Fata Morgana (20 page)

His toys,
said Appel Meisterlin,
had little souls.

The top-hatted toy, the miniature Picard, kicked its legs and rolled slowly over as the flames devoured its body. A sound of springs echoed in the hollow chamber of the stove, the metal cries of the little creatures in their death anguish. Picard tossed a few coals on top of them and closed the stove.

He slid a pan over the heat and sliced in vegetables and a piece of fish. Albert joined him at the stove as the food sizzled. The thief took a newspaper from his pocket and handed it to Picard, pointing at a column in the center of the page:

PROWLER IN PALACE

Monsieur Hyrvoix, Chief of the Palace Guard, said that a prowler entered the Palace last night, avoiding capture and making his way through many of the Imperial rooms. According to Hyrvoix, nothing was stolen, but an officer of the Elite Cavalry Corps was knocked unconscious. It is believed the prowler was an Italian spy. Entrance was made through the cellar. Hyrvoix has called for additional guardsmen and renewed vigilance during this time of political tension...

Picard handed the paper back to Albert. “You?” Albert opened his shirt collar and withdrew a gold chain from around his neck. On the end of it dangled a dark dried piece of wood.
 

“The True Cross?”

“I replaced it with a perfect replica. No one will ever know the difference.”

“You said you had a buyer...”

“I was to have met one of the Pope’s emissaries today, but I’ve decided to keep it for a while.” Albert took the chain back from Picard and put it around his neck. “If it is the True Cross, what power is in it.”

“Do you feel any different wearing it?”

“Not at all.”

Picard laid out two plates and slid the sautéed food onto them.

* * *

They took to the street together, going slowly, allowing time for Paris to pass into its slumber. Lazare has been on the high wire; he must be tired now, tired and drifting into sleep. Sleep, Lazare, sleep deeply. Have beautiful dreams.

The Seine flowed peacefully; the night was windless and still. They walked beneath the lamplight of the bridge, their shadows long and their footsteps silent. “There are others in his house—servants—I would rather not hurt them.”

“At most,” said Albert, bringing a leather-covered blackjack from his pocket, “a rap on the head.”

They left the bridge and walked along the rue du Pont-Neuf. At the intersection ahead of them a peculiarly rotund figure appeared, stepping from the doorway of a townhouse on the rue de Rivoli.

“It’s Count Cherubini,” said Picard.

“Why is he wearing a barrel?”
 

“He’s been to a costume ball.”

The Count weaved drunkenly to the curb. His torso was clad in a large wine barrel, on which was lettered:

Perrier Jouët

1857

The rest of his body was outfitted in evening clothes. Picard and Albert approached him, as he fumbled in the gutter.

“Are you in need of assistance, Count?”

Cherubini turned toward them, his eyes glazed, but friendly. “How kind of you. I’m attempting to get the spigot open on my barrel. It seems to have jammed.”

“We need a glass,” said Albert, kneeling by the spigot and removing a small wrench from his sash of burglar tools.

“Yes,” said Cherubini. “There’s a glass on the way. The gentleman in the hall...” He pointed toward the mansion. The door opened and Duval appeared in his monk’s robe, carrying an empty wine glass. He saw Picard and smiled.

“Inspector—glad you could make it. Is the wine flowing, Count?” Duval stepped to the barrel.

“It will flow now,” said Albert, turning the spigot as Duval placed the glass underneath it.

“An excellent year,” said the Count. “One of the very best.”

Albert turned off the spigot and Duval held out the filled glass to Cherubini. “I’ll go for more glasses,” said the Humble Priest, returning to the doorway of the mansion.

“He’s an excellent fellow,” said the Count. “Right there when you need him.”

Other revelers looked out from the front windows of the house. Albert replaced the burglar tool inside his sash. Duval came back, bearing three more glasses. Picard worked the spigot and the wine flowed. They held their glasses up.

“Cheers, my dear fellows.”

“Your health, Count.”

The delicate rims clicked lightly in the still night air.

“Shall we have another?” asked the Humble Priest, bending toward the barrel.

“Please, let’s drink it all,” said the Count. “It will make walking lighter.”

The glasses were passed beneath the spigot once again. Count Cherubini sipped the vintage wine, turned toward the townhouse. “Madame Valanne—do you know Madame Valanne?—she objected to my barrel. Refused to have it in bed with her.”

“The hell with her,” said Albert, draining his glass.

“Exactly,” said the Count.

“Go to this address,” said Albert, scribbling on a card. “Ask to see Monique.”

“Oh, splendid,” said the Count, taking the card. “She won’t object to...” He pointed at his barrel.

“She’ll love it.”

“I’m so glad,” said the Count. “I do like an effective costume.”

“We must go,” said Picard.

“Gentlemen, a last toast,” said Cherubini.

“To Monique.”

“Her health, her prosperity.”

The glasses were emptied and Picard and Albert handed theirs to Duval, who tucked them into his robe. Cherubini stepped into the street, hailing a carriage, and Duval opened the door for him, but the Count’s barrel would not fit through it. Duval climbed in ahead and pulled at the Count’s arms, while Picard and Albert pushed from behind, finally popping Cherubini into the coach. The Count called Monique’s address to the cabman and the carriage pulled away. Cherubini opened the window, waving. “Gentlemen, the best to you... come visit me... anytime...
addìo!”

The carriage rumbled down Rivoli and turned toward the river, as Picard and Albert headed toward Richelieu.

“A splendid wine.”

“The Count only drinks the best,” said Picard. His spirit was bubbling from the rare vintage, and he was eager to complete the night’s work. They walked along, their shadows the only other figures on the street. It was the hour of night he knew best, when most of Paris sleeps and the underworld makes its move. Tonight I move with them.

