He took out his watch. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, the face showing an image of the Grim Reaper. If he left at the intermission he would get to the meeting on time. He smiled to himself.
From the prompter’s desk, Monsieur Aulard dared himself to look into the face of his demon, for the man sitting in the front row had haunted him ever since that terrible day when Topolain’s body had been found in his office, and here he was, not ten feet from him. He held on tight to the black cap in his pocket. The feel of it comforted him and calmed his shredded nerves.
"Are we ready?” he asked Têtu nervously.
“Oh yes, my friend, and I think you are going to enjoy seeing a true master at work.” Têtu flexed his fingers as if about to play a piano. “Bring up the curtain.”
Kalliovski appeared to take little pleasure in what was happening on stage. The show itself was an affront to his intellect. It was just a cacophony of patriotic songs, drivel for the masses that fed into the fever of the moment.
Têtu was interested to see how tightly Kalliovski controlled his automaton. No wonder she had moved so stiffly. He started gently to play with her threads of light, expecting at any moment that Kalliovski would become aware of what he was doing, for a true shaman would know instinctively when someone else was interfering. It didn’t take him long to discover that Kalliovski was a mere amateur, with no natural gift.
Têtu stood the automaton up. Standing next to Kalliovski, she started to sing the Marseilleise. In the flicker of the oil lamps, the audience and the actors on stage whose performance had nothing to do with magic were taken aback by this creature and her ethereal voice.
A shout went up from the audience. “Bring up the lights! Let’s have a proper look.”
As if on cue, the automaton turned to bow at them. Try as he might, Kalliovski could not regain control of the threads of light; his mind did not have the strength. He could do nothing but sit there and envy the brilliance of such sorcery.
The audience were soon out of their seats and singing along with the automaton, tears rolling down their faces.
Kalliovski was caught, and he knew it. He was forced to take unwarranted credit for his patriotic creation. By the time the curtain came down, the applause was deafening. He was unable to leave his seat as members of the audience came to stare at the automaton and ask him questions about it.
He hissed to one of his henchmen, “Fetch me the theater manager.”
At this point Monsieur Aulard broke into Têtu’s story of the evening’s events.
“Go on, tell Didier what I did.”
And Têtu, who generally declined on principle to give credit to anyone, softened slightly and said, “There is no doubt that without our friend’s bravery, Kalliovski would have left the theater long before the final curtain call.”
Monsieur Aulard had refused to be hurried down the gangway, no matter how many times Kalliovski’s henchman prodded him in the back. He insisted on stopping and talking to the odd patron who would jokingly ask whether he was going to offer Kalliovski’s automaton a job in his theater. He walked toward Kalliovski as if toward the guillotine itself. With every measured step, he felt a little braver. At last he reached the front row. Kalliovski had a look that said: “You will be dead unless you can explain this.” He nodded at one of his men, who handed him the invitation.
“Are you responsible for sending me two tickets to your wretched fleapit of a theater to see this travesty of a show?”
Monsieur Aulard held tight to the black cap in his pocket; just to know it was there gave him courage. He leaned toward Kalliovski, a smile stuck fast to his face. “I don’t think the rest of the audience find it a travesty.”
Kalliovski stood up. He towered above Monsieur Aulard, who instinctively took a step backward as his stomach lurched forward. He had forgotten quite how frightening the man was. It was something about his face and those eyes that burned straight through you like drops of acid.
Monsieur Aulard kept talking. “Why, citizen, I thought by the reaction to your remarkable automaton that you were enjoying the performance.”
“The dwarf is in the theater, I know it,” hissed Kalliovski.
"You mean Têtu?”
“You know I do,” spat Kalliovski.
"I don’t know if he is here tonight or not. I will make inquiries, but first I must congratulate you, citizen, and ask you how such magic is accomplished.”
He knew he had him. Kalliovski’s pride was such that he was not going to admit that the automaton’s performance had little or nothing to do with him.
“If he’s here, shall I say you would like to see him after the show?”
“No, I will see him now.” Kalliovski nodded toward his two henchmen as each took an arm of the automaton.
Monsieur Aulard handed back the invitation. “Forgive me, but won’t you stay to see the end of—”
He never finished what he was saying, for the automaton said loudly, “I don’t want to go home. Don’t take me home. I want to stay.”
The audience started to clap. “That’s it, citizen, you tell him!” shouted someone. “Sing us some more songs!”
“If you wish,” said the automaton.
“We do!” shouted the audience.
Kalliovski shot a murderous look at the theater manager.
The bell rang for the second half to begin, and the little band started to play. Monsieur Aulard bowed and took his leave, saying he hoped Citizen Kalliovski would enjoy the rest of the show. He returned backstage, still stroking the black cap in his pocket as the curtain came up.
Just after the first song was over, one of Kalliovski’s men came in to give him a message. Once again it looked as if he was about to leave. Têtu acted quickly. He made the automaton rise into the air so that she hung there, hovering above the seats. The audience gasped in amazement. “She’s floating!” cried someone.
