“Do you know who first came up with the idea of man as a living machine?” said the count. “It was the philosopher Descartes. It might interest you to know that he even had a replica of his dead daughter Francine constructed for him.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Topolain. He realized with a start that Kalliovski was staring at him intently. He had never heard of Descartes, and knew nothing of philosophy. Nervously, he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
“And then there was Jacques de Vaucanson,” continued the count musingly. “You may remember that he came up with that wonder of the world, the defecating duck.”
Now Topolain felt safer. Everyone in France knew about the defecating duck. He coughed and drew himself up.
“I never had the privilege of seeing the duck. It must have been most amusing to see it take the grain from your hand, appear to eat it, and then expel it just like a real duck.”
“Quite,” said Count Kalliovski dryly. His face was expressionless. “And do you know that it was nothing more than a clockwork toy? The Age of Enlightenment, and all it brings us is a defecating duck! I trust your Pierrot holds more magic than that.”
“Oh yes, sir, much more,” said Topolain. Then, without thinking, he inquired, “Forgive me for asking, but haven’t we met before? I never forget a face and yours is one that—” He stopped, realizing too late that his tongue had run away with itself. He knew it was a fatal mistake.
Kalliovski’s eyes narrowed to scrutinize the man in front of him. He turned to look at the dwarf, a spark of recognition showing on his face. Only then did the poor magician remember when and where he had last seen the count. Under his blotched white makeup all the color drained from his face. The count smiled inwardly.
He turned on his red heels and left the room. Têtu and Topolain listened to his footsteps retreat into the distance. They were well and truly trapped.
“What have I done?” said Topolain.
Yann could suddenly feel Topolain’s fear, though his thoughts were jumbled together and made no sense at all.
“Quiet,” Têtu grunted. “The boy is here. You’d better leave the pistol out of the show.”
Topolain poured himself a generous glass of cognac from a decanter, his hands shaking. He drained the cognac in one gulp. “No pistol. I think that’s wise. But we’re dead, aren’t we?”
The memory of the voice early that evening began to haunt Yann again. There must, he thought, be a way to escape.
Above him on the wooden walkway came the sound of footsteps. A footman appeared as if from nowhere, and started to walk down the spiral staircase with a dish of sweetmeats. Quickly Yann made for the staircase at the opposite end of the room. He watched the footman leave the dish beside the decanters on the table before returning the same way he had come, through an invisible door in the bookshelves. Yann, catlike, went up the stairs after him and caught hold of the door before it fully closed.
“See if you can find a way out of here. I’ll keep the door open. Go!” hissed Têtu.
Yann found himself standing in a dark, musty-smelling passageway. Up ahead he could see the flicker of candlelight as the footman disappeared down the rabbit warren of corridors. It reminded him of walking between the painted flats in the theater. But why did the château have this hidden labyrinth of corridors? What was it trying to hide? What illusion was it hoping to create?
Sido had been dressed and ready for hours, but no one had come for her. She could hear music and laughter wafting up the stairs as doors down below opened and closed. It was late. Supper must be over. She had been forgotten. Hungry and disappointed with waiting, she lay down on the four-poster bed and closed her eyes.
This was how Yann first saw her. He had discovered that there were peepholes in all the doors, and by looking through them he had a good idea by now of the layout of the château. It was like watching different scenes from a play, with guests getting ready and putting the final touches to their finery. He felt drawn to this girl, certain that she wouldn’t cry out if he were to venture in. He pushed against the door and it opened silently. Not wishing to wake the girl up, he sat down and waited for her to stir.
There was something about her that fascinated him, and he was curious to know why she had been left up here all alone. She reminded him of a china doll, with long eyelashes that fluttered like a butterfly’s wings, and an abundance of dark hair that cascaded across the pillows.
Sido woke up with a start, then, seeing the boy, sat bolt upright in bed.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
She pulled the curtains around her and peeked out, wondering if she should call for help.
“Even if you did, no one would come,” said Yann.
This was very unsettling. Had she been talking aloud and not known it?
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Yann Margoza. What’s yours?”
“Sido de Villeduval. Why are you here?”
“I am with the magician. We are doing the show tonight, downstairs in the room with all the books.”
“The library?”
“Whoever it belongs to hasn’t read any of them. They are all new.”
“Everything in the house is new. My father has only just built it.”
“Are you a princess?”
“No,” Sido laughed, “I am not.”
“I couldn’t live like this,” said Yann. “The walls would close in on me. It would become a pretty prison.”
The boy shouldn’t be here, Sido thought, yet the strange thing was that she had no desire for him to leave. He made her feel less forgotten and less hungry. She tried hard to think what she knew about boys, which was very little. Unlike the other girls at the convent, she had no brothers or cousins to help her out. Now there was a strange boy in her bedchamber. If she were caught with him, she would be sent back to the convent to be forgotten again.
“You won’t be, not now that you are here.”
“How do you do that, know what I am thinking?”
Yann picked up a book and said, “It’s all the same, thinking and saying. Can you read?”
Sido nodded.
“Are you sure I won’t be sent back to the convent?” she asked.
