Timidly, as if it were a candle-snuffer, Monsieur Aulard put the cap on his head. “It doesn’t fit!” he complained.
“Where has he gone? What’ve you done with him? He’s disappeared!” shouted Didier. “What a good trick!”
Such was his relief that Monsieur Aulard suddenly felt liberated from his worries. He was surprised not to find himself floating up to the ceiling with relief.
“This is wonderful, Têtu,” he said, putting his two very visible hands on either side of the dwarf’s face and kissing him loudly. Forgetting his fear of Citizen Kalliovski, he said with the excitement of a child, “I’m going to find out if anyone else can see me. Wait here.”
“If you see your reflection, don’t worry. No one else will,” Didier called after him.
They waited until he had gone.
“I told everyone at the theater to pretend he was invisible if they saw him wearing the black cap,” said Didier seriously.
Yann chuckled.
“Yann, it’s not funny,” snapped Têtu. “If this fails he’ll be a gibbering wreck and useless to us. If it works, he might find the courage he needs.”
“How did you get everybody to agree to it, Didier?” asked Yann.
“Simple,” said Didier. “I told them they wouldn’t get paid if they let the cat out of the bag.”
"Brilliant. Masterly,” said Têtu with a sudden laugh.
“It works!” said Monsieur Aulard, rushing back into the room. “We could make our fortune with this.”
"No,” said Têtu, bringing him down to earth with a bang. "If we manage to stay alive, that will be fortune enough.”
Before he left that night for Kalliovski’s, Yann went down and stood in the center of the empty stage. There was no one around. The wings were dark, as was the auditorium. A workman’s lamp hung down from the fly tower, casting a faint light upon him in the gloom all around. He looked out over the shadowy shoreline of empty seats. It seemed to him there was no lonelier place to stand than here on the empty stage, the home of illusion with its haunting dread of failure.
In the silence, in the darkness of the wings, he could almost see Topolain and the wooden Pierrot walk onto the stage, hear the magician call out to the audience, “No bullet can harm me! I am invincible, I have drunk from the cup of everlasting life!”
Yann knew then that he had come back to Paris to face the pistol, to catch the bullet. If he survived, Sido too would be free.
As he stood there he heard a voice he recognized from a long time ago. It came from the stalls. He didn’t call out, or ask who was there; he knew enough now not to question what the spirit said.
The voice was gentle.
“There is nothing to fear except the power you give to your own demons.”
chapter twenty-nine
It was a warm evening as Didier and Yann made their way toward the rue Payenne. The news on the street was not good. The Duke of Brunswick’s army was advancing steadily toward the capital. There was a crackle to the atmosphere, like the forewarning of a terrible storm.
Still, for tonight at least the sky was clear, with a tinge of watercolor rose spilling into the darkening clouds. By dawn those with an appetite for violence would take over the city and change the course of the Revolution forever. For the time being, liberty still wore its bridal gown, a bright promise in the hearts of its citizens. Tomorrow it would lose its innocence, be drowned in blood.
The mansion where Citizen Kalliovski lived was home to members of the revolutionary council, just as once it had been home to the great and the good of Parisian society. Its new clientele enjoyed exactly the same privileges as the previous residents; only the banner that flew from the ornate balcony was different.
Yann and Didier were watching as, on the dot of seven, Kalliovski’s beetle-black carriage pulled up outside the building. Two servants came out, supporting a woman between them, and lifted her into the carriage. The only hint that she was not human was that her feet never touched the ground. Shortly afterward, Kalliovski and his hound Balthazar climbed into the carriage, and it set off in the direction of the theater.
Yann smiled to himself. The man had taken the bait.
At the side entrance, Didier knocked three times. The door was opened and the beaming rosy face of Jeanne appeared. She stood on tiptoe and threw her arms around Didier’s neck, planting kisses on his face.
“What kept you, my old bear?” She stopped, seeing Yann. “Who’s this?”
