Within the comfortable lair she had made for herself beneath a table in
the house on the rue Saint-Severin, la Grise arched her back and yawned.
Then, sitting back down, she started scratching behind her left ear.
The rest of the household, including another two dozen cats, were sound
asleep so la Grise was free to patrol in solitude and, more importantly,
to hunt without competition. The previous night, she had found a family of mice
nesting at the bottom of the garden. She had brought one back as a present for
her mistress, who had thanked her for it. The master of the house had been less
impressed and had shouted at la Grise until she had bounded away, out of
his sight.
Slowly, la Grise rose up on all fours, her tail uncoiling behind
her, and padded out into the semi-darkness. No candles remained lit, but the
light of the full moon was strong enough to seep through the thin material of
the curtains and that was sufficient for la Grise to see by. She sprang
up onto a chair to get a better view of her territory and was momentarily
startled to see a pair of golden eyes looking down at her. It was, however,
simply a portrait of la Grise herself and not a real predator readying
itself to pounce. La Grise remembered the image being painted, the
agonisingly long hours for which she had been held in one place. La Grise
hated to be confined. Perhaps mindful of the portrait, la Grise licked
at her paw and then proceeded to wash her face.
She was interrupted in her task by the sudden onset of a raucous howling
that filled the air and sent a chill through la Grise's blood. Terrified, she
jumped from the chair and scampered straight back to the safety of her lair,
curling into a ball and clamping her eyes tightly shut.
Upstairs, the mistress of the house, Mme Jeannette Vincent,
unconsciously imitated her favourite pet by seeking shelter from the racket
within her bedclothes. Now matter how she twisted and turned or buried her
head, however, the wailing could always find a way through. The noise filled
the air, seeming to come at her from all directions. It was the cry of an
animal in pain and the sound of it filled Mme Vincent with a conflicting mix of
pity and horror. She waited in the darkness, praying for someone to put the
creature out of its misery, but the noise continued unabated.
Reluctantly, but seeing no alternative, Mme Vincent swung her legs over
the side of the bed and sat up. She considered ringing the bell to summon her
maid, but decided against it. The household staff had been of little use these
last few nights, so what would be the point of involving them now, she
reasoned. Instead, she donned a robe and stepped out onto the landing herself.
Her husband, Jacques Vincent, was already on the stairs and he looked up
at the sound of her door opening. Pulling
her robe tight to ward off the December chill, Mme Vincent hurried to join him.
'Whatever could be causing this?' she asked. 'This is the third night
we've had to suffer so.'
Vincent's face twisted into a sneer. 'I'll tell you the cause, Jeannette.
It's those blasted cats of yours. You treat them better than royalty and this
is how they repay you.'
Mme Vincent's hands flew to her face. 'No. It couldn't be. They would
never...'
Vincent regarded her pityingly. 'Of course they would. This is the third
night I've had to put up with this cacophony and I tell you, Jeannette, that I
won't stand for it any longer.'
M. Vincent had thought to light a candle before leaving his room,
something Mme Vincent had forgotten in her confusion, and he used this to light
several lamps as they descended the stairs and proceeded to search the house.
Mme Vincent spied la Grise trembling beneath the
dining-room table and scooped her up into her arms like a child.
'You poor baby,' she cooed. 'Don't worry, mummy's here now.' She turned
to her husband. 'You see, she's as much in the dark as to where this noise is
coming from as we are.'
'I doubt your other little "babies" can say the same,' Vincent
growled.
A though struck Mme Vincent. 'Perhaps one of the poor dears is trapped,'
she suggested. 'If she's hurt then that would explain the noise.' She tugged on
her husband's sleeve. 'We have to find her.'
M. Vincent simply grunted and shook her off before continuing his search
of the house. Before long, they had rounded up all twenty-five of the household
felines and it became clear that none of them could be the cause of the
disruption. Despite all cats being accounted for, the tortuous howl continued.
'You see, Jacques, I told you my cats would not be responsible,' Mme
Vincent declared triumphantly. 'Here they all are in front of you, silent as
kittens, and yet still that noise continues.'
And then, abruptly, the wailing ceased.
Vincent slammed his fist down on the table. 'I will find out who or what
is responsible,' he promised, 'and I will make them pay. You'll see.'
'It can wait until tomorrow, surely, Jacques,' his wife soothed,
grateful for the sudden peace. 'Things will look different in the morning.'
'Yes,' Vincent agreed. 'There'll be more light for a search for one
thing. I'll tear this place apart if I have to in order to find the culprit.'
'If you must, dear, but not tonight.'
Still grumbling quietly to himself, Vincent turned his back on his wife
and ascended the stairs, turning left towards his bedroom. As he crossed the
threshold, however, he cursed loudly and repeatedly. Mme Vincent, still holding
la Grise in her arms, was at his side in an instant. Her husband was
trembling and his face was deathly pale. She peered over his shoulder to see
what had frightened him so and her eyes widened in horror. The sheets on his
bed had been torn to shreds and they hand in ragged strips from the edges of
the bed. The wooden bedposts and bed frame had also been savaged, with large
gouges running down them and as Mme Vincent looked closer, the only thing she
could thing was that the marks must have been cause by huge claws...
***
Snow crunched beneath the horse's hooves as it galloped towards its
destination. The woman riding it laughed at the speed and the freshness of the
air so different from the Paris of her childhood. The hood of her cape had
fallen away and her raven hair streamed behind her. The icy wind brought colour
to her cheeks and that only encouraged her to spur her mount on faster and
faster. Francois-Marie Arouet, better known by his penname, Voltaire, watched
her through the window of his study and smiled. Then he put down his pen,
sealed his inkpot and went to greet his guests.
It was a little over half an hour later when the rider stabled her horse
and reentered the chateau. Voltaire had spent the time entertaining the two
visitors with anecdotes of his time in Paris while at the same time trying to
prise from them some current gossip on life at court. Much as he loved his life
at Cirey, he could not help but miss being at the heart of events. He rose to
his feet as soon as the rider entered the room and, a moment later, the guests
did likewise.
'Emilie, my dear,' Voltaire began, toasting her with his glass, 'how was
your ride?'
'Invigorating,' Emilie responded. 'You might like to try it one of these
days.'
Voltaire spread his hands apologetically. 'Would that I could spare the
time. In fact, I'm surprised that you can tear yourself away from your desk.'
Emilie favoured him with a dazzling smile. 'One can think anywhere,
Voltaire; you should know that. Didn't your beloved Newton make his own major
discovery out of doors?'
'That may be so,' Voltaire conceded, 'but at least he was sedentary when
he did so.'
'Would that be before or after the apple struck him?' Emilie teased. She
turned her attention to their guests. 'I do hope our Voltaire hasn't been
boring you with what passes for his wit.'
'Emilie, may I present Monsieur de Fieux and Monsieur Vauban. They've
come a long way to meet the scientist who dares to trumpet the theories of
Leibniz over those of Newton.' Voltaire turned to the two visitors. 'Gentlemen,
may I present Emilie du Chatelet.'
De Fieux's eyes boggled. 'But... but... Surely you jest, monsieur.'
'I beg your pardon, M. de Fieux. I did not mean to cause you any
distress.' Emilie curtsied and Voltaire hid his smile behind his hand. 'Is it
my championing of Liebniz that so troubles you? I understand that there are
many who see his views as heretical and I do not mean to insult your religious
beliefs. In truth, I see Leibniz's views as wholly compatible with the
existence of God, albeit a god who created a world that can run itself, rather
than one who must constantly intervene to reset his system as in the Newtonian
model. Have you considered the equations in that light before?'
De Fieux fell back into his chair, mouth agape.
'Emilie,' Voltaire said, battling to keep the laughter out of his voice,
'I believe M. de Fieux's discomfort has less to do with your theories and more
to do with your being a woman.'
'No, I won't believe it,' Emilie protested forcefully, even going so far
as to stamp her foot. 'A learned man of science such as de Fieux could never
allow himself to be blinded so by prejudice. Voltaire, you must apologise to
him this instant.'
