Floats the Dark Shadow (7 page)

He found the unharmed gendarme outside in the street. The shock of survival had pumped his self-importance. In a fit of inspiration, the fool had lied to the crowd, saying the destruction was caused by a gas explosion. Even if it had been the truth, the Montmartrois would rather believe it was a bomber. There was no point in arguing with the growing crowd of merchants, minstrels, artisans, prostitutes, pimps, and poets who were already exaggerating the damage and proclaiming their own theories of the event. A frenetic
gaiety born of fear was overcoming the shock.
In a few more minutes, the musicians would have them singing
‘La Marseillaise.’
Or, worse than the anthem, they’d begin
‘La Ravachole’
, the song created to honor that famous bomber
.
Either would be more provocative than the curses.

Coming up the street, Michel saw Saul Balsam, a reporter who managed to present the facts with less florid embellishment than most. Balsam was often refused interviews because he was Jewish. Michel went forward to greet him. Brown eyes blinked at him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. They perched on a crooked nose broken two years ago during one of the Dreyfus scandal riots. That case had split Paris like an axe. The minority cried that Captain Dreyfus was innocent, nothing but a convenient scapegoat. The majority opinion was that all Jews were traitors at heart, and therefore Dreyfus must be guilty. The majority had prevailed.

“A fractured gas line, Inspecteur Devaux?” Balsam asked, pencil poised. His lips quirked in a wry smile.

“No. A bomb.” Michel gave him a quick and accurate account of the raid. “One officer was severely wounded. Two more are dead because of this man.”

“Two heroes gave their lives to capture the bomber who planned to destroy the Sacré Coeur
.”
Saul scribbled madly, adjusted his glasses with his pencil, then looked up. “A great success—despite grievous losses.”

“Yes. It must be counted a success.”

“After a breathless rooftop chase, Inspecteur Michel Devaux, son of the heroic Brigadier Guillaume Devaux, captured the bomber after….”

“The police captured—” Michel suggested. The memory of his father’s death turned his guts to lead, though he had long since schooled his face to show no reaction.

“If you prefer.” Balsam shrugged, jotted a note, paused again. “I will include a reprise of recent anarchist activity. Ravachol was executed for murder five years ago?”

“Yes,” Michel answered.

“He sang on his way to the guillotine. It was all that was needed to make him a folk hero—not that I can print that without going to jail myself.”

Michel ignored that.

“Emile Henry was executed in ’94 for bombing the Terminus,” Saul went on. “Just after that, President Carnot was assassinated. Stabbed by that Italian anarchist in revenge.”

“
T
he same year as the bombing of the Café Foyot and the Trial of the Thirty,” Michel affirmed.

“Ah yes, the flowerpot bomb.” Balsam smiled grimly. “No one died, but people remember it more than the Café Terminus, where twenty were sent to an early grave.”

“They remember the Foyot because of the trial. The perpetrators ran circles around the lawyers and made a fool of the judge.” Michel heard the rancor in his voice.

“Can I quote that?” Balsam asked with false innocence.

“No.”

Balsam’s smile grew broader. “’94 was a good year for journalists, if no one else. No incidents since then?”

“Nothing successful. Tonight proves we must always be vigilant.”

“Always vigilant. Excellent finish.” Balsam nodded his thanks.

The police van had yet to arrive. “Any news on the Dreyfus case?” Michel was truly curious. He knew Balsam was still investigating. After his conviction, Dreyfus had been humiliated, stripped of rank and honors, his sword broken. His sentence was solitary confinement on Devil’s Island.

“His brother has hired almost a dozen handwriting experts. All agree that the treasonous note was not in Dreyfus’ handwriting. Clemenceau now thinks Dreyfus innocent, and Zola is intrigued.”

The van came up the street, and as Michel had feared, the crowd spontaneously took up ‘
La Ravachole’
—protesting on principle.

There are corrupt politicians,

There are flabby financiers,

And always there are cops—

But for all these villains,

There is dynamite!

Hurrah the blast!

Hurrah the blast!

There is dynamite!

Hurrah the blast

Of the explosion!

The singing grew louder as the van drew up to the bombed building, the horses snorting and stomping. If Michel didn’t leave now, the crowd could escalate into a mob. He bade Balsam good night, then fetched his prisoner.