It was then that Têtu became aware that he had an invisible helper. Often when he played with the threads of light he had found that spirits would interfere. He had been concentrating so hard that he hadn’t realized there was someone else out there. As the automaton floated above the audience, out of it emerged a phantom in the shape of a beautiful woman, a spirit made of light that illuminated the auditorium.
Balthazar hid under the seat, his ears pinned back, whining miserably. A stunned silence broke over the audience.
“Who are you?” someone called out at last.
The spirit said nothing.
“Are you alive?” shouted another.
“I was alive once. I was murdered.”
At these words Kalliovski leaped up from his seat and backed away toward the wall of the auditorium where his two henchmen stood, terrified.
The apparition hovered above the seats, her dress flowing behind her, moving ever closer to him. Then, with a sudden wild laugh, she vanished. The audience, silent for a moment, started clapping and cheering, shouting for more.
Kalliovski, recovering himself, stared piercingly into the wings, wishing now that he could pull the theater down brick by brick until he found what he was looking for—the dwarf. What he would give to have that power! And he would have it. He would become master of the dark arts; nothing was going to stop him.
The final curtain came down. He clicked open his watch. He was late. He started for the door, leaving his automaton behind, nodding to his henchmen to bring her. But before they could reach her she called out, “Sweetie, wait for me,” and Kalliovski turned to see his waxwork lady gliding up behind him, all stiffness gone. As she reached the doors to the auditorium Têtu let go of the threads of light, and she collapsed lifeless on the floor, leaving Kalliovski’s men to pick her up.
Têtu was exhausted. Sleep, he knew of old, was the only cure for his state. Still, he waited until the last of the audience had left, for he was curious to know the identity of the spirit that had come to his aid. Once more the darkened, empty stage was filled with light, and he saw her standing be
fore him. There was no mistaking who she was. No wonder Kalliovski had been so frightened. She was even more beautiful than he remembered: the only woman the dwarf had ever loved.
“Anis,” he said softly, “so it was you. I should have known you would have been here for him.” He held out his hand toward her and felt something brush softly against his cheek, smelled for a moment her intoxicating perfume.
“Be careful,” she whispered as she faded away. “You are not out of danger yet.”
“Anis, Anis,” said Têtu longingly into the impenetrable darkness. But she was gone.
He wiped his eyes. Was he becoming a sentimental old fool? He told himself it was just tiredness as, tears running down his face, he walked back into the wings. Grief once more had made the world seem unbearable.
“You should have lived,” he said quietly. “You should have raised your own son. You would have been so proud of Yann.”
Monsieur Aulard caught up with Kalliovski at the main door of the theater.
“Têtu would be delighted to see you,” he said, still holding tightly on to his black cap. “He is backstage. He was most impressed by your abilities with the automaton, and so was I. I hope that if you ever need employment, you will remember my humble theater.”
Kalliovski grabbed hold of Monsieur Aulard by the lapels of his coat.
“Tell him I will see him later, and as for you—the guillotine is a hungry lady. Be careful.” He let the theater manager go, and Monsieur Aulard stood there mopping his brow as he watched the driver flick the horses’ flanks with his whip, reassured to see that Kalliovski was not heading toward his mansion. Finishing his story, he told Didier and Têtu with pride, “I wasn’t scared, because I had my black cap.”
Têtu stayed quiet. He had said nothing about knowing who the spirit was. Some things, he thought, do not belong here. They live in the hinterland between this world and another.
“Still, for all our grand gestures and daring deeds, this is a disaster. We have failed dismally in our task,” said Monsieur Aulard dramatically.
"Don’t be so hasty,” said Didier, bringing out Yann’s coat and taking from it the packet of letters and the leather-bound black book. Têtu grabbed them, and nearly dropped the book when he realized what the binding was made of.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d gotten the letters?” he cried.
“But Yann was shot! How did you get hold of these?” asked Monsieur Aulard.
“You shouldn’t have taken it for granted that because he was shot, he failed,” said Didier. “There’s more to that boy than meets the eye.”
"You’re brilliant,” said Têtu.
“I didn’t do it. It was Yann.”
The two men stopped as Yann came shakily into the room. Didier rushed forward to help him to a chair.
“What are you doing up?” asked Monsieur Aulard.
"I’m feeling better,” said Yann. He looked as white as snow.
"You’ve done very well to have gotten all this,” said Têtu.
Yann smiled. “The letters were hidden inside one of the Sisters Macabre.”
“Sisters Macabre?”
“They are automata. One had a red chamber in her stomach, containing the letters. Another gave me this. She called it the Book of Tears.”
“Wonderful!” said Monsieur Aulard.
Têtu rummaged about until he found a little bag of herbs. He put it in a jug with some boiling water, strained it into a bowl, and handed it to Yann.
“Here, drink this.”
It smelled and tasted so revolting that Yann spat it out immediately.
"What are you trying to do, Têtu? Poison me? Give me some water. That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“It will do you good, make you heal quickly. Come on now, drink it up.”
Yann did as he was told, and shortly afterward his eyelids began to close and Didier carried him back to bed.
That night only Didier and Yann slept. Monsieur Aulard and Têtu sat up reading the love letters of Armand de Villeduval and Isabelle Gautier.