Vauban stepped forward, by now grinning broadly himself. 'It is I who
must apologise, Mme du Chatelet, since it is unlikely my colleague will. His
behaviour was rude and uncalled for.'
'But not without precedent,' Voltaire remarked.
'I've read several of your papers,' Vauban continued. 'They're truly
remarkable for...'
'For a woman?' Emilie supplied.
'I was going to say "for one so young",' Vauban said, 'but, on
reflection, I fear you may see that as equally prejudiced and insulting.'
'I could learn to live with it,' Emilie replied. 'Perhaps you would care
to see some of my more recent experiments, M. Vauban?'
'It would be an honour.'
'My laboratory is just through here,' Emilie said. 'Your companion is
welcome to join us as well, assuming he can keep his comments to himself.'
'I shall be in my study,' Voltaire told her, 'should you need me.'
'Perhaps I shall call on you later,' Emilie replied before turning to
Vauban,' unless I get distracted, of course.'
Shaking his head, Voltaire returned to his study and the vignette he was
working on. He was hoping that Emilie would perform it with him during their
Christmas festivities at Cirey. Reading back what he had written so far, he
found himself dissatisfied with the last line of dialogue, so he dipped his
quill into the ink and struck it out. Then he started tapping the feather
against his chin while he tried to compose a more suitable substitute.
He was interrupted by a knock at the door.
'Come in.'
It was the footman. 'Excuse me, monsieur, but there is a message for
you.'
'Well, where is it?'
'Forgive me, the messenger insisted on delivering it personally,
monsieur.'
'Then send him in then. Send him in.'
A few moments later, a sandy haired boy was shown into the study. His
clothes were stained from some time spent on the road.
'Have you traveled far, young man?' Voltaire asked.
'From Paris, monsieur,' the boy replied. He stood straight as a poker,
clearly uncomfortable in the presence of what he saw as a gentleman. Not
knowing how to put the boy at ease, Voltaire got straight to the point.
'I understand you have a message for me.'
The boy produced an envelope. 'Monsieur Vincent said that I was to give
this to you in person and to no one else.'
Voltaire took the letter and then turned back to the boy. 'Well?'
Despite the cold, the messenger was perspiring. 'I'm supposed to wait
for a reply.'
'I see. Well, you can wait in the hall. If your master wanted you to
know the contents of this letter then no doubt he would have told you.'
The boy left the study hastily and with not inconsiderable relief.
Alone again, Voltaire turned the letter over in his hands. Vincent owned
a printer's shop that Voltaire had patronised on a number of occasions, but
their last correspondence had been over a year ago so Voltaire was at a loss as
to what Vincent might want of him now. Deciding that there was no other way to
solve the mystery, Voltaire broke open the wax seal with his thumbnail and
began to peruse the letter.
He burst from his study at a run, nearly knocking the messenger off of
his feet in the process.
'Tell M. Vincent that we shall be there as soon as we can,' Voltaire
shouted, spinning on his heel to talk to the messenger while continuing to run
backwards. 'Hurry, boy, there's not a moment to lose.'
He struck the door to Emilie's laboratory with his elbow and nearly fell
backwards through it as it swung open. Over on the laboratory bench, a lead
ball fell into soft clay, but its descent went unobserved because Emilie's
attention was elsewhere.
'Voltaire! Whatever do you think you're doing?'
'I beg your pardon, Emilie,' Voltaire replied. He was grinning and not
looking apologetic in the slightest. 'Gentlemen, I'm afraid that you're going
to have to cut short your visit.'
'Voltaire, an explanation.' Emilie folded her arms. 'If it isn't too much
trouble.'
'That's what we're going to Paris for, Emilie, an explanation.' Voltaire
waved the letter in Emilie's face. 'There's a mystery here and you and I are
just the people to solve it.'
Emilie raised an eyebrow. 'We are?'
In reply, Voltaire merely offered her his hand. With a wry shake of her
head, Emilie took it.
'If you'll excuse me, gentlemen,' she said resignedly, 'Paris awaits.'
From the low hills just outside of Paris, a grey haze could be seen
hanging over the city as mist mixed with rising smoke of wood fires, the city's
breath visible in the cold evening air. Within their carriage, Voltaire and
Emilie were silent. As they left Cirey, Voltaier had summarised the situation
for Emilie's benefit, explaining about the nightly terrors M. Vincent and his
wife were subject to and M. Vincent's conviction that a wild animal had invaded
his bedroom.
'That doesn't sound very likely,' Emilie had said sceptically.
Voltaire had shrugged. 'Perhaps not, but as a theory it does fit all the
available facts bar one.'
'Bar one?'
'According to M. Vincent, the house was locked up, so how did the
perpetrator, man or beast, get inside?'
They had batted a number of theories back and forth during the journey,
Emilie tending towards the more practical while Voltaire was prone to flights
of fancy. However, as they approached Paris, the normally verbose Voltaire fell
silent, retreating into his own thoughts. Emilie chose not to intrude. Voltaire
loved Paris, its gossip and intrigues, yet this was also the place where he had
been thrown into the Bastille for trying to defend his honour. She wondered
what was going through his mind as the carriage rattled through the city gates.
Her own experiences in Paris had been much more favourable. She had
grown up in an apartment overlooking the Tuileries gardens surrounded by family
and servants, but, though he indulged her, she knew that she was a
disappointment to her father. While her sisters were judging potential suitors,
Emilie had been reading up on philosophy and mathematics. Having been
introduced at court, she had turned her mathematical ability towards more
practical applications, winning, on one occasion, more than two thousand gold
louis at the card tables. This too was something that her father felt she got
wrong, less because she gambled, but more because she only spent half of her
winnings on clothes, preferring to spend the other half on new books. He warned
his daughter that no great man would marry a woman who was seen reading all of
the time, not understanding that Emilie was not looking for a husband. Finally,
to appease the demands of both her father and society, she had married a
wealthy soldier named du Chatelet who, conveniently, would be away campaigning
most of the time and so would leave Emilie in peace to pursue her researches.
Then came Voltaire...
Emilie was woken from her reverie by the sound of Voltaire banging the
head of his cane on the roof of the carriage.
'Driver, stop here, if you please.' Voltaire clambered out of the
carriage and on to the cobbles. 'Be so good as to transport Mme du Chatelet to
the rue Saint-Severin. I shall walk the rest of the way.'
'But...' Emilie began.
'I will join you shortly, my dear,' Voltaire assured her, 'but first I
need some time to think and, as you yourself pointed out, sometimes the best
thinking is done under an open sky.'
Before Emilie could protest, Voltaire had already ordered the driver to
'drive on' and was receding into the mist. Muttering a derogatory comment under
her breath, Emilie sank back into her seat and tried to decide how she was
going to explain Voltaire's absence to their hosts.
***
A short time later, the carriage arrived in the rue Saint-Severin. A
footman was already unloading her cases as she stepped down to the street.
'Thank you,' she said as she followed the footman, bowed under the
weight of the luggage, up the short flight of steps to the house of Monsieur
Vincent. 'I am Mme du Chatelet, travelling with M. de Voltaire.'
'Very good, madame. If you would be so kind as to wait in the library, I
will enquire of the master if he is receiving any more visitors.'
'I was told that we were expected,' Emilie said.
'Indeed,' the footman replied. 'I shall only be a moment.'
Reluctantly, Emilie followed the footman's instruction and entered the
library. She was unimpressed. Compared to her own library at Cirey, it was
barely worthy of the name and a brief perusal of the titles of some of the
volumes displayed on the shelves made her question the owner's seriousness in
maintaining such a collection. The library was also already occupied.
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude,' Emilie said.
'Not at all, not at all. But do try not to stand in the way of the
light, won't you?'
The other occupant of the room was seated at an easel with his back to
Emilie. In a basket in front of him sat the object of his attentions, a ginger
tomcat.