“He’s a friend. He has to deliver something to Citizen Kalliovski and, well, as I was seeing you I thought I would bring him with me.” Didier leaned forward and kissed her. “You don’t mind if he goes up the back way, do you?”
“His apartment’s one flight up,” whispered Jeanne, looking around anxiously.
“Is there anyone else who might demand your attention this evening, apart from me?” asked Didier.
She giggled, and he squeezed her tight.
“No, they’ve all gone off to a meeting somewhere. They tell me it’s going to be a long night, and I need protection. I’m all alone, my old bear, with only your strong arms to keep the enemy from charging in on your sweet little Jeanne.”
Yann left them to it and quickly moved up the stairs that led to the main part of the house. Here all was quiet. The silence had a strange, eerie quality to it, as if the house had become detached from the rest of the world.
On the second floor was the apartment he was looking for. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door. It was opened by Milkeye.
“This is for Citizen Kalliovski,” said Yann.
“He’s not in,” said Milkeye hoarsely, moving as if to close the door.
“Will you at least take the basket?”
Yann pulled back the cloth to reveal a round cheese, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of red wine. The smell was pungent and tempting. Milkeye grabbed the basket.
“My master doesn’t like cheese,” he said.
Yann shrugged his shoulders and reached to take back the gift. With his outstretched palm Milkeye pushed him so hard that he landed with a thud on the opposite wall, with the door slammed firmly in his face.
Ten minutes was what Têtu had reckoned before the wine and cheese worked their magic and Milkeye would be fast asleep. Yann gave it fifteen to make sure before gently trying the door. To his relief, it opened easily and he found himself in the dark empty hall.
There was just enough light for him to make his way cautiously into the salon. It was an enormous room and furnished on a grand scale. He looked around, half expecting to see Milkeye felled like a tree on the floor.
There was no sign of him, just the basket on the side table. The bottle of wine was missing but the cheese was untouched. This was not a good sign. It would take both to knock him out completely. Yann wondered why he could hear the beating of a drum; then he realized it was his own heart. He spun around, fearing to see Milkeye in the long shadows. But the room was empty.
Guardedly he went through the interconnecting doors to the next salon. Surely he must be here somewhere—behind this door maybe? Every sound echoed cannonball loud in his head. Something was very wrong. Yann felt his mind whirling. He walked through to the third salon. The door was ajar and he pushed it open, to be greeted by a blast of cold air.
Yann stopped, hearing voices. Jeanne had told Didier that no one was allowed into the apartment while Kalliovski was out. He listened intently.
“Velvet and violence.
Brocade and blood.
Damask and death.”
There were several voices, none of them Milkeye’s. The words came in a high moan, sharp and urgent to his ear, as if some bizarre game was being played. But by whom? Didier must have been wrongly informed.
“Fur and fury.
Calico and corpses,”
came the whispered words. Yann felt every sense in him alert as he pushed the door further open. The room was in total darkness, the shutters closed tight against the light. He felt his breat
h coming fast, as if he had been running to get here.
Calm down, calm down, he said to himself, waiting for his eyes to get used to the darkness. He lit a candle, and immediately the voices stopped and everything went deathly still.
The room had been made into a workshop with a bench and a long table; in the half-light he could see shelves filled with glass jars. What was inside them he couldn’t make out. Books were piled high, charts and maps of the heavens were scattered about, and there were burners, jars, and surgical instruments on the workbench.
He heard something rustle and spun around, expecting to see Milkeye behind him. There was nobody there. He was slowly moving the candle to look more closely at what was in the glass jars when he heard the whispering voices say, “Calico and corpses.”
Yann stopped, transfixed to the spot. The sight in front of him nearly caused him to drop the candle, for ranged along the back wall of the chamber stood six automata, their eyes shut, only their ruby wax mouths moving.