“It breaks your heart to read of such great love. And that poor little daughter of theirs, lost and neglected! To think that she’s to be given to that monster Kalliovski! We have to save her!” said Monsieur Aulard passionately.
"We must get back to the prison,” said Têtu. He picked up the Book of Tears and started to look through it. “What’s this?”
“Just blank paper,” said Monsieur Aulard.
“I think not,” said Têtu. As he held it up to the heat of the candle flame, page after page of writing appeared. “You see? It’s sympathetic ink that can only be seen once it’s been heated.”
On the title page were the words The Red Necklace, and the following pages listed the names of all those who had borrowed money from Kalliovski, how much they owed, and what secrets they had given up for the loan.
“So much blackmail! Is there anyone he hasn’t bought?” mused Monsieur Aulard.
“There may be a few who were not blinded by his wealth and connections, but only a few, I’d say,” replied Têtu.
The dawn chorus had started when Monsieur Aulard at last put the book down. As he did so, a sheet of thin folded paper fell out, covered in elaborate flowery handwriting. He pored over it.
“Têtu, this is what we’ve been looking for!” he exclaimed. “If Sido is in any doubt about leaving her father, this will not fail to convince her.”
It was a letter from the present Marquis de Villeduval, addressed to Count Kalliovski, asking him to arrange the deaths of his wife and his half brother and of their daughter, Sido.
chapter thirty-one
Citizen Kalliovski’s carriage made its way slowly through the busy streets toward the Tuileries Palace. It was a warm night, busy streets toward the Tuileries Palace. It was a warm night, the buildings still retaining the heat of the hot summer. Nothing had cooled down, not the temperature, not the citizens, not the Revolution, not the war. The gated city felt like a vast witch’s cauldron, the flotsam and jetsam of its population slowly rising to the top, ready to boil over with frustration, hatred, and murder.
Kalliovski had not yet been home. There had been no time. The note that had been delivered to him at the theater was from Citizen Danton, telling him of a meeting that he should attend if he wanted Sido de Villeduval’s release papers signed. He sat cursing the fact that he was already late, angry with himself for having stayed so long at the theater, and wondering why Têtu had brought back Anis’s ghost. He raised his gloved hand and brought it down hard on the side of the carriage. Damn it, tonight of all nights. He didn’t need to think of her. He had sworn he would never think of her again.
He took out his pocket watch. He was now over an hour late. The carriage edged along, slower than a funeral march. He banged loudly on the ceiling with its painted cherubs.
“Can’t you go any faster?”
“No, sir,” the coachman called down. “Too many people.”
Kalliovski thought angrily that Danton would not have the manners to wait for him. No, they would all have conveniently forgotten just how much he had helped by supplying the money to buy extra pikes and arms. It was all well and good, wanting the citizens of Paris to put an end to the traitors in their midst, but bare hands and fine words weren’t enough. They needed weapons to be successful.
Tonight’s meeting was unofficial, by invitation only. It would be the last chance for Danton, Marat, and their cronies to trawl through the prison registers and to make quite sure that no one important had been rounded up by mistake, for tomorrow the killing would begin. Justice, for what little it was worth, would then be in the hands of the people: sheep, the lot of them, led by Marat, a leader of sheep who had ignited their imaginations with his clever words. What use was it, Marat argued, for a man to go off to fight for his country when the prisons were full of counterrevolutionaries? They would break out at the first opportunity and kill the innocents at home while the men of Paris were a
way fighting.
Kalliovski gave a thin smile as he thought, Oh world, beware of clever sheep. They are the truly dangerous ones, for they understand the stupidity of the flock, know just how easy it is to lead the people to slaughter.
At last the carriage stopped at the palace and Kalliovski made his way through the ill-lit entrance hall and down the forsaken corridors. Portraits of solemn, stiff-looking men in powdered wigs still hung on the walls in their gilt frames. How horrified they would be if they knew what was being discussed behind closed doors tonight! Not long ago the place had bristled with footmen and attendants, with dukes and princesses, with gossip and rumor and tittle-tattle. How many times had he been called upon to help some distressed viscount or embarrassed prince out of a difficulty? He had made a great deal of money from their follies. Now he saw no one, heard no one, just the click-clack of his own boots, and the scratching of Balthazar’s sharp claws, upon the marbled floors.
Whom did he prefer? This bunch, with their bull-like orators and clever sheep, rich in words but not much else? Or the king and the aristocracy, foolish, narcissistic people who could hardly babble out a sentence without tripping over their own protocol, but whose pockets were lined with gold, ready for the taking?
The question remained unanswered as Kalliovski entered the large antechamber adjoining the room where the meeting was being held. The imposing double doors were firmly closed. He was surprised to find so many people waiting, a motley group who must all, like him, have paid handsomely for release papers to be stamped.
Kalliovski walked past all of them and knocked loudly at the main door. It was opened by a lizard of a man with hooded eyes.
“I have a note from Citizen Danton summoning me here,” said Kalliovski. He was about to walk straight past, but the man put out a firm hand to stop him.
“Not so fast, citizen.”