'My name's Colbert, by the way,' the man continued, dabbing at a palette
with the end of his brush, 'Marius Colbert. I'm a painter, but you'd probably
already guessed that.'
'It had crossed my mind. I'm Mme du Chatelet.' She thought it best not
to try to explain what she did with her time. 'Do you always paint cats?'
'Not always,' Marius replied, 'but Mme Vincent is passionate about them
and I'm a big believer in giving the client what she wants.' He turned to
regard Emilie. 'Forgive me, I don't mean to be so forward, but you have a most
beautiful chin.'
'Thank you,' Emilie replied. 'I do hope it's not at the expense of the
rest of me.'
'Perish the thought.' Colbert rose from his seat and circled Emilie so
that he could view her from every angle. 'Quite, quite remarkable. You really
must allow me to paint you. Such a chin deserves to be made immortal.'
'Perhaps I will,' Emilie hedged, 'but not today.'
The footman cleared his throat to announce his return. 'The master will
see you now.'
M. Vincent was an ogre of a man who was waiting for her in the doorway
of the drawing-room. 'Mme du Chatelet, I presume?'
'You presume correctly, monsieur, though one might question that quality
of such a deduction given that your footman has just announced me?'
She smiled at Vincent. He did not smile back.
'Mme du Chatelet, I'm afraid that you have had a wasted journey. Please
be so good as to tell Monsieur Voltaire that we shall no longer be requiring
his services.'
***
The lilting voices of carol singers mixed with the clatter of carriage
wheels over cobbles and the cries of stallholders hawking their wares in the
Christmas market as Voltaire wandered through the city's labyrinthine streets.
Darkness was encroaching and candles were being lit, giving the appearance of a
thousand fireflies descending on the city. Unlike Emilie, Voltaire had not been
born in Paris, though he felt it was his natural home. He had started out as a
nobody, without money or social standing. All he had was his ability with words
and yet on that alone had he risen from the provinces to rub shoulders with
nobleman and receive grants from the king.
The words that had carried him to greatness, however, had also proved to
be his undoing. He had mocked the wrong person, specifically the Chevalier de
Rohan, and de Rohan's bodyguards had beaten him to within an inch of his life.
To avenge himself, Voltaire had challenged de Rohan to a duel, but rather than
face him, de Rohan had called in a favour and had Voltaire thrown into the
Bastille. Voltaire subsequently went into self-imposed exile in England.
And yet, despite all this, Voltaire's heart still remained in Paris. If
only England's parliament, the rights that she afforded to her citizens, her
religious tolerance and her freedom of speech could be translated to his native
France, rather than the current corrupt, parasitic system he so despised. Small
wonder he had such mixed feelings regarding his return to the capital.
So caught up was Voltaire in these thoughts that he was surprised to
find that his feet had already transported him all the way to the rue
Saint-Severin. He had hoped that the cool night air might clear his head and
allow him to focus on the problem at hand. Instead, he had allowed himself to
be distracted by his conflicting emotions. He quietly chided himself for
laxity. He had to remember that he was hear to aid a man in need, not to solve
all of France's problems. Not tonight at any rate.
'Excuse me.' Voltaire stopped a trio of men laughing and joking at the
side of the road. 'Could you direct me to the house of M. Vincent?'
'You'll find the master's house at the end there,' a stoop-shouldered
man replied.
'The master? I take it you work for him then?'
'Yeah, we work for him, all right,' the man said. 'We do all the work
and he gets all of the credit. And what do we get in return? Nothing, that's
what. He treats those cats of his better then what he treats us and that's a
fact.'
'Is it so,' Voltaire mused. 'Tell me, what's your name?'
'Jerome,' the man replied.
'Well, Jerome, why don't you take these - ' Voltaire passed the man a
handful of sous. ' - and you and your friends go and get yourself something to
drink. It sounds as though you've earned it.'
Transfixed by the coins, Jerome and the others hurried away, as if
afraid that their benefactor might change his mind. Voltaire, meanwhile,
suppressed his revulsion at the gross inequality of Parisian society and headed
for the house Jerome had indicated. He could hear raised voices coming from
within, one of which was Emilie's.
'No need to announce me,' he told the footman as he pushed his way
inside. He nearly tripped over a pair of cats - one chasing the other - as he
followed the sound of shouts to the drawing room. 'My apologies for keeping
everyone waiting. What seems to be the dilemma?'
'M. Vincent,' Emilie replied, bottling her anger inside, 'has seen fit
to engage this priest to exorcise his problem.'
'Father d'Hemery is a respected member of the church,' Vincent explained.
'He has a long record of success in these matters.'
'These matters being?'
'M. Vincent and his wife are clearly beset by demonic forces,' Father
d'Hemery replied. He was a gaunt man dressed in black that contrasted sharply
with his pale skin. His sunken eyes studied Voltaire as they might an insect.
'Clearly,' Voltaire agreed affably. 'Father d'Hemery, I don't believe
that we've had the pleasure.'
Father d'Hemery snorted. 'Perhaps not, but I'm well aware of you by
reputation M. de Voltaire.'
'All bad, I trust.' Voltaire turned to Vincent. 'M. Vincent, I must
confess that, having taken the trouble to summon me all the way from Cirey, I
am at a loss as to why you should now wish to dispense with my services in
favour of this individual?'
'I turned to you in the hopes of finding a rational explanation for this
problem, Voltaire,' Vincent replied, 'but, having turned my home upside down in
search of the culprit, I have no choice to conclude that we must be bewitched.'
'Bewitched?' Emilie scoffed. 'I find your logic flawed, monsieur. Just
because you have been unable to find a rational explanation there is no reason
to suppose that there isn't one, simply that you, monsieur, have not looked
hard enough.'
Vincent's eyes flashed.
'Emilie,' Voltaire cautioned softly.
'Ignore her, M. Vincent,' Father d'Hemery said. 'It should come as no
surprise that any companion of the infamous Voltaire, a man known to have
turned his back on the divine, should be close-minded with regard to spiritual
matters.'
'I have no issues with the divine, monsieur,' Voltaire replied, 'merely
with the people who claim to represent Him. M. Vincent, I will leave you in
peace, but my offer of assistance still stands should you change you mind. Come
along, Emilie.'
Voltaire bustled Emilie out into the hallway, at which point she rounded
on him. Before she could open her mouth, however, Voltaire pressed a finger to
her lips.
'Later,' he told her. 'We are not alone.'
Mme Vincent had followed them out of the drawing room. A grey-furred cat
immediately bounded over her and curled around her leg.
'I hope you will forgive my husband, M. de Voltaire,' she said,
crouching down to pet the cat.
Voltaire waved his hand dismissively. 'There is nothing to forgive.'
'But you have come a long way and to have your aid set aside before you
have even begun…'
'Your husband is entitled to change his mind. Better to change one's
mind too frequently than not at all, wouldn't you agree?'
Mme Vincent did not seem to know quite what to say to that so she
ignored the question. 'I trust that you and Mme du Chatelet will still accept
out hospitality after your long journey. The maid has already prepared rooms.'
'In that case, we shall be delighted to accept. Perhaps your maid could
show us the way?'
Once they were alone again, Voltaire turned to Emilie and raised an eyebrow.
'I believe you were going to berate me.'
'Yes, yes I was,' Emilie began, trying to summon up the anger that had
dissipated thanks to Mme Vincent's interruption. 'What was all that about
downstairs? Surely you're not encouraging this… this…'
'Superstitious nonsense?' Voltaire suggested.
'Exactly.'
'Certainly not,' Voltaire replied. 'Superstition is to religion what
astrology is to astronomy. But d'Hemery is as entitled to his opinions as
anyone else, just as long as he does no harm. And this whole episode may end up
doing us some good.'
'How so?'
'Well, when d'Hemery fails - as he surely will - who do you think M.
Vincent will turn to then, hm?'