The thing Yann despised in others he now saw clearly in himself. Fear had wrapped itself around his heart. If he were to let it get the better of him he would be dead; that much his reason knew. The other part of him just wanted to get the hell out of there. The battle inside him was won when he saw the dull threads of light coming from the automata and he realized with a shudder that someone had already pulled them tight as violin strings. Tight enough to keep the six automata whispering all night long.
Yann set to work to loosen the threads of light and as he did so, he heard the automata calling to him with their songs of sorrow that seemed to come from a dark place indeed and to have little to do with the living. He watched almost hypnotized as six pairs of glass eyes opened and stared at him. Now he noticed that they all wore identical red necklaces. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled, and in that moment everything slowed down as if time itself were yawning.
“You think I’d fall for such a cheap trick?” said a voice from behind him. Milkeye was standing in the doorway, a pistol in his hand. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
All Yann could think was, I should run, but he couldn’t. He was paralyzed by the knowledge of what was coming next, the inevitability of it. He had the insane desire to burst out laughing, for this moment was what he had been dreading. Here it was in all its glory, and it seemed almost nothing, compared to the long endless terror of waiting.
The pistol went off, the noise surprisingly shocking. He saw the flame from the gunpowder, the bullet graceful in its slow arc across the room toward him, trailing smoke as it went.
It had taken years for this bullet to find him. He reached out for it with his mind, tried to catch it in his hand. It scorched his flesh before piercing through his skin and lodging in his shoulder. Pain flooded him like water from a dam; the impact of it knocked him off his feet. He slumped down by the workbench. Milkeye was now coming toward him, the pistol reloaded, his finger on the trigger.
Yann fought not to lose consciousness. He pushed himself back toward the automata and felt the folds of a taffeta skirt fall around him as one of them bent over to take the bullet in her back. Yann couldn’t see where Milkeye was, for her stiff and dusty hair had fallen in his face. Her blazing eyes looked straight at him.
“We,” she said, “are the Seven Sisters Macabre. One of our party is missing. What is your name?”
“Yann Margoza,” he managed to say, as blood-black curtains threatened to close in front of him.
“Calico and corpses,” she said, and her graveyard breath brought him to his senses.
Once more he experienced the feeling of leaving his body, as he had done before in the forest. Now he stood in the middle of the room, a puppet-master of the threads of light.
At his command, the Sisters Macabre began to walk toward Milkeye, the dusty taffeta of their skirts trailing behind them like waves upon a shore. Milkeye loaded his pistol for the third time and fired at the oncoming automata. It did not stop them.
Yann felt the two parts of himself collide once again. The pain brought with it crystal vision. He dragged himself up near the workbench, feeling that he was ten feet tall and invincible. He pulled at the threads of light, lifted a chair, and brought it down on Milkeye’s head, then picked up another chair and another, until Milkeye let out a grunt and collapsed on the floor.
The room and its occupants began to spin around and around. For a moment Yann couldn’t remember why he was there. Then he felt a cold wax hand touch his face, and with a start became conscious of one of the Sisters Macabre standing next to him.
“We are his experiments. He believes that in us he can find the secret of perpetual youth. He believes he can hold time back for himself. We have been robbed of our lives. We have been robbed of our rest. What is it you want of us?”
“Letters, love letters written by Armand . . .” The name, what was the name? Why couldn’t he remember . . . “de . . .”
“Villeduval,” said all the Sisters together. “All you had to do was ask.”
Yann leaned lopsidedly on the workbench, trying to find his balance.
“Velvet and violence.
Taffeta and terror,”
said the Sisters Macabre as Milkeye writhed on the floor, his legs twitching.
If only the pain would stop, thought Yann, I could think straight. I would know what to do. All his thoughts now were consumed by the burning ache in his shoulder. There, he could hear it again, that sound of the distant drum fading away as his strength ebbed from him.
“Is this what you came for?” asked a Sister.
He heard a ripping sound as the fabric of her dress tore apart, and where the womb should have been two doors sprang open to reveal a bloodred empty chamber. She reached in with her white wax hands and handed Yann a bundle of letters.