“Mort aux vaches!” Michel tensed as the death threat went up, but he got the bomber locked inside the cage with nothing worse than a few kicks. He climbed in beside the driver. The man instantly cracked the whip to clear a pathway then took the steep but quick descent down the rue Lepic. Michel looked down the Boulevard de Clichy to the Moulin Rouge. Beneath the red windmill the slumming rich mingled with the working classes, all oblivious to the craziness a few streets beyond. Class warfare was put aside in the pursuit of pleasure. Pimps rubbed shoulders with politicians. Diamond necklaces and luxurious
peau de soie
gleamed beside cheap paste and tattered cotton lace. Society ladies did their best to dress like courtesans and courtesans like society ladies.

“Aristo-rats
!
”
The bomber howled as if he could see the crowd. The renewed noise and the glimpse of bright lights would identify their location. The man’s violent hatred pointed up the foolishness of Michel’s musings.

He loved the fierce hearts of the French but hated the chaos they wrought in their wars for power over each other. Chaos was not liberty, whatever pretty theories the anarchists dreamed up. Class hatred was a virulent plague in France. The Commune’s attempt to create a people’s state had been brutally crushed by government troops, and now, in the Third Republic, the high bourgeoisie ruled by wealth, reviling but envying the haughty aristocrats. Both feared the angry working class while continuing to exploit them mercilessly.

The van clattered on through quieter neighborhoods to the sumptuous area surrounding L’Opéra Garnier where late night
cafés
were filled with chattering clientele in evening dress.
A few more minutes and they reached the Seine, its dark water shimmering under the arc lamps.
The Black Maria crossed the bridge to the
Palais de Justice and rattled under the archway to the courtyard of the Dépôt.
Most prisoners were kept here just two or three days before being formally charged and transferred to a holding prison. Particularly dangerous or politically conspicuous prisoners might remain in the
Dépôt
’s cells indefinitely. Michel presumed this anarchist bomber would be one of them. He climbed down from the seat and unlocked the door to take his furious prisoner out of the cage.

“
Vive la révolution
!” the bomber trumpeted as his feet hit the cobblestones.

Those were Ravachol’s last words—cried out, the legend went, by his decapitated head.

Chapter Six

The star on the skyline, the lighthouse on the pier

The cup of fine crystal

Which over my shoulder I tossed nonchalantly

All brimming with wine

~ Jean Moréas

SILENCE lingered like an indrawn breath, then applause rose in the Crypt de la Passion.

Still feeling dazed by the whispered song, Theo joined in the clapping. When the sound faded, Paul gave her a ghoulish grin and settled back in his chair—bored again or needing to appear so. Averill smiled, amused at their impromptu duet. It was well after midnight and Theo bit the inside of her lip to stifle a yawn. She hated looking gauche.

The musicians quickly put away their instruments and came to join their guests. Casimir entrusted his instrument to another violinist, then strolled toward them. Theo offered her hand and he clasped her fingers, lifting them to his lips. The aristocratic flair of his gestures never failed to delight and amuse her. Releasing her hand, the baron nodded to Paul then gave Averill the charming, lop-sided smile that made him look closer to twenty than thirty. She seldom had an impulse to paint Casimir. He was almost too polished to be interesting—the gleaming curl of his hair, the impeccable suits, the ironic arch of an eyebrow. A complete work of art in himself. But sometimes she wanted to capture his golden smile, radiant as sunshine. Theo knew the boyish appeal could be intentionally disarming. The baron had a dangerous side. He had fought duels. Not the usual theatrical Parisian duels of smoke and gesture, but ones in which he’d wounded, even crippled, his opponent.

“Most of the musicians were from the Opéra, but they permitted a few ardent amateurs like myself.” A graceful movement mimed the stroke of a bow over violin strings. Though Casimir sometimes wrote poetry, his true interest was music. He had composed a few delicately sinister pieces to accompany Averill’s poems. “Were you amused?”

“Absolutely,” Averill said.

“Intermittently,” Paul conceded.

Casimir laughed. “From you, Noret, that is high praise.”

“
La Danse Macabre
was especially poetic,” Theo offered.

“Especially challenging, too,” Casimir replied. “And what of your challenge, Theodora? Did you submit the pretty portrait to the Salon de Champs de Mars?”

“No. It was not good enough.” Theo lifted her chin proudly. She knew the Revenants would approve, for they’d damned the portrait with faint praise—all but Paul. First he’d said that it was bourgeois. Since Paul called Monet and every other great Impressionist bourgeois, that had seemed a back-handed compliment. Almost. Then he’d said, “Imitation Cassatt.” That truth was the death knell.