***
The candle flame flickered in the draft that snuck in through the
ill-fitting window. The candle itself had burned low, reminding Emilie of how
long she had been sitting up with her books. The tip of her tongue protruded
from the corner of her mouth as she reread the Dutch commentary. She longed to
repeat the author's experiment in her own laboratory. His theory was sound, but
the accuracy of his measurements left much to be desired. Perhaps she could
persuade the delightful M. Vauban to assist her and if his presence made
Voltaire jealous then so much the better.
She massaged the bridge of her nose with the fingers of her right hand.
The words were starting to blur before her eyes, a sure sign that she had
worked long enough for one night. Setting the book to one side, she leaned over
to blow out the candle.
A howling cut through the air and Emilie shivered. The noise was
mournful, pleading, desperate, but as pitiable as it was, Emilie could also
hear anger and rage amongst the cries. The noise seemed to be coming from all
around her and it was getting louder. Closer.
Something was moving around on the landing beyond the bedroom door.
Emilie cast about for some weapon with which she could defend herself. Her gaze
alighted on her books, but they were too precious to sacrifice, even for her
own protection. With a flash of inspiration, she scooped up the chamber pot
and, wielding it two-handed, she slowly advanced on the door.
Suddenly, the door was flung open and Emilie almost decapitated Voltaire
with one swing of the pot.
'That,' Voltaire said when he had recovered his breath, 'would have been
a very ignoble way to meet my maker.'
He was grinning like an idiot.
'I thought you were that... that...' Emilie gestured vaguely around her
at a loss for a technical term.
'I know. Wonderful, isn't it?'
'Wonderful?'
'It would seem, my dear Emilie, that we are needed after all.'
Another scream tore through the air, this one clearly human and Voltaire
raced back out onto the landing, with Emilie in tow. M. Vincent was staggering
out of his bedroom. His eyes were wide and staring, his mouth open and his face
and hands were criss-crossed by long scratches. He took a couple of faltering
steps, his injured hands reaching for Voltaire, then his legs gave out and he
collapsed at Voltaire's feet.
And the howling stopped.
The footman spied his master crossing the hall with two bottles in his
bandaged hands and immediately snapped to attention. Vincent's hair was in
disarray and there were dark circles around his eyes. His ruddy complexion
helped to camouflage the scratches on his face.
'Ah, Dufour,' Vincent called, pausing at the foot of the stairs.
'Monsieur?'
'Tell the cook to prepare breakfast for my wife and myself and have it
brought to my wife's room. And while you're at it, fetch me another bottle of
wine. I seem to have drunk these on the way back from the cellar.' Vincent's
laugh became a belch as he clinked the empty bottles together. 'And make sure
those musicians are ready for tonight. We mustn't let a little think like my
attempted murder spoil our fun, must we.'
Vincent turned his back on Dufour and staggered up the stairs. His face
betraying no emotion, Dufour snapped his heels together and went to wake up the
cook.
***
Despite the early hour, Vincent's bedroom was already abuzz with
activity.
'What do you make of these, Emilie?' Voltaire asked as he examined the
scratches on the bedpost.
'They're deep.' Emily ran her finger along the edge of one of the marks
and then snatched it back. 'And sharp. I'd say there were claw marks, but it
would have taken some sizeable claws to cause this much damage. Perhaps an
animal escaped from the King's collection at Versailles.'
'And then walked all the way here and asked for an audience? I think
not. How high up would you say we are?'
Emilie crossed to the window, opened it and looked down. 'Fifteen feet,
if I have to judge by eye. And there aren't any obvious handholds if that's
what you're thinking.'
Voltaire was examining the door. 'Then either our intruder entered
through here or there must be another method of getting our ferocious feline up
to that window.'
'A catapult?' Emilie suggested.
Voltaire raised an eyebrow. 'According to Vincent, everything was intact
when he left the room to investigate the noise at the time of the first attack
so the window of opportunity to do all this is quite narrow. If only he could
tell us what happened last night.'
'The doctor said that he was in shock,' Emilie pointed out.
'And the alcohol is unlikely to aid his memory,' Voltaire added. 'I
wonder…'
'Somebody has a theory.'
'I have two,' Voltaire replied, joining her at the window. 'Under cover
of darkness, our culprit arrives in the street below. He has a cart with him
and concealed within the cart is…'
'Yes?'
'A balloon.'
'A balloon?'
'A balloon. He lights a fire under the balloon and up, up it floats. If
it can lift a sheep then surely it can carry a big cat as far as this window,
hm? Out the cat jumps, it savages the bed and then hops back into the balloon
and floats away leaving our poor M. Vincent none the wiser. I suspect it's only
chance that Vincent was out of his room at the time of the cat's arrival so
they were forced to repeat the attempt last night.'
Emilie raised an eyebrow. 'And your other theory?'
'Somebody bribed the footman.'
'The second theory sounds somewhat more plausible,' Emilie said.
'I know,' Voltaire conceded, 'but it's not as much fun, is it?'
'Well, while you're pursuing more entertaining theories, I think I shall
try a more practical approach.' Emilie showed Voltaire what she was holding in
her fingers. Voltaire took it from her.
'What is it? Some kind of button?'
'A painted button,' Emilie confirmed. 'I found it on the floor over
there. I think the woman's meant to be Mme Vincent.'
'That's quite a leap,' Voltaire said dubiously. 'The hair's the right
colour, but the picture's too small to make out any detail. Why, it might just
as easily be you, Emilie.'
'If only we knew who the man in the picture was.'
'M. Vincent?' Voltaire suggested.
'But then why is he masked?' Emilie retrieved the button. 'You have your
mystery, I have mine.'
Voltaire turned back to the bed and started to examine the sheets. After
a few moments, he realized that Emilie was still standing behind him.
'Was there something else?'
'Just one small thing,' Emilie admitted. 'I need to borrow your
trousers.'
***
Nicolas Gervaise held his cup of coffee in both hands and peered through
the steam at the group occupying the table by the window. One member of the
group in particular caught his eye. Nicolas nudged his companion with his
elbow.
'Marcel, is that what I think it is?'
'What is it now, Nicolas?' Marcel muttered wearily as he looked up from
his pamphlet. Behind his pince-nez, his eyes widened as he noticed what had so
disturbed his companion. 'Mon Dieu, I don't believe it.'
The dark hair, tied back with a scarlet ribbon, the delicate features
and wide eyes; the clothes might have been those of a man, but they could not
hide the fact that the figure beneath was not.
'A woman? In Gradot's?' Nicolas exclaimed. 'Whatever is the world coming
to?'
'Whatever it is, I for one refuse to stand for it,' Marcel declared,
rising to his feet. 'Are you with me, Nicolas?'
'Right behind you, Marcel,' Nicolas replied, adjusting his wig.
'Messieurs,' Marcel said, marching up to the other table, 'I take it
that you are away of the identity of your drinking companion.'
One of the men seated at the table pushed back his chair and folded his
arms across his chest. 'I know who she is, monsieur, but I don't believe that
you and I have been introduced.'
'Ah!' Marcel raised his index finger to emphasise his point. 'So you know
that she is a woman then?'
'Monsieur, I have eyes and I can see. I still fail to see what business
it is of yours.'
'What business?' Marcel spluttered. 'Monsieur, that woman has no right
to be in here.'
Another man rose to his feet. 'Monsieur, you will apologise to the lady
this instant.'
'I will do no such thing.'
'Henri,' the woman interjected, 'there really is no need.'
'There is every need,' Henri insisted. 'You are worth ten of this brute.
Well, monsieur, how are we to settle this? Sabres or pistols?'
Marcel paled.
'I'd offer to be your second, Henri,' the seated man remarked, 'but it
seems that this fellow's comrade in arms has deserted him.'
Marcel turned just fast enough to see Nicolas disappearing through the
door.
'I won't forget this, messieurs,' Marcel said.
'Nor we you,' Henri replied. 'Count on it.'
With as much dignity as he could muster - which was not much - Marcel
made his exit.
'I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble,' the woman said.
'Nonsense, Emilie,' the seated man, whose name was Georges, replied.
