The Silver Blade (28 page)
‘They would do me a great favour,’ he joked, ‘if they guillotined my wife. Now, that would be a service to the nation. I wouldn’t miss her.’
Their conversation switched to the news they had had of a colleague who had been tricked by the Silver Blade. He had had the audacity to rescue someone from the prison of La Plessis right under the guard’s nose. The guard had been sent to the guillotine for his carelessness, swearing he’d been shown all the correct papers.
‘Do you know what gave him away?’
‘No.’
‘A silver blade from a child’s toy guillotine. It was left hanging right above his head. I tell you,’ said Citizen Frenet, ‘if the Silver Blade were to come this way with a blank piece of paper and say it was a bona fide document, I would have him and no mistake.’
‘I agree,’ said Citizen Gabet. ‘I wonder if this Silver Blade ain’t a bit of a myth, made up to hide slovenly practices.’
‘You could have a point. And all that nonsense about how it’s always left hanging somewhere out of reach. I tell you, it sounds fishy.’
It was then that both men nearly jumped out of their skins. Peering through the yellowed window into the smoke-filled room was a ghastly, toothless old hag.
Citizen Frenet, seeing her, grabbed hold of his pistol and went outside. The old hag was not alone; she had a friend with her who looked in an even worse way than the toothless one.
‘What are you doing here? You know the penalty for being out after curfew. I’ll have you arrested. Now, push off!’
Gabet joined his colleague at the door.
‘We should arrest them. No messing around.’
The toothless one began to cough. She came closer and the smell of death on her made both guards back away.
‘We’ve been in the Place de la Revolution,’ she said, spitting out her words. ‘Watched the scum of France lose their heads. See this blood here on my petticoat? Fresh today, it is. That’s the blood of a nobleman.’
‘Enough,’ said Citizen Gabet, who knew full well what these ghastly old witches got up to, knitting at the foot of the guillotine.
‘Hear that, sister, they’re going to arrest us. That’s kind of them, ain’t it?’
Citizen Gabet noticed with alarm that her scrawny sister seemed to be on the point of fainting. The old hag grabbed her and held her upright.
‘She’s been sick, that’s why we weren’t here earlier. Been throwing up all evening. Now she has a little rash. Go on, show these citizens that rash you’ve got.’ And the old hag made to lift her sister’s skirt.
That was enough for Citizen Frenet. He knew if she had smallpox she would be infectious. Gabet, thinking the same, went to open the gate.
‘Don’t you want to see our documents?’ said the toothless hag, and she licked her fingers and pulled the papers from her skirt.
Frenet could not bring himself to touch them, in case he too would be taken sick.
‘Be gone, both of you.’
‘Well, I would have thought with all them stories of the Silver Blade,’ said the toothless hag, ‘you might like to—’
‘Get the hell out of here. Go before I change my mind.’
‘As you please.’
The two guards watched as, painfully slowly, they made their way into the countryside.
Back in the guardhouse, Citizen Frenet, lifting the cognac bottle, poured some over his fingers. Citizen Gabet did the same.
‘A precaution against infection,’ he said, and taking a mouthful from the bottle, he caught a glimmer of something silver glinting in the candlelight. The liquid ran down the side of his mouth.
‘Hey, hey, don’t waste it. That’s good stuff.’
Gabet pointed upwards.
The colour drained from their faces.
‘How the hell did that get—’ Frenet rushed outside to the gate. The road was empty. He returned to the guardhouse.
‘We’d better get it down. And let’s agree not to tell a soul that we’ve been duped by the Silver Blade.’
T
he two old hags, having rid themselves in a convenient barn of their stinking costumes, emerged as Yann Margoza and a Monsieur Bille, a terrified wigmaker from Paris, who had needed almost no make-up, since fear had made the poor man look like death.
he two old hags, having rid themselves in a convenient barn of their stinking costumes, emerged as Yann Margoza and a Monsieur Bille, a terrified wigmaker from Paris, who had needed almost no make-up, since fear had made the poor man look like death.
‘You did well,’ said Yann kindly. ‘At least, my friend, you didn’t faint.’
Poor Monsieur Bille was speechless. All he could do was nod. Only when Yann handed him over to a trusted bargeman at Port du Gravier did the wigmaker recover his sense of humour.
Y
ann returned to Paris later that night, sure he was being followed. Once again he sensed Balthazar close on his heels. Then he caught sight of him in the moonlight, through some beech trees. He was monstrously large.
ann returned to Paris later that night, sure he was being followed. Once again he sensed Balthazar close on his heels. Then he caught sight of him in the moonlight, through some beech trees. He was monstrously large.
What is it he wants from me? Yann asked himself. The great beast slowly raised his head and stared straight at him. Yann’s blood ran cold. Once he had spoken to the soul of the hound, but Balthazar no longer had the eyes of a dog. Those brown orbs of love and devotion had been replaced by human eyes. Yann had no words that would touch him.