“I must kill him, you understand?”

“I shall be no more than your second,” said Albert.

They passed the Imperial Palace. The courtyard was brightly lit but the rooms of the Palace were mostly darkened. They turned onto Richelieu, passing the first few shops of the street. “My hatter.” Picard pointed to a dark shopwindow, where various top hats were displayed on faceless wooden heads.

They stopped and studied the silk hats. “He’s slightly mad,” said Picard. “Claims that any man who wears his hats will gain distinction in the world.”

“And you—”

“I’m proof that he is wrong. But I’ll tell you this—the wind will not blow my hat off. It fits that well.”

They continued up the street, leaving the shops behind. The townhouses were darkened, the courtyards empty. The black iron gatework outside the Lazare mansion was high, and the gate itself was locked. Albert nodded toward the end of the block. “There’s a passage that connects to his garden. We climb the wall and we’re in.”

They walked on past the Lazare residence, into a cobblestone lane. On both sides of them were stables; the horses could be heard within, breathing in their sleep, stamping their hooves through galloping dreams. The lane smelled of their sweet hay and manure, and was completely dark. Lazare’s back wall formed the dead end of the lane. Albert scaled the wall, flattening himself upon it and surveying the garden. Then he was gone down the other side, dropping soundlessly to the ground.

Picard reached up, hauling himself to the top. The bear is known to climb on occasion—he dropped to the ground beside Albert—when he is hungry enough.

The ground was frozen, left no tracks as they crossed the garden to the back door. Albert knelt before it, closely examining the lock. He removed a long wire from his tool sash and slid it through the lock, his actions so silent that Picard thought for a moment he was going deaf. The lock yielded and they entered the darkened house. Albert lit a match. They were in a pantry off the kitchen. He led them forward through the kitchen and into a service hall on the main floor. The smell of flowers filled the air, growing stronger as they stepped into the parlor.

Plants and vines hung in the moonlit windows, the night-blooming narcissus pouring its fragrance through the room. But where the fabulous guests had stood and whispered of their fate and fortune, there was only the carpet of Persia, its minarets and spires muffling all sound of footsteps now, as Albert pocketed a gold inkwell.

The long-dead report of Inspector de Brugnieres flashed in Picard’s mind: ...
a Chinese inkwell, ornamented with gold... returned to the said Cagliostro when sufficient evidence could not be found to hold him in custody...

Cagliostro or Lazare, whichever you are, your hour has come. Picard moved with Albert across the moonlit rug, to the outer hall and the bottom of the staircase.

A sudden flash of light on the landing above sent them into the shadows beneath the stairs. Soft footsteps descended, accompanied by a candle flame.

A woman paused at the base of the stairs, directly before their hiding eyes. Her skin was milk-white, her hair blazing red, and she was magnificent, standing with a nobility which was intensified by the beauty of her dark robe and the candlelight in her dark close-set eyes. Lazare was close beside her, and they whispered in soft fluent Spanish, its sensuous rhythms expressing a strange passion between them. She gestured with her black gloves, as if presenting Lazare with a great gift, which he accepted with his cold glittering stare.

Then the woman was quickly gone along the outer hall, and Lazare closed the door behind her, his footsteps moving off toward the west wing of the house and fading into silence.

“Was it she?”
whispered Albert.

“Yes
,
”
answered Picard, as they stepped out from under the staircase.

“Long live the Empress
,
”
said Albert with a leering smile. He stuck his tongue out and opened his mouth like a mad ape, licking the air through which she’d passed, as if tasting some last trailing bit of her radiance.

Picard moved up the hallway. Lazare had made no further sound. Somewhere in the west wing...

They glided through the dark hallway, toward the front rooms of the mansion. Upon the wall was a large painting of a serpent, rearing on its tail, an arrow through its throat. Albert stopped to peer at it, as they listened to the house, hearing only an impenetrable stillness.

Then Albert moved quickly to a dark wooden door which opened soundlessly to his touch; the thief seemed now to be all shadow, his body swallowed in some profoundly concentrated move, which Picard attempted to match as they stepped into Lazare’s workshop.

Upon the wall was a rack of carefully hung tools; the bench beneath it was filled with tiny gear wheels and springs. A single candle glowed on the bench, illuminating the faces of several completed toys—a Spanish dancing girl with the face of Empress Eugenie, a springing tiger, a circus acrobat with the heroic stance and features of the daring Léotard. These and others lined the shelves on every side.

Albert brought the candle toward a display table, on which a miniature army was arranged, with cannon and musket, dressed in the uniform of Prussia. The cavalry was in close formation on both flanks and the officers were leading the charge. Picard moved toward the table.

“Fire!”
said a tiny voice, no louder than the vibrating of a hair.

The cannons exploded and Picard reeled backward in pain, a shell bursting into his stomach, burying back in his guts.

“Fire
!
” cried the little voice again, joined by others, many others, one after another, as Picard sank to the floor, bullets tearing at his chest and neck.

He saw Albert twist crazily and fall. The thief sprawled beside him, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, sightless eyes still open in amazement.

^u
Fire! Fire! Fire!”

The room was filled with smoke, the powerful little cannon-pistols raking the air. Waistcoat soaked with blood, Picard crawled toward the table from which the tiny army was firing and pushed himself beneath it, into the maze of wires which controlled the cannons. The wires contracted into the adjacent wall and the cannons sent forth another volley, triggered by an enemy hidden somewhere beyond the wall.

Picard rose up, lifting the table on his massive shoulders, tearing the wires loose from the wall, silencing the guns. He staggered in the acrid smoke, the table on his back, the weight tremendous, like an elephant, like the world itself, impossible to carry, but he struggled with it, knowing he had to carry it forever.