'Quite exhilarating, I thought,' Henri replied, retaking his seat.
'And what would de Maupertuis say if he ever found out that we were
failing in our duties as hosts,' Georges continued. 'How is Pierre-Louis
anyway?'
'Still on his way to the pole,' Emilie replied, 'according to his last
letter.'
'And he left you behind?' Henri asked. 'The man needs to sort out his
priorities.'
'Nonetheless, I find plenty to amuse myself.'
'I'm sure you do,' Georges said. 'I've heard about you and Voltaire.'
'Actually, I was referring to my work at Cirey,' Emilie correctly
sharply.
'As was I,' Georges insisted with a chuckle. 'It is said that the work
you and your colleagues at Cirey are doing is superior even to that of the
Academy of Sciences.'
'I couldn't possibly comment,' Emilie replied, taking a sip of her
coffee.
'So, Emilie, what brings you to Paris?' Henri asked.
'Yes,' Georges added, 'we have not seen you in far too long.'
'Nor I you,' Emilie said. 'In fact, Georges, it is you I came to see.
Are you still working with lenses?'
'Indeed I am.' Georges gripped the labels of his jacket proudly. 'You
won't find finer lenses in all of Paris.'
Emilie smiled. 'That's what I was hoping you would say. Georges, I was
wondering if I could borrow you laboratory for an hour or so, what with my own
being so far away.'
'My dear Emilie, how could I possibly refuse?'
***
'Something smells good,' Voltaire said as he stepped through the door.
'I hope so, monsieur,' the cook replied. 'I have to cater for the
master's Christmas ball tonight.'
'Is that still going ahead?' Voltaire asked. 'I would have thought, what
with current events, it might be wiser to cancel.'
'Between you, me and the goose, I'm inclined to agree,' the cook said,
'but the master is adamant and what M. Vincent wants, M. Vincent must have.'
'Indeed.' Voltaire attempted to dip a finger into the sauce, but the
cook slapped his hand away.
'That's quite enough of that, monsieur,' she scolded him. 'What's a
gentleman like you doing in my kitchen anyway?'
'I was wondering if anyone could have snuck up to Monsieur Vincent's
room unseen using the rear entrance.'
'I doubt it. Dufour makes sure everything is locked up before he retires
for the night. Very meticulous about it he is too.' She handed Voltaire a
wooden spoon. 'Here, if you must have a taste then at least use this.'
'My thanks.' Voltaire sampled the sauce. 'Simply divine. M. Vincent
doesn't know how lucky he is to have you.'
'Yeah, he's lucky all right.' Jerome was slouched in the doorway. 'Him
and his rich friends. They get all the fancy food, but the men who actually do
the work, what do we get? We have to get by on leftover scraps, scraps those
cats have already turned their noses up at. That or the generosity of a
gentleman. Got any more sous going spare?'
'Jerome, I sympathise with your situation. We live in an unjust society
and the sooner people are made to realize that and change their ways…'
'It's just words,' Jerome interrupted. 'Pretty words that don't mean a
thing. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for the master. You're all the same,
looking out for one another and leaving the rest of us to argue over any crumbs
you leave behind.'
'Jerome!' the cook exclaimed. 'What are you doing here anyway?'
'M. Vincent sent for me, didn't he?'
'Yes, he did,' Vincent said, bursting into the kitchen, 'and he did not
mean for you to waste your time in idle gossip.'
Voltaire looked past Vincent to where his wife was standing. Her head
was in her hands and her shoulders were shaken by silent sobs.
'What's going on here?' Voltaire demanded.
Vincent ignored him. 'Jerome, I want you to get some men together and
round up all of the cats in this house. I want them disposed of.'
'Disposed of?' Jerome asked. 'Disposed of how?'
'I don't care,' Vincent bellowed. 'I just want them gone. Use your
imagination.'
***
Emilie swore.
'That's not terribly lady-like, Emilie,' Georges said, looking up from
his work.
'Well I'm not feeling terribly lady-like at the moment, Georges,' Emilie
retorted. She stood up and stretched.
Setting his own work to one side, Georges walked round the laboratory
bench to join her. 'What seems to be the problem? Not my equipment, I hope.'
'No, no, your lenses are fine. Better than fine. I just wish there was
something for me to see.'
Georges peered through the glass at the painted button Emilie had
retrieved from Vincent's bedroom. 'Who are these two then?'
'That, Georges, is the question,' Emilie replied. 'I'm certain that the
woman is Mme Vincent.'
'The printer's wife?'
'You know her?'
'I know him,' Georges replied. 'I got some pamphlets printed not so long
ago. They were quite well received, if I do say so myself. Is the man in the
picture supposed to be M. Vincent then?'
'I don't know,' Emilie admitted. 'Even magnified by the lens it's
impossible to tell. But if it is the husband then why is he masked?'
'Yes, it's as if the artist is deliberately trying to keep his identity
a mystery,' Georges agreed. He took another look through the lens. 'Have you
seen this, Emilie? There seems to be a signature towards the bottom. Colbert, I
think. Never heard of him.'
'I have,' Emilie said, leaning across so that she could see for herself.
'Marius Colbert. He paints cats.'
'Cats? You know, I heard a funny story about cats. Thinking about your
printer brought it all back.'
'Another time, Georges,' Emilie insisted, kissing him quickly on the
cheek. 'First, I have a portrait to commission.'
***
The house on the rue Saint-Severin was in chaos. Armed with
broom-handles, Jerome and his fellow journeymen were chasing Mme Vincent's cats
from room to room. Mme Vincent herself was in tears, completely beyond the
ability of her maid to console. A tile fell to the street, bounced once and
then smashed as one of the more zealous journeymen pursued his quarry up onto
the roof. Once a cat fell within reach, the journeymen struck it around the
head, stunning it, and then shoved it into a sack.
'Not la Grise,' Mme Vincent wailed as she saw her favourite grey
cat race from her hiding place beneath the dining-room table. 'Take the others
if you must, but leave la Grise.'
Jerome ignored her and launched himself at la Grise, striking her
across the spine. La Grise stumbled and Jerome grabbed hold of her by
the scruff of her neck and lifted her off of the floor. La Grise
scratched at his fingers, causing Jerome to yell in pain. He angrily shook the
cat from side to side until she had stopped struggling, then he deposited her
in his sack.
Mme Vincent fainted dead away.
Having finally rounded up all twenty-five of the cats, the journeymen
marched back to the print-shop. They dumped the sacks in the middle of the
courtyard and a pair of journeymen erected a crude scaffold and noose next to
them. A table and chair were brought outside and Jerome sat down behind the
table.
'I call this court to order,' he announced, banging on the table with an
iron bar from a printing press that was doubling as an improvised gavel. 'We
are here to judge the crimes committed by these cats and then to pass
sentence.'
All eyes turned to the scaffold.
'Do we have a prosecutor?' Jerome asked.
Several journeymen spoke up at once and Jerome singled one out.
'Leveille, you get to speak for the master.'
There were whistles of support and much backslapping as Leveille stepped
forward to take his place on one side of the table.
'And who will speak for the cats?'
This was greeted by laughter.
'Anybody?' Jerome asked. He turned to Leveille. 'I think I may have to
pass judgment in your favour.'
'Wait!'
All eyes turned to the far corner of the courtyard.
'I will speak for the accused,' Voltaire said.
'You?' Jerome tried to cover his astonishment with laughter, but it
caught in his throat. 'You want to defend cats?'
Voltaire tapped his cane absently on the flagstones. 'Would you deny
them legal representation because of what they are, you who have been denied so
much yourself?'
'He's making fun of us,' Leveille said.
Voltaire looked around the courtyard. 'I would have thought that was
hardly necessary. I haven't come here to make sport, but to fight for justice.
You make much, Jerome, of the injustices heaped upon you. Has the victim now
become the bully in turn?'
'If you're comparing me to M. Vincent,' Jerome warned, 'then you're
making a big mistake.'
