made from velvet covered the table and cascaded to the floor. Wreaths of the pretty flower were hung from the purple draperies. The dancing violet light was charming until one noted its bruising effect upon those wearing white masks.

We moved deeper into the room, led by sonorous music—clarinets, oboes, the sigh of violins. Narrow tables draped in purple damask were situated against one wall and were artfully arranged. Twisting silver snakes entwined to hold platters that
were piled high with clusters of grapes. Goblets of wines completed this ode to Dionysus. Revelers whirled past us, dancing gracefully to the music as plum-colored shadows glided across their figures like dusk deepening to nightfall.

“A color of contradictions,” I murmured. “Purple with rage or purple prose. Royalty or spirituality—the color of kings and bishops, the shade most prized by Cleopatra.” I waited for Dupin's interpretation, but he seemed immersed in the decor, his face frozen, eyes glaring, so I continued. “Flowers in this shade enchant us: violets, irises, delphiniums, lilacs, wisteria, tulips and pansies—and yet it is the shade of bruises, dark circles under the eyes, lividity—a step closer to death, perhaps. Yet another extraordinary design.”

Dupin awoke from his trance. “Most
hideous
,” he growled. “And truly this chamber is an intentional affront to my family.”

“How so?”

Dupin breathed in deeply then spoke, his voice hard and staccato. “Valdemar murdered my mother with violets. Or more precisely, the scent of them. He delivered expensive candles perfumed with violet to the house as a gift. The maid-servant, knowing no better, put the elegant tapers in my mother's bedchamber as she habitually read by candlelight before retiring. My father found her asphyxiated in the morning—the violet perfume had masked the smell of poison.”

“I am sorry, Dupin.”

He raised his hand to halt my apologies. “My father had pledged revenge upon Valdemar for the murder of his own parents, but this broke him. He could not produce adequate proof that his nemesis had orchestrated the deed and my mother did not receive justice. One would think that this would cause a man to turn from God, but instead my father committed himself utterly to him and withdrew from the world. I was
abandoned to my mother's relatives while my father made a spiritual pilgrimage to the Holy Land, but expired somewhere along the way.”