Then the beast was gone.
With a jolt Yann remembered the story of the devil’s dog, and knew that the spirit of
beng
, the evil one, was out walking. He trembled for himself; he trembled for Paris.
beng
, the evil one, was out walking. He trembled for himself; he trembled for Paris.
He was relieved to be back in the city once more. Still trying to shake off the image of those human eyes, it came to him that it wasn’t Balthazar who was evil, but his master.
He felt overcome by pity for the dog and for all those caught up in this bloodbath. Pity for those never to be remembered: the curtain-maker, pleased to dress the tall windows of Versailles; the hosier, whose silk stockings the King wore to his death; the tax collector, who brought in the revenue; the banker who sent money abroad to an emigre client. Pity the seamstress who sewed the Queen’s hems; the butcher who hoarded, the wife who whispered a confession to a priest. Pity France. What a sorrowful city Paris had become. And spare some pity for yourself, Yann. Perhaps Tetu was right. It would have been better if I had never known about Kalliovski, for the knowledge is a cancer that has eaten its way into my soul.
That night, as with many nights when he wasn’t on stage, he felt lost. He had put away all Sido’s letters and would not allow himself to look at them. He had thought of burning them, but the idea of never seeing even her words again made him unbearably sad. As usual he sought comfort at the cafe on the square.
T
etu had witnessed Yann’s descent into deep melancholy and was powerless to help. Everything he suggested, Yann rejected. He disregarded Tetu’s carefully laid plans for escapes, choosing instead to go about things in his own idiosyncratic way. If a priest knew where to find the Silver Blade, it would not be long before the authorities managed to work it out. It was as if Yann wanted to be caught. Even faithful Didier, who would have followed him to hell and back, was bewildered by the change in him. The only person who benefited was Anselm. For if Yann had been his old self, Anselm would never again have had access to the theatre, but somehow he had taken over Citizeness Manou’s job, and Yann made no protest.
etu had witnessed Yann’s descent into deep melancholy and was powerless to help. Everything he suggested, Yann rejected. He disregarded Tetu’s carefully laid plans for escapes, choosing instead to go about things in his own idiosyncratic way. If a priest knew where to find the Silver Blade, it would not be long before the authorities managed to work it out. It was as if Yann wanted to be caught. Even faithful Didier, who would have followed him to hell and back, was bewildered by the change in him. The only person who benefited was Anselm. For if Yann had been his old self, Anselm would never again have had access to the theatre, but somehow he had taken over Citizeness Manou’s job, and Yann made no protest.
Tetu had waited anxiously for Yann at the theatre. He needed time alone with him; there was news that he didn’t want to tell him publicly. But Yann had avoided him, as he often did these days. Tetu found him seated with Pantalon at the middle table, engrossed in a card game. Anselm was watching with Colombine, whose arms were wrapped round his neck. She was wearing a small pair of guillotine earrings, which were all the fashion in Paris.
Tetu pushed his way to the table. ‘I need to speak to you, Yannick.’
‘Not now, I’m on a winning streak. Look what I inherited from my father. Good at cards. The Jack of Diamonds, that’s me.’
‘Yann, please, now. It’s urgent.’
‘No, Tetu, leave me alone.’
‘Why don’t you talk French, you two,’ said Colombine, ‘instead of that gibberish none of us can understand. Anyway, what language is it you’re speaking?’
Tetu ignored her. His presence began to irritate Yann.
‘Go away, Tetu. It can wait till the morning. There, I win.’
‘This afternoon I saw Cordell. Serious news has arrived posthaste from London—’
‘Damn it,’ said Pantalon. ‘Another hand?’
What Tetu had to say couldn’t wait.
‘Last week Sido was abducted. There was no note, no trace left behind.’
Yann found that he had lost his appetite for cards and wine. Sobriety hit him abruptly in the face.
‘Who … ?’ He swallowed. ‘… How did it happen?’
‘She was leaving Mr Trippen’s. He was shot trying to save her.’
‘Is he … dead?’
‘No. The doctors believe he will recover. The Laxtons expected a ransom note, but then they had word that she had been found.’
‘Thank God,’ said Yann. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Her body was recovered from one of the ponds on Hampstead Heath. It had been in the water, they think, for a week.’
Yann could no longer hear any voices, only the drum of blood beating in his ears. Had everything stopped? He couldn’t breathe.
Tetu saw the brightly coloured threads that danced around Yann fade before his eyes, as the young man staggered to his feet, his face bloodless.
‘What is it?’ said Colombine, looking frightened. ‘
Cheri
, speak to me! What’s wrong with you?’
Cheri
, speak to me! What’s wrong with you?’
He pushed past Colombine, knocking over the card table.
‘Hey,’ shouted Pantalon, ‘that was a winning hand.’
Yann, gasping for air like a drowning man, made it out on to the street before he spewed up half his insides.
Chapter Twenty-Five
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