“You will stay here.”
His words thrilled her.
“I would like to read words. Thoughts can be so confusing. Why does this house have secret corridors?”
“My father had the corridors built because he doesn’t like to see the servants. Thank you for what you said. Still, I think you should leave.”
Yann knew he should, but there was something intriguing about this girl that made him forget the reason he had gone off exploring.
He smiled at her. “There’s no need to worry. No one will come for you until the show begins.”
This was a strange boy indeed. It was like being in church and feeling that you were opened up and all of you could be seen.
“The doors have peepholes. I looked through one. That’s how I saw you. Would you like to see?”
Sido nodded.
“Come on, leave your shoes.”
In her dress of watered silk that rustled as she moved, she followed Yann through the hidden door and down the secret passages.Together they took turns looking through the peepholes. A lady in a boudoir adjusted her impossibly tall wig, complaining to her maid that it was too heavy and that she had a headache. In another room, a man was kissing a lady on the neck. She was blushing and Sido saw her step quickly aside, fanning herself as her husband appeared at the door. Ladies and gentlemen were sitting in a sumptuous salon, and the scene looked almost golden in the glow of so much candlelight.
She felt Yann touch her arm lightly.
“We must go back,” he said.
They retraced their steps. Sido quickly straightened out the bed and put her shoes back on. When there was a sharp knock on the door her heart nearly missed a beat.
Then she realized that the boy with the all-seeing
eyes had vanished.
chapter four
So it was that on the last stroke of midnight the scene was set. All that was keeping the performance from beginning was the late arrival of the marquis. The guests were waiting as an argument broke out between two of their party, a cardinal and an intensely earnest-looking young man called Louis de Jonquières.
“The clergy are the First Estate of France, the nobility are the Second, and the Third Estate are the rest of the country. We’re seriously outnumbered. It is imperative that we question our role,” said the young man.
“I suppose you think the Third Estate should have a voice. Are we expected to give a say to every peasant? Have you thought through the consequences?” asked the cardinal with distaste.
“You are a man of the church. The Bible commands us to consider the poor,” replied Louis de Jonquières, warming to his theme. “In my view, if their lot is to be improved, they should have a say in the way things are run. Come, you must agree that at present our society leaves much to be desired.”
The cardinal looked pained. He cleared his throat to make his point.
“My ancestors fought to make this country what it is. We are a great nation, the envy of the world. You surely do not imagine that this has been achieved by the people? It is our duty to retain our position and lead the way.”
“But the nobility cannot be relied upon,” said Louis de Jonquières. “We are not going to change our ways in order to put bread on the tables of the starving. Look what has happened in America! The people rid themselves of English sovereignty and now, with our help, it is a republic. Many of my friends would argue that absolute monarchy is dead.”
The cardinal’s cheeks were now as red as his silk gown.
“Society,” he said haughtily, “will have to evolve, and that, monsieur, will take time. Nothing is going to be achieved in a day.”
“But why should the poor pay for the privileges of the rich? They are so many, and we are so few,” said Louis de Jonquières passionately.
Count Kalliovski, who was enjoying watching the cardinal’s discomfiture, interrupted with a laugh.
“Enough, enough,” he said. “For tonight, my friends, let’s leave politics alone. The subject makes dreary companions of us all.”
Now, with the timing of a great actor, the marquis entered the room, accompanied by Sido. He took his seat at the front of the makeshift stage. Sido sat down beside him.
Her attention was caught by the Duchesse de Lamantes, with her fashionably tall coiffure. On top, amongst an assortment of ribbons and flowers, sat a coach made out of gold thread, drawn by six dapple-gray horses of blown glass. This brittle design sat oddly with the sour face of its wearer, who looked as if one smile might crack the piecrust of her makeup.
“Who,” inquired the duchess, lifting up her spyglass, “is that plain-looking creature? Can it be the marquis’s daughter? What a disappointment for him.”
The marquis silenced the company. “I hope I haven’t missed any of this intriguing little performance of yours, Count Kalliovski.”
“Not at all, my dear friend,” said the count. “As you can see, the curtain has not yet been drawn.” He clapped his hands for silence.
“Messieurs et mesdames, to thank the marquis for this splendid evening I have brought him a show from the theater at the rue du Temple—a show so popular that it has been sold out for the past four months. I give you the People’s Pierrot.”
There was a round of applause as the curtain was pulled back and Topolain brought the Pierrot to the front of the stage.
The magician started as always by demonstrating to the audience the working of its wooden limbs and its lack of strings.
“Monsieur le Marquis, Count Kalliovski, my lords and ladies,” he announced with a flourish, “I have here the wonder of Paris. He can walk! He can talk! Moreover, he can look into the future, see into the depths of your hearts, and know your darkest secrets.”
“Why would it want to do that?” interrupted the marquis. “It seems most impertinent.”
A titter of laughter echoed around the room.
Topolain stopped, uncertain whether he should continue or wait.
“My dear count,” said the marquis, who in truth was irritated that it hadn’t been his own idea to bring this show here, “these are mere street entertainers. I am surprised that you have brought them here.”