'If a mistake is being made here, it's not mine. Justice should be
unfettered by the constraints of men, beyond such concerns of wealth and status
and accident of birth. All that matters to her is what is right and what is
wrong. And that, monsieur - ' Voltaire struck his cane hard upon the ground. '
- is all that matters to me. Can you say the same?'
There was a long silence. The journeymen shifted uncomfortably from foot
to foot while Voltaire continued to meet Jerome's gaze unflinchingly.
Finally, Jerome said, 'M. de Voltaire will speak for the accused.'
'But, Jerome…' Leveille began.
'I've made my decision. Now let's get on with this.'
***
The door to Colbert's studio was unlocked so, when she received no
answer to her knocks, Emilie stepped inside. Canvasses were stacked against one
wall so she took the opportunity to leaf through them. Cats seemed to be a
recurring theme, as were women in various stages of undress. One woman in
particular struck Emilie as familiar.
'Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?'
Emilie turned to face the source of the voice, a woman half-in, half-out
of a silk robe, her blonde hair in disarray.
'My name is Emilie du Chatelet,' Emilie said. 'I'm here to see M. Colbert.
He's expecting me.'
Colbert burst into the room and his eyes widened when his visitor. 'Mme
du Chatelet, this is a surprise.'
Emilie looked at the other woman and shrugged.
'I see you've already met Fantime,' Colbert said, putting an arm around
the blonde and planting a kiss on her forehead. 'She is my muse.'
'Erato, I take it?'
Colbert did not grasp the reference. 'Would it be too much to hope that
you are here to take me up on my offer of a portrait?'
With a glance at Fantime, Emilie replied, 'I'm not sure I could cope
with the dress-code.'
'And yet you seem no stranger to outré attire,' Colbert said. Emilie was
still dressed in the male outfit she had used to gain entry to Gradot's.
'Touché. Actually, I wanted to talk to you regarding one of your
previous works.' Emilie threw the painted button into the air and Colbert
struggled to catch it. 'That is yours, is it not?'
'It could be,' Colbert said cagily. 'I paint so much…'
'I think you'll find that it has your signature on it,' Emilie said. 'I
take it that the woman in the picture is Mme Vincent. Don't pretend that you
don't recognize her; she appears quite frequently in your other works. More
frequently, perhaps, than her husband might appreciate.'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'I think you do. And I think that you know who the man in the picture
is.'
'M. Vincent?' Colbert suggested.
'I think not. Try again.'
'I really don't know.'
'And yet you painted him.' Emilie began to wander around the room,
circling Colbert and Fantime. 'Would you like me to tell me what I think?'
'Do we have a choice?' Fantime asked acidly.
'You have a choice,' Emilie shot back. 'You can go and put on
some clothes before you catch your death. M. Colbert and I have things to
discuss.'
Fantime looked to Colbert for guidance.
'It's all right, Fantime,' he told her. 'Go into the bedroom. I'll join
you shortly.' He gave her a pat on the behind to send her on her way.
Emilie looked on with wry amusement.
'Well,' Colbert prompted once Fantime had gone.
Emilie picked up a paintbrush and started turning it over in her hands.
'I think that the man in the picture is Mme Vincent's lover. I think he's had
to disguise his identity so that M. Vincent will not learn who he is. What do
you think, M. Colbert?'
Colbert shrugged. 'What of it?'
'Well, suppose, just suppose, that our masked man is of a jealous
disposition.' Emilie stepped closer to Colbert. 'And suppose, just suppose,
that he becomes envious of the amount of time M. Vincent is spending with his
wife, the object of our masked man's obsession. Some people might consider that
motive, wouldn't you agree?'
Emilie prodded Colbert gently in the chest with the end of the
paintbrush. Colbert angrily snatched the brush from her and snapped it in two.
'Motive?' he said, throwing the two halves to the floor. 'Motive for
what?'
'Why, motive for a violent act,' Emilie replied. She looked down at the
remains of the paintbrush. 'Always assuming our masked man has a temper, of
course.'
And with that, Emilie spun on her heel and left the studio.
***
'Your honour,' Leveille was saying, 'M. Vincent, our master, has been
tormented night after night by these cats...'
'Objection,' Voltaire interjected, banging his cane on the ground. 'We
don't know that it was these cats that were causing the noise.'
'There are no other cats in the house.'
'No other cats that you could find. Besides which, didn't M. Vincent
himself search the house and locate all of these cats while the noise still
continued, thereby confirming that no one of them could possibly be the cause?'
'M. Vincent has been under a terrible strain,' Leveille countered. 'He
could easily have been mistaken. He himself told us to round up these cats so
he clearly doubts his own word.'
'Leveille has a point, Voltaire,' Jerome said.
'Yes, yes, everybody has a point,' Voltaire replied irritably, 'but the
fact remains that there are no witnesses to confirm that my clients are guilty
of any crime. I demand proof before you convict them.'
'He wants proof?' Leveille threw up his hands, playing to the crowd who
lapped it up. 'The noise was the noise of cats. These are the only cats in the
house. It does not take a man of your intellect, monsieur, to join the dots.'
'Perhaps not, but it would appear that it requires a man of greater
intellect than your own to see that some dots should never be joined at all.'
'Enough,' Jerome snapped, banging the iron bar on the table. 'Leveille,
please continue.'
'My next point, your honour, is in regard to the vicious attacks first
against M. Vincent's bedroom and then against M. Vincent himself. M. de
Voltaire will confirm that there were claw marks?'
'Indeed I will,' Voltaire replied, surprising Leveille with his ready
agreement. 'I will also confirm that those claw marks are substantially larger
than those that would have been caused by my clients.'
Leveille recovered quickly. 'And has anyone other than yourself seen
these marks?'
'M. Vincent, of course, and Mme du Chatelet. Probably the footman,
Dufour...'
'But nobody here,' Leveille pressed. 'Nobody other than yourself. And
you, monsieur, are biased in favour of your clients.'
'Monsieur Leveille, are you calling me a liar?'
'Perhaps he's accusing you of purr-jury,' one of the watching journeymen
suggested to appreciative laughter from his fellows.
'Voltaire,' Jerome began, 'I'm sure that you are a man of your word.'
'Thank you.'
'But is it not possible that these large claw marks could have been
caused by smaller claws scratching many times in the same place. If I hit the
table with this bar then I make a mark, but if I hit it again and again and
again then that mark gets deeper.'
'It's possible,' Voltaire conceded reluctantly, eliciting a cry of
triumph from Leveille.
This trial was not going well. The 'court' had already made up its mind
and sentence would have already been passed had Voltaire not intervened. A new
strategy was called for and Voltaire needed to buy himself time to think of
one.
'Your honour,' he said to Jerome, 'might I be permitted a brief recess?'
'A recess? What for.'
Voltaire indicated the sacks holding the cats. 'I'd like to confer with
my clients.'
***
'Emilie!'
Emilie recognised the crest on the side of the carriage. 'Georges, what
are you doing here?'
'I was worried about you,' Georges replied, opening the carriage door
and helping Emilie inside. 'You ran out without a word of explanation.'
'I can take care of myself, Georges,' Emilie said. 'You know this. And
I'm afraid there's precious little time for explanations, though I will tell
you what I can on the way to the rue Saint-Severin.'
'The rue Saint-Severin? Isn't that where your printer friend, M. Vincent
lives?'
'He is not my friend,' Emilie replied. 'I find it difficult to believe
he could be anybody's friend.'
'He certainly sounds like a man who'd be difficult to live with. At
least, that's what his journeyman says.'
'Really?' Emilie was intrigued. 'You know his journeyman?'
'Only in passing,' Georges admitted. 'He delivered those pamphlets I was
telling you about. Little matter about how light behaves when you focus it
through my new lenses. You saw the new lenses? I'm really quite proud of them,
you know. The trick is...'
'Georges, you were telling me about the journeyman.'
'Yes. Yes, of course. You did say there was precious little time.'
'Yes I did.'
