professional, n’est-ce pas?” Chantal said. “What can you do in the meantime?”
“The first thing I want to do is go shopping at Blasphème, the boutique on rue Charonne,” she said. “You can guide me, eh Lucas?”
“Shopping?”
“And I don’t want to appear too blind.”
Lucas snorted. “Like being a little pregnant?”
“Give me a quick orientation course, won’t you?”
“Quick . . . ?”
“Things I should know.”
“When putting a drink down, place the other hand on the table first, feel around for obstacles, then place the drink next to your hand. Stairs can be difficult, especially judging the last step. Move slowly, feel ahead with your foot and keep a hand on the banister.”
“Let’s eat lunch.” Not only was she hungry, she needed to practice.
Eating was agony. She was so hungry and the food was so hard to locate. She kept spearing the plate with her empty fork. At this rate, in order to survive she’d have to pick up her dish and lick it like a dog. She ended up lifting the dish, using her fingers, and scooping the food into her mouth.
“We all do that the first time,” Chantal said. “But next meal, it’s not allowed.”
After lunch, Chantal took her on a tour. “Quick technique time. Let’s trail the walls.”
Were they going rock climbing?
“Stick your hands out a little in front,” she said, pulling Aimée’s arm. “ Comme ci. ”
Aimée’s fingers slid over metal and glass.
“That case houses a fire extinguisher,” said Chantal. “You can tell by the curved handle. Feel it.”
Beyond that, Aimée felt smooth plaster and grained wood beams. Her hands traveled to a thick carved banister. Hallmarks of medieval construction. Many buildings, at the core, piggybacked on medieval foundations.
“Bend down, keep your hands in front of you so objects will make contact with your forearms instead of with your face. Bon! Do you feel the stone . . . how cold it is?”
Aimée’s fingers trailed over the chill smooth stone. Goose-bumps went up her arms.
“Remember, when you feel this you’ve gone too far down the corridor,” said Chantal. “Turn back.”
“But it seems like there’s a door here,” said Aimée.
She didn’t know how she sensed this.
Chantal laughed. “The Black Musketeers’ old escape route. They tore the rest of the building down but left this wedge. It’s funny what remains.”
Aimée felt Chantal grip her elbow.
“Take the Montfaucon gallows,” said Chantal. “Used before the guillotine until the 1700s. They tossed the corpses into pits and charnel houses in the Bastille. In 1954, when they excavated in my uncle’s boulangerie for a new oven, they found bones and remains from the Montfaucon pit. ‘Scratch the Paris dirt and find a body,’ my uncle used to say.”
Aimée agreed. In more ways than one.
Wednesday Evening
IN THE BLAND, MUSTARD-COLORED cell, Mathieu clenched and unclenched his fists. He felt naked and useless without tools in his hands. Paint had chipped off the metal bars and flaked onto the cement floor. He envisioned his clientele running in horror, his commissions withdrawn, and Suzanne quitting in disgust.
Right now, they were probably ripping up the floorboards, emptying his pots of varnish, and pulling apart priceless gilt frames. Soon they’d start on the basement. And then . . .
“Monsieur Cavour?”
Startled, he looked up and saw the flic . . . the Commissaire with the jowly face and bags under his eyes.
“Let’s have a talk, shall we?”
The Commissaire pointed to the cell door and the blue uniformed policeman unlocked it for him.
“I apologize for the accommodation,” he said. “Come with me. Coffee, tea?”
“Water, I’m thirsty,” Cavour said. “I’ve been here for hours, my shop can’t run itself.”
“Please understand, we need some questions answered.”
Mathieu’s jaw quivered. “I’m an artisan . . .”
“But of course, and a well-known and respected man in your
“The first thing I want to do is go shopping at Blasphème, the boutique on rue Charonne,” she said. “You can guide me, eh Lucas?”
“Shopping?”
“And I don’t want to appear too blind.”
Lucas snorted. “Like being a little pregnant?”
“Give me a quick orientation course, won’t you?”
“Quick . . . ?”
“Things I should know.”
“When putting a drink down, place the other hand on the table first, feel around for obstacles, then place the drink next to your hand. Stairs can be difficult, especially judging the last step. Move slowly, feel ahead with your foot and keep a hand on the banister.”
“Let’s eat lunch.” Not only was she hungry, she needed to practice.
Eating was agony. She was so hungry and the food was so hard to locate. She kept spearing the plate with her empty fork. At this rate, in order to survive she’d have to pick up her dish and lick it like a dog. She ended up lifting the dish, using her fingers, and scooping the food into her mouth.
“We all do that the first time,” Chantal said. “But next meal, it’s not allowed.”
After lunch, Chantal took her on a tour. “Quick technique time. Let’s trail the walls.”
Were they going rock climbing?
“Stick your hands out a little in front,” she said, pulling Aimée’s arm. “ Comme ci. ”
Aimée’s fingers slid over metal and glass.
“That case houses a fire extinguisher,” said Chantal. “You can tell by the curved handle. Feel it.”
Beyond that, Aimée felt smooth plaster and grained wood beams. Her hands traveled to a thick carved banister. Hallmarks of medieval construction. Many buildings, at the core, piggybacked on medieval foundations.
“Bend down, keep your hands in front of you so objects will make contact with your forearms instead of with your face. Bon! Do you feel the stone . . . how cold it is?”
Aimée’s fingers trailed over the chill smooth stone. Goose-bumps went up her arms.
“Remember, when you feel this you’ve gone too far down the corridor,” said Chantal. “Turn back.”
“But it seems like there’s a door here,” said Aimée.
She didn’t know how she sensed this.
Chantal laughed. “The Black Musketeers’ old escape route. They tore the rest of the building down but left this wedge. It’s funny what remains.”
Aimée felt Chantal grip her elbow.
“Take the Montfaucon gallows,” said Chantal. “Used before the guillotine until the 1700s. They tossed the corpses into pits and charnel houses in the Bastille. In 1954, when they excavated in my uncle’s boulangerie for a new oven, they found bones and remains from the Montfaucon pit. ‘Scratch the Paris dirt and find a body,’ my uncle used to say.”
Aimée agreed. In more ways than one.
Wednesday Evening
IN THE BLAND, MUSTARD-COLORED cell, Mathieu clenched and unclenched his fists. He felt naked and useless without tools in his hands. Paint had chipped off the metal bars and flaked onto the cement floor. He envisioned his clientele running in horror, his commissions withdrawn, and Suzanne quitting in disgust.
Right now, they were probably ripping up the floorboards, emptying his pots of varnish, and pulling apart priceless gilt frames. Soon they’d start on the basement. And then . . .
“Monsieur Cavour?”
Startled, he looked up and saw the flic . . . the Commissaire with the jowly face and bags under his eyes.
“Let’s have a talk, shall we?”
The Commissaire pointed to the cell door and the blue uniformed policeman unlocked it for him.
“I apologize for the accommodation,” he said. “Come with me. Coffee, tea?”
“Water, I’m thirsty,” Cavour said. “I’ve been here for hours, my shop can’t run itself.”
“Please understand, we need some questions answered.”
Mathieu’s jaw quivered. “I’m an artisan . . .”
“But of course, and a well-known and respected man in your
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