“Bravo!” Paul exclaimed now.

“That took courage, Theo.” Averill’s eyes searched hers.

She looked away. “Yes, it did.”

“It was a charming work,” Casimir allowed. “The Salon would have accepted it.”

“They’d have awarded it an Honorable Mention,” Paul chortled. “The Salon would dote on such a
feminine
presentation.”

Theo wanted to smack him, needling her about it now, heedlessly jabbing both her art and her femininity. Theo knew she was far from the petite, curvaceous, submissive ideal of French womanhood. Averill’s horrific father criticized her endlessly and made her feel defiant. Her own father offered soft-spoken advice and made her feel uncouth. Theo bit her lip. Paul was not the problem. Theo was still torn within herself. She looked back to Averill, seeing the concern in his eyes. He
knew she was thinking of her father.

Anger, resentment, gratitude spun like juggler’s balls inside of Theo. As always, gratitude outweighed the rest. For twenty years
Phillipe Charron
had not known she existed. He could have continued to pretend she did not. Instead, he’d rescued her from her defiant poverty and brought her to Paris. Having lived on crumbs, she knew all too well the value of his support. He would be disappointed, even angry, that she had not submitted the portrait he’d praised.
He’d won his success painting elegant society portraits and classical themes
. The great Salons were the center of his artistic world. I
t didn’t matter to him that their power and prestige had been waning ever since the Impressionists turned the art world upside down.

Offering distraction, Averill turned back to the Revenants. “Tell us, Paul, what selection of music did you object to least?”

As they discussed the performance, Theo forced the Salon from her thoughts. One adventure in the creepy catacombs was enough, so she needed to impress the images on her mind. There were endless possibilities, but none moved her yet. She scanned again the mortal explorers of the Empire of the Dead. The flames of the tapers showed the rounded softness of a rosy cheek one moment then scooped the eye socket of the same young woman, showing her kinship with the blind stare of the skulls. Theo shivered.

Looking down at her own hands, she found it all too easy to see, to feel, the armature of bone moving beneath the skin. She stared, hypnotized, and felt an image move within her mind. There was a drawing, a painting, hidden there, like the skeleton beneath her skin. She would have to be her own model in this illustration and face the darkness she wanted to flee.

A blaze of red caught her eye. In the far corner of the room, someone was talking to Averill. Intent on memorizing the crypt, Theo had not seen him leave. Averill’s back was to her, blocking her view of his companion, but the man gestured dramatically, showing an expanse of crimson lining his velvet cape. Then they bent their heads together, talking intently. Was this the person he’d had been searching for earlier?

Just then, Averill turned and walked back toward her. He looked pleased with himself. Unable to resist, she asked, “Who is the man wearing the cape?”

“Vipèrine,” Averill said, tasting the syllables. He nodded over his shoulder. “Apt, no?”

“Oh yes, sinuous as a snake,” she agreed, looking back across the room. This man would make an absolutely perfect villain for one of the poems. He was dressed predominately in black, some long robe that suggested a priest’s cassock. Draped over it was the rich cape, its lining vivid as fresh spilled blood. Arcane symbols circled the hem, embroidered in heavy gold thread and studded with faux jewels. Most amazing of all, his beard was dyed brilliant cobalt. Theo’s lips quivered at the splendid ridiculousness of it all. But she didn’t laugh. Vipèrine stood like an actor commanding center stage—or a king holding court.

“He thinks he’s the incarnation of Gilles de Rais, with his blue beard,” Paul muttered.

“Hubris.” Casimir’s nostrils flared with disdain.

“Far worse than hubris—he fancies himself a poet.” Paul snorted with disgust.

“Worse than fancying himself Gilles de Rais?” Averill asked.

“Far worse. You didn’t have to read his submissions to
Le Revenant
.” Paul gave a theatrical shiver. “Hideous. I rejected them all.”

Casimir’s hands arced, suggesting a banner or title. “Beware Bluebeard’s revenge.”

Paul sniggered.

“I have a poem about Bluebeard,” Averill said to them. Theo had not read any such. When she gave a questioning glance, he gestured vaguely. “A work in progress.”

