Madame Brasseur, still casting a suspicious eye at Aristide, at last agreed to give him a bed for a few nights in their small daughter's room, and ordered the child's bed to be moved into their own bedchamber. He fell asleep on a lumpy, hastily stuffed straw mattress, surrounded by half-finished children's gowns.
A letter arrived for Brasseur the following morning. "You're in luck," he said, tossing it across the dining table to Aristide as they ate their midday dinner. "Grimaud-the captain at the Bastille-says the police interrogated Cagliostro just a couple of days ago."
Aristide winced; though the judicial torture of accused prisoners had been abolished half a dozen years before, he suspected that, in pursuit of matters involving the royal family, the police could be both persuasive and thorough.
"After that," Brasseur continued, oblivious, "he might be more willing to cooperate with anyone who looks more like a friend."
"But can Grimaud get us in to see him?" Aristide said, scanning the note.
"For a short visit, perhaps." He looked gloomily at Aristide. "I suppose you'll want to go right away?"