'Well anyways, this man, name of Jerome, he gets to talking about his
master and... Well, one shouldn't really listen to what the staff have to say
about their betters.'
'Actually, I think one should pay it the greatest interest,' Emilie
replied.
'Hmm, perhaps you're right. Interesting thing about this Jerome. He has
the oddest talent. I was recalling it earlier when you mentioned cats.'
***
'Are you and your clients ready to continue now, M. de Voltaire?' Jerome
asked.
'Absolutely,' Voltaire replied, bowing to Jerome. 'In fact, I'd like to
call my first witness.'
'A witness?' Leveille asked.
'A witness,' Voltaire replied. 'That does tend to be in the nature of
these proceedings, assuming, of course, that your honour is respecting the
form.'
'Call your witness,' Jerome said.
'Thank you,' Voltaire replied. 'I call... la Grise.'
The crowd was split between amused laughter and incredulous snorts.
'La Grise?' Leveille repeated. 'You want to call the cat?'
'Who better to argue in her own defense?'
'He has a point, Leveille,' Jerome said, smirking. 'Go ahead, Voltaire.'
A sack was untied just enough for la Grise to poke her grey head
out of it.
'My dear la Grise, thank you for taking the time to speak to me,'
Voltaire began.
La Grise looked around, green eyes wide.
'Perhaps you would like to recount the events of the night before last
in your own words?'
La Grise tried to crawl back into the sack.
Voltaire turned to Jerome. 'I fear my client is suffering a little
stage-fright.'
The journeymen laughed and Voltaire breathed a small sigh of relief. He
knew that he had to drag this trial out until inspiration struck him and he
could only do that so long as his audience still found him amusing.
'I put it to you, la Grise, that you have been tormenting your
mistress and her husband with hideous cries.'
No answer.
'I put it to you that you entered M. Vincent's bedchamber with malicious
intent, savaging first his bed and then the man himself in a fit of rage.
La Grise started washing her face.
'Well, what do you have to say for yourself?'
La Grise looked up at Voltaire, decided he was beneath her notice and went back
to her wash.
'I asked you a question,' Voltaire bellowed and savagely struck the sack
with his cane.
La Grise opened her mouth as if to cry out in pain, but no sound emerged.
Voltaire fixed Leveille with a steely gaze. 'I think that rather puts an
end to your theory, don't you?'
'I don't understand,' Jerome admitted.
'It's really very simple, your honour,' Voltaire explained. 'La Grise
cannot meow. She cannot purr, howl, mew, wail or otherwise make noises such as
those that M. Vincent claims to have experienced. In short, it is a physical
impossibility for her to have committed these crimes.'
'And how did you find out about this?'
'Elementary. I spoke to my client.'
'This proves nothing,' Leveille insisted.
Voltaire folded his arms. 'I rather think it does.'
'La Grise could still have attacked M. Vincent while the other cats made the
noise. They're all in this together. It's a conspiracy!'
'A conspiracy?' Voltaire's eyes sparkled with barely
suppressed mirth. 'M. Leveille, I would like to see anyone - prophet, king or
even God himself - persuade two dozen cats to work together on anything.'
'You argue a good case, Voltaire,' Jerome said, 'but,
unfortunately, even you can't change the facts.'
'What facts?'
'M. Vincent asked us to dispose of the cats, so that
is what we will do.' Jerome banged his iron bar on the table three times and
the courtyard fell silent. 'I find these cats guilty.
'Hang them.'
'Where is Voltaire?' Emilie demanded, bursting into the house on the rue
Saint-Severin.
Catching sight of the distraught Mme Vincent being consoled by her maid,
her manner instantly softened. 'What's happened? What's wrong?'
A moment more and she noticed an unusual absence. 'Where are all the
cats?'
'They took them all away.' Mme Vincent said without looking up. 'They
took la Grise away.'
'Who did? Who did this?'
Realising that her mistress was incapable of any more, the maid
explained, 'It was Jerome and the other journeymen, madame, on M. Vincent's
instructions.'
'I see. And what of M. de Voltaire?'
'He followed them, madame.'
Emilie shook her head. 'Yes, that sounds just like him. Where are they
now?'
'I don't know,' the maid said. 'Really, I don't, madame. But at this
time of day they should be at the shop.'
Emilie hurried back out on to the street. 'Georges, I need to borrow
your carriage.'
***
'You can't do this!'
'We have no choice,' Jerome told Voltaire as the first cat was carried
to the scaffold.
'There's always a choice.'
'M. Vincent has given us our orders.'
'And do you always follow his orders, Jerome?' Voltaire asked. 'I find
that difficult to believe.'
Jerome turned his back on Voltaire. 'Think what you like.'
'Oh I do,' Voltaire replied, 'and I think that this has less to do with
your master's orders and more to do with the fact that the deaths of these cats
will hurt him and his wife. This isn't justice, this is revenge.'
Jerome rounded on him. 'And aren't we entitled? Don't we deserve
satisfaction?'
'Not like this,' Voltaire said softly. 'Not like this.'
Horses' hooves and carriage wheels clattered over the cobbles and Emilie
came running into the courtyard.
'Emilie, what are you doing here?' Voltaire asked, hurrying to her side.
'No time to explain,' Emilie replied. 'Georges has something important
to tell you. It's about Jerome.'
'Wait!' Voltaire bellowed, striking his cane repeatedly on the ground
until he has everyone's attention. 'This trial is not over. I have one more
witness to call.'
'Go ahead, Georges,' Emilie said encouragingly.
Georges was momentarily taken aback by all the eyes upon him, but,
deciding that it was no different than addressing the Academy of Sciences -
albeit perhaps a little less rowdy - he straightened, clasped the lapels of his
coat and began.
'I know Jerome there from when he delivered a number of pamphlets I had
commissioned M. Vincent to produced. During his brief visit, I discovered that
the journeyman has an unusual talent.'
'Is that so?' Voltaire asked, casting a sideways glance at Jerome.
'Could you tell us what that talent is?'
'Indeed, monsieur,' Georges replied. 'It is a talent for mimicry. Jerome
can, with a high degree of accuracy, impersonate a cat.'
'Is that so?' Voltaire slowly turned until he was facing Jerome. 'So, to
summarise, we have a cat that cannot cry out and a man who can in her place.
Tell me, Jerome, who do you think is the most likely cause of the nighttime
noises, particularly considering that the man in question has a known grudge
against M. Vincent? I think it's time we let the cat out of the bag, don't
you?'
'Voltaire,' Emilie scolded him.
'Sorry, I couldn't resist,' Voltaire mumbled.
Jerome had gone pale. 'All right, all right,' he said, 'I admit it. I
made the noises. I just wanted to make him suffer a bit, but I never expected
it to go this far.'
'And the attacks on M. Vincent?' Emilie asked.
'That wasn't me,' Jerome insisted. 'I did the noise, but that was it.'
'I believe you,' Voltaire said, 'but I'll need your help to prove it.'
***
The ballroom had been decorated as befitted the season and a string
quartet provided the music to which dozens of masked revelers could twirl and
cavort. Mme Jeannette Vincent had been against attending, despite husband's
urging, but, while helping her to get ready, Emilie had whispered in her ear
that her cats were safe and her spirits had lifted, if only slightly. Now,
dressed in a pearl gown and with a cat mask held in front of her face, she
entered the room on the arm of her husband. They were greeted by the applause
of their guests. Vincent took both her hands in his and whirled her onto the
dance-floor as the musicians struck up a waltz.
Emilie stood in one corner of the room, filching canapés from servants
as they passed. Several men had asked her to dance, but she had rebuffed them
all, becoming increasingly less patient with each subsequent request. She had
expected Colbert to be here, but as yet there was no sign.