“Be patient. I can assure you that this little notion of mine is going to prove most entertaining.”
Topolain was so put out by all the delay that he found himself tongue-tied, unable to remember the questions that he usually asked the Pierrot. To his relief, the Pierrot stood up and opened its steely glass eyes. It stretched out its wooden fingers and moved its wooden limbs. There was complete silence.
Topolain recovered himself and began to work his audience. With care, he lifted up the Pierrot’s baggy blue top to show the carved wooden torso. He tapped it with his hand; it made a pleasingly solid sound.
“Bravo! An artful mystery indeed,” said the marquis.
Count Kalliovski stared fixedly at the wooden Pierrot; he too was intrigued to know how the strange doll worked.
Topolain, his voice no longer faltering, said, “Ask the Pierrot a question. Any question will do. I promise you the answer will not disappoint.”
Yann, from his vantage point hidden in the shadows, could see the stage and the audience clearly. Têtu, standing beside him, was working the Pierrot, though how he did it remained to Yann a profound mystery. It was their combined talents that made the show the success it was.
“Tell me then, what kind of dog have I got?” said a lady with beauty marks and a painted fan.
This was what Yann could do, read minds and throw his voice so that it sounded as if the Pierrot was talking.
“A spaniel. She had puppies three days ago.”
The lady laughed. “How charming, and how clever.”
Now it started just as it had done in the theater earlier that evening, a ribbon of silly questions neatly tied up and answered to everyone’s satisfaction. Yann felt pleased that nothing more taxing had been asked of him. Two shows a night was hard work, especially for Têtu.
Just then Louis de Jonquières remarked, “If the Pierrot is right about small things, things of no importance, then maybe he can inform us on the bigger questions of the day.”
“Really, monsieur!” said the Duchesse de Lamantes. “Why do you insist on being so disagreeable? Why not save your talk for the coffeehouses of Paris instead of asking a wooden doll to take part in your idiotic debate? Let it rest. It is most inappropriate.”
“Forgive me,” said Louis de Jonquières, “but I am curious. Tell me, Pierrot, will the present regime fall?”
With this question the room changed. Yann saw in the slipstream of his mind an audience of headless people, blood running down their fine clothes. He heard the Pierrot say, as if from many miles away, “A thousand years of French kings are coming to an end.”
The audience began to shift on their chairs. Topolain rushed toward the front of the stage. “The doll jests,” he cried. “Please now ask him a question he can answer.”
Louis de Jonquières pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Without wishing to make a dull fellow of a wooden doll, perhaps he would care to give us his candid opinion as to whether France will evolve itself into a constitutional monarchy.”
“Please, monsieur,” said Topolain, “my doll is no political fortune-teller.”
“But you said, sir, that he can see into the future, into the minds of men. I am merely asking what he sees.”
“Watches, snuffboxes, trinkets, bonbons, and the like,” said Topolain. He felt he was losing his grip. What on earth had come over Yann, that he would say something so dangerous?
“Humor me,” the young man persisted.
Yann looked out at all the fine ladies and gentlemen, at the emeralds, rubies, and diamonds that glittered on wilted flesh. Louis
de Jonquières appeared to be holding his blood-soaked head under his arm. Yann blinked, hoping the vision would go away, only to see Death walk into the room. He wanted to keep silent, but it was as if he were possessed.
He heard the Pierrot say, “I see you all drowning in blood.”
This remark was so unexpected and so shocking that Topolain burst out laughing. “As you see, messieurs and mesdames, on the question of politics the Pierrot is but a wooden doll.”
None of the guests were laughing. Instead their faces were grave and the atmosphere in the room became uneasy.
“A doll indeed,” said the marquis solemnly. He turned to his guests. “I can assure you, my dear friends, that such a thing would never happen here. It must be an English doll!” There was a ripple of nervous laughter. “In England, that country of barbarians, yes, maybe. Look at what they did to their King Charles the First—chopped off his head! We would never fall so low.”
There was a murmur of approval. Everyone applauded.
Count Kalliovski watched with interest. He had sat there, judge and jury on the fate of Topolain and Têtu, and had come to his verdict. This would be their last ever performance. After tonight the old fool and his friend would be dead.
“Thank you, that will be all,” said the marquis, dismissing Topolain. “I believe the entertainment, if you can call it that, is over. We will adjourn.”
“Not quite yet,” said the count. “The show is not finished. I believe Monsieur Topolain is celebrated for a trick that he does with a pistol. Monsieur Topolain is the only man in Europe who claims that no bullet can harm him.”
“Impossible!” said the marquis.
“Well then, let us see for ourselves,” said the count.
Topolain was on his own. In his mind’s eye he saw the Grim Reaper climb out of the wooden skull, grow in size, and stand there watching him, just like Kalliovski. For one moment he contemplated escaping, but he could see Milkeye standing guard at the library doors. If he ran, it would be the end for all of them. He took a long, deep gulp of air. He who thought himself a coward now showed the bravery of a lion. Always the showman, he brought out the pistol and a bullet and showed them to the audience.