A second Sister pulled out a bloodred drawer from where her stomach should have been, and handed him a black book.
“This is for you. It is the Book of Tears. It is bound with our flesh.”
“He stole our lives.
He stole our hearts.
He stole our deaths,”
whispered the Sisters Macabre together as they gathered around Yann, making sure that the letters and the book were safely in his coat pocket before they lined up once more against the back wall, their eyes closing, their mouths whispering.
“Velvet and violence.
Brocade and blood.
Damask and death.”
Yann was still clinging to the bench when he became aware of the grisly contents of the jars. They were filled with parts of bodies: in one, a head; in another, limbs; in another, a stack of hearts.
“Calico and corpses.
Satin and suffering,”
whispered the Sisters Macabre.
Yann’s shirt was wet and he wondered why it was red.
The room was spinning again and into this unsettling scene came Milkeye. Like some monster he had grown more arms and legs, all trying to get him. Yann kicked out desperately, but still those hands kept coming.
He staggered and sank to his knees. Someone should warn Têtu that Kalliovski can work the threads of light, he thought, as the curtains of his mind, blood-black, treacle-thick, came down for good: the show well and truly over, the end of the performance.
chapter thirty
"Nom de dieu!” said Monsieur Aulard, entering his apartment with Têtu to see Yann stretched out on his kitchen table and with Têtu to see Yann stretched out on his kitchen table and Didier, his shirtsleeves rolled up, washing blood from his hands in a basin. “Is he dead?”
“No,” said Didier. “Luckily the bullet didn’t go into the bone and the wound is clean. He should be all right.”
Têtu climbed up onto a chair to take a closer look at Yann.
“What happened?” he asked, cautiously inspecting Didier’s work.
“To tell the truth, I’m not sure. I didn’t hear the gun go off, but I was worried because he’d been so long. I rushed into the apartme
nt to see Milkeye with his hands around Yann’s legs. He’d been shot. I thought he was dead. There was blood all over the floor.”
Têtu felt Yann’s forehead. “At least he has no fever. That’s something.” Seeing the bullet sitting in the basin, he picked it up and examined it. “As always, you’ve done well, Didier.”
Didier gently lifted Yann up and took him through to the next room. “I’ll put him in your bed,” he told Monsieur Aulard.
“Can’t he sleep somewhere else?” asked Monsieur Aulard.
Didier looked disgusted. “No,” he said, “not after I’ve cleaned up that tip of a room of yours and put fresh linen on the bed. He needs to rest.”
Clean linen too, thought Monsieur Aulard. Do they think I’m made of money? Have I nothing left to call my own?
Didier came back into the room with a fresh basin of water and scrubbed the table clean. Then he went over to the cupboard, brought out a bottle of Monsieur Aulard’s best brandy and three glasses, and rolled down his sleeves.
“I don’t know about you two, but I need a drink and no mistake. How did your evening go?”
"Tricky. Tiring,” answered Têtu.
“And nothing to show for it but a bullet,” said Monsieur Aulard.
Didier said nothing.
Kalliovski had arrived at the Theater of Liberty, causing quite a sensation with his automaton, which looked as though it was modeled on that poor woman Madame Perrien. Monsieur Aulard had once seen her at the theater and remembered her as being pretty, with an infectious laugh. The automaton was a hideous mockery of what she had once been.
Though the audience had clapped when she walked unaided to her seat, her movements were jerkier than Kalliovski would have liked. To a perfectionist such as he was, it was one of the many flaws that needed ironing out. After tonight, with Têtu working for him, everything would be different.
He sat himself down in the front row next to his automaton, with Balthazar at his feet, and stretched out his legs. He all but had Têtu within his grasp, for he was certain that it was the dwarf who had sent the invitation. With the coming of the Terror, Têtu would need protection. Together, what couldn’t they do! Yes, it was worth coming for that alone.