Mme Vincent knew everyone who had been invited, of course, but now that
the guests were masked, she found it difficult to identify them all. A man
wearing a harlequin mask asked for a dance and her husband gallantly
relinquished her so that Mme Vincent found herself being carried off across the
room. Her next dance was with a man in a long-nosed puccinella mask who might
have been Poincare. Wanting to catch her breath, Mme Vincent sought refuge at
the edge of the room, but as she stepped away from the circle of dancers,
someone jostled her arm, knocking her mask from her hand. She turned to berate
the individual for their clumsiness, but whoever it was had already moved on,
concealed by the throng.
A man in black surveyed the room, his eyes searching for his prey. Like
Emile, he was refusing all offers to dance. Unlike Emilie, he had hidden his
identity behind a black domino mask, the same mask worn by the figure on the
painted button. A cruel smile played across his face as he spied his target,
dressed in a pearl gown and a cat mask. He sidled up to her and whispered in
her ear.
'Shall we go somewhere more private?'
She nodded and the pair stepped lightly from the ballroom.
Mme Vincent retrieved her mask from the floor, except, on inspection,
this mask was not hers. This was a jeweled butterfly. Her own cat mask was
nowhere to be seen.
In the drawing-room, the woman in the pearl gown had her back to her
suitor. She was standing by the fireplace, above which hung a shield and two
crossed swords. Behind her, the man was donning a single black glove.
'So, M. Vincent,' the woman asked, 'what did you want to talk about?'
The man in black - M. Vincent - started. 'How did you know?'
The woman removed her mask and turned to face him.
'You're not Jeannette!' Vincent declared.
Emilie did not see the need to respond to that.
'I take it that you intended to dispose of your wife and blame her
demise on the "phantom cat",' she said.
'Something like that.' Vincent raised his gloved hand. Flickering light
from the fire reflected off of the blades tied to each finger. 'Unfortunately,
since you now know to much, you will have to share her fate.'
Emilie snatched one of the swords from the wall and adopted a fencing
stance.
'Impressive,' Vincent said before lunging at her with his 'claws'.
Emilie bolted through the door and out into the hallway. Her gown was
too constrictive so she turned her sword on it, slitting her skirt down one
side for ease of movement.
Vincent emerged from the drawing-room carrying a sword of his own. 'If
you give up now, I promise to make it quick.'
Emilie smiled and lunged, forcing Vincent to parry. He tried to riposte,
but Emilie was too quick for him and a series of rapid strokes forced him back
against the wall. In an effort to improve her poise, Emilie's parents had paid
for fencing lessons for her, lessons she was grateful for now.
Vincent dived forward. He could not match her speed so he used his brute
strength to force her away from him. She sidestepped his charge and hopped up
on to the staircase where the additional height put her at an advantage.
'So, let me guess,' Emilie said as she parried Vincent's thrust. 'You
found out that your wife was having an affair with Colbert and decided to do
away with her.'
'The painter? Is that who it was?' Vincent swung his sword like a club
beating it repeatedly against Emilie's blade. Unable to match his strength, she
was forced to retreat further up the stairs. 'I never did find out his name,
but I knew what was going on. I couldn't let her get away with betraying me
like that.'
'So you decided to kill her, but that still left question of how to do
it.' The sound of steel striking steel echoed through the hallway, but the
guests in the ballroom remained oblivious due to the noise of their own
revelry. 'Then the cat noises started and you saw your chance.'
'If I could convince people that a demon was haunting us then nobody
would suspect me,' Vincent agreed.
'Especially if you yourself were the initial focus of the
"demon's" attentions.'
There was a rhythm to Vincent's strikes against her blade and, deducing
it, Emilie pulled back her sword at the last instant. Swinging at empty air,
Vincent stumbled forward and Emilie lunged, slicing off his mask and making a
shallow cut just below his left eye. Vincent bellowed with rage and Emilie
skipped up the remainder of the stairs, laughing as she did so.
'You know too much,' Vincent told her. 'Unfortunately, you won't get the
chance to tell anybody. Unfortunately for you that is.'
He advanced onto the landing, sword level. Emilie met his gaze, her
smile never faltering.
'Tell me, M. Vincent, did you ever here of a young girl at court who
challenge the head of the King's bodyguard to a demonstration duel?' Vincent
lunged again and again and again, but Emilie deftly parried each and every
attempt. 'They fought in public, in the Hall of Arms. There was quite a crowd,
all there to see this upstart female humiliated.' Emilie began to advance.
'Unfortunately for the gamblers, things didn't quite turn out as expected.'
Emily lunged once, twice, three times and Vincent's sword flew from his hand.
'That young girl was me.'
Vincent took another pace back, tripped over the top step of the
staircase and fell to one knee. Then, quick as a flash, he produced a wheellock
pistol.
'You may be good with a blade,' he said, 'but I doubt you can parry
this.'
Emilie slowly lowered her sword.
'There is one thing I would like to know,' Vincent said. His hand
searched blindly for the banister, his eyes never leaving Emilie, and, when he
found it, he put his weight on it and clambered to his feet. 'How did you guess
that it was me?'
'Guess? There was no need to guess. You were careless.'
'Given who is holding the gun,' Vincent remarked, 'you might consider
being less flippant.'
'Given that you're planning to kill me anyway,' Emilie replied. 'I don't
think it really matters. To answer your question, it was impossible for anyone
to enter your room without your knowledge. Therefore, they did not.'
'I shall have to be more careful in future,' Vincent said. 'Goodbye, Mme
du Chatelet. I wish I could say that it has been a pleasure.'
'As do I, M. Vincent.'
Vincent turned to face the source of the voice and saw Voltaire emerging
from behind a painting, Jerome in tow. Voltaire had a pistol pointed at
Vincent's gut.
'Put down your weapon,' he advised. 'Even I can't miss at this range.'
***
The ballroom had emptied. The arrest of their host for trying to murder
his wife had sapped the guests of their mirth and they had drifted off to other
parties or back to their homes. Voltaire was eyeing up the repast that the cook
had prepared which was set out on tables against one wall, practically
untouched. The centrepiece was an extravagant Yule log.
'I was beginning to think that you weren't going to turn up,' Emilie
complained.
'That secret passage was longer than I had imagined,' Voltaire
confessed. 'Jerome found out about it when he saw Mme Vincent leaving for an
assignation with Colbert. It's where he hid when he made his cat noises to keep
the Vincent's awake at night.'
'And so, unwittingly, gave M. Vincent a means to dispose of his wife.'
'He would have found another way. Jerome was just looking for some kind
of justice, you know.'
'I suspect M. Vincent will say the same,' Emilie replied. She decided to
change the subject. 'What are we going to do with all of this food? It seems a
shame for it to go to waste.'
Voltaire tapped the side of his nose with his index finger, then walked
over to the double doors and hauled them open. Jerome and his fellow journeymen
surged into the room like a tidal wave, sweeping away the food before them.
'Time to go, Emile, I think.'
'Aren't you going to stay and join them?' Emilie asked, taking
Voltaire's arm.
Voltaire considered. 'Hmm, I think it's best not to overstay our
welcome, don't you? I've no wish to experience firsthand Don Quixote's embarrassment
at having to defend himself against the slaves that he had just liberated.'
Snow was falling as they descended the steps at the front of the house.
The wind carried the voice of a distant carol singer to them, but this was soon
drowned out by a church bell chiming the first stroke of midnight.
'You're right about Jerome and Vincent,' Voltaire said. 'All that
separates them is their methods. And I wonder how long that will last.'
'What do you mean?'
'There are a lot of Jeromes in France being persecuted by a lot of
Vincents,' Voltaire explained. 'How long do you think it will be before their
quest for justice escalates beyond impersonating cats? If the system does not
change then I fear that they will take it upon themselves to change it for us.
And then…'
'And then?' Emilie prompted.
'And then we shall see. But that is a problem for another day. For now…'
He gestured back towards the house with his free hand. 'For now, let them eat
cake and let us enjoy the evening.'
The church bell struck for the twelfth and final time.
'Joyeux Noel, Emilie.'
'Joyeux Noel.'
The End
Hope you have a very merry
Christmas and a happy New Year!
See you in 2006
Duncan