WORDS FROM THE DARK INKWELL OF THE HEART
By nightfall tomorrow, I shall enjoy the hospitality of the city police, and I do not think they will allow me the pleasure of writing my own confession. Accordingly, as this may be the last time that I am ever to hold a quill in my hand, or feel the smooth caress of vellum beneath my little finger, I intend to enjoy these small pleasures for as long as I can. Tonight I will write until my tale is done, or until the first light of dawn—whichever comes first. I cannot imagine that there will be an escritoire in my cell.
In fact, the confession I intend to give tomorrow will be a false one. The murderer of Edmund DeRoste is beyond the reach of earthly justice, and Monsieur Vidocq will never have the pleasure of clapping the culprit in irons. But someone must confess, and someone must be punished. The damnable man has found me out. I did not succeed in hiding all evidence of the crime. I could wash the residue of poison from a teacup, but not from DeRoste’s blood. The inspector knows beyond question that this was not a natural death, and his suspicions have fallen, quite logically, on the one who daily brought him his afternoon tea. DeRoste’s servant, poor loyal Jean-Patrice, has been arrested. They hold him pending trial for murder, and I have little doubt that he will hang if I do not take his place.
I cannot allow an innocent man to suffer for my sake. And so, tomorrow, I will go to the prefecture and tell them a shabby lie. They will believe it—it matches my clothes and my station so well—and Jean-Patrice will go free.
Tonight, however, I tell the truth. Someday, someone may understand.
* * *
To the one who finds this little note, perhaps I should apologize. Doubtless you have been at some pains to open the grave of Edmund Auguste DeRoste. I do not know what you hoped to find when you disturbed this earth—playwrights and poets are not known for their great wealth, and DeRoste will be buried with nothing more than a suit of clothes and a few rings. But whatever you were looking for, as you rifled through the pockets of his jacket, I’m quite certain it was not a tin box of letters.
It could be that the centuries have come and gone, and all the wonders in DeRoste’s contes fantastiques have come to pass: men voyage to the moon and fly through the air like birds, great guns fire bullets the size of houses, and visitors from other worlds are as commonplace on our streets as Americans in their raccoon hats. The reader of this note may not even know who DeRoste was. All his poetry and plays may be forgotten. I would like to think such a thing is impossible, that readers will always love him—but the history of literature is littered with casualties. A man who spoke beautifully to one generation may find no audience in generations to come. Works of great genius may languish unread for decades…even centuries.
His gravestone could last far longer than his reputation, so I hope you already know this much: here lies Edmund DeRoste, born in 17—, died in 18—, requies in pace . I can tell you what cold granite cannot. DeRoste was the brightest light of our literary scene, a rascal whose badinage and charm made him welcome in every parlor and public house. His poems made women sigh and men weep; his plays brought forth roars of laughter and of outrage. He fought thirteen duels to defend his essays alone, and won them all. His sword was nearly as dangerous as his pen.
If I tell you he had no peer among the writers of Paris, some might say I exaggerate. C’est possible . I loved the man and his words; in truth, I loved the man for his words, and I found it difficult to separate the two. DeRoste himself had the same trouble. Perhaps all writers do.
* * *
Having introduced the man, I make an awkward curtsey of my own. My name is Claudette Betrand, and I am a person of no consequence. I was born the daughter of a cloth merchant on the
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