“Who was Gilles de Rais?” Theo asked bluntly. She hated not knowing already. Vipèrine was an incarnation, Paul had said, so someone long since dead. An actor from the days of Molière? A troubadour perhaps? A magician? Clearly a man fond of extravagant dress in the manner of Oscar Wilde, whom she had not been permitted to mention in polite conversation in Mill Valley, or in her new uncle’s parlor, for that matter.

“He was Jeanne d’Arc’s first lieutenant, when she fought her holy war to unite France,” Casimir said.

“With a blue beard?” It seemed too ludicrous—popinjays preening and strutting on the battlefield, leading a holy crusade with Jeanne d’Arc. Then Theo remembered some of the fantastical armor she had seen in museums, the helmets crowned with plumes, a boar’s head or a raven’s wings. Medieval aristocrats dressed richly for war, as they dressed richly for everything else. Show seemed even more important than skill—but they skewered their enemies nonetheless. Still, a blue beard did not conjure wealth or daring but eccentricity.

“The color of the beard may be totally apocryphal,” Paul replied. “After they burned Jeanne at the stake, Gilles de Rais became the most notorious murderer in French history.”

“He was particularly fond of disemboweling,” Averill murmured, as if sharing a secret.

“Like Jack the Ripper?” Theo suppressed a shudder at the thought of the killer who had terrorized London a decade ago. “Gilles de Rais murdered women?”

Averill looked at her askance, suddenly uneasy. “No. Children.”

“Innocent children!” Heads turned at her outburst, but for once Theo didn’t mind being the brash American.

Casimir gave a Gallic shrug, apologetic, bemused. “Only true innocence would satisfy.”

“And he’s famous?” Anger and horror ruled, despite her best effort to regain a blasé façade.

Casimir offered a placating smile. “Infamous.”

“We French know of him, of course, from history,” Paul explained in his most professorial voice. “However, the power of his legend was renewed some years ago when J. K. Huysmans published
Là Bas
.”

“Most scandalous.” Averill fluttered his paper boutonnière. It rustled like a ghostly whisper.

“Huysmans enjoys being scandalous,” Paul said dismissively. To Theo he added, “It is a convoluted book. A novel about a novelist writing about Gilles de Rais' ancient crimes. The narrator begins investigating medieval heresies and ends discovering an unbroken tradition of Satanism in France.”

“Là Bas,”
Theo repeated.
Down There
. “All the way down to hell, from the sound of it.”

“Ah…but don’t forget the heavenly section on bell ringing,” Casimir entreated. “It made you yearn for the days when church bells sang out the hours of prayer and told the fortunes of their towns—birth, marriage, and death.”

“You perhaps, baron.” Paul always managed to deride Casimir’s title. “They would give me a headache, I fear,”

“Breathing gives you a headache.” Averill’s sharpness no longer sounded playful. Theo feared the vicious depression that sometimes claimed him. The absinthe only made it worse.

Perhaps he saw the worry in her eyes, for he managed a teasing smile. “Shall I loan you another wicked book?”

“Immediately.” Despite—or because of—her extreme reaction against their favorite murderer, Theo determined to read the novel at once. It was like a dare.

“I gave you your copy,” Casimir said to Averill. “Let me present one to Theo as well.”

Averill smiled and shrugged consent. “As you wish.”

“Huysmans is here tonight.” Paul nodded to a subdued man currently standing beside the flamboyant Vipèrine. The author was small, frail even, with intense eyes under flared brows, and a neat, pointed grey beard.

“Curious. I thought he had found salvation in the bosom of the Church,” Casimir remarked.

Averill shook his head, watching the two men with fascination. “Huysmans seeks salvation in one obsession after another. If Satan did not satisfy, will not God be found wanting, too?”

“When he wrote
Là Bas
, Huysmans consulted a corrupt priest who was excommunicated for practicing the Black Mass,” Paul told her. “He is choosing no better now, prattling with that gaudy Bluebeard who was once his acolyte.”

“You said yourself, the name is apocryphal.” Casimir’s voice had an undercurrent of distaste. “Bluebeard was a far later appellation for Gilles de Rais. A fairy tale created to frighten little children and nubile maidens.”

“If what you say is true, they had good reason to be frightened,” Theo said to him.

Casimir smiled. “True enough,
ma chère Amazone
.”

Looking across the crypt, Averill murmured, “Vipèrine has promised to help me. I have an ambition to witness a Black Mass. He has chosen an abandoned chapel.”

Theo feared he was serious. Averill declared himself apostate but remained fascinated by Catholicism’s most tortured visions.