The Silver Blade (12 page)
‘A tragedy. I hope they catch the aristos who’ve done this,’ said a drunk, fighting to keep his distance from the floor.
‘Guillotine the lot of them!’ said her neighbour, Citizen Planchot, a pale fish-like creature who had always been terrified of the butcher, but felt the necessity of singing his praises now that he was dead. He was hoping he might be able to buy the business.
Madame Loup finally found her voice. ‘Where is Anselm?’
‘No one’s seen him. We can only hope he’s still alive,’ said Citizen Planchot.
‘The Spirit of the Revolution,’ said the drunk, hoping to be invited in for more wine. ‘He’ll turn up.’
Like a bad penny, thought Madame Loup.
There being nothing to say, nothing to sell, and no wine she wished to share with anyone, she closed the shop for good. After that she would stand night and day by the window, studying the passers-by, listening to the sign of the iron pig swinging back and forth.
Neighbours believed her grief and devotion to her family kept her there, holding a vigil, waiting for Anselm to return.
But they were wrong. Very wrong indeed. She had never liked him, even as a baby. All that beauty had a stink of cruelty about it that made her sick. Anselm, as far as she was concerned, could go to hell.
C
itizen Planchot came every day to report to Madame Loup on how his search for Anselm was going. He had been to taverns and gambling dens, but had neither found nor heard a thing that would give him a clue as to where the lad could be. He had even gone to the police headquarters in the Hotel de Ville, looked in at the city prisons and been down by the Drowned Man’s Benches, slabs of stone beside the Seine where the luckless ones were fished from the river to be claimed or not as the case might be.
itizen Planchot came every day to report to Madame Loup on how his search for Anselm was going. He had been to taverns and gambling dens, but had neither found nor heard a thing that would give him a clue as to where the lad could be. He had even gone to the police headquarters in the Hotel de Ville, looked in at the city prisons and been down by the Drowned Man’s Benches, slabs of stone beside the Seine where the luckless ones were fished from the river to be claimed or not as the case might be.
‘Maybe he’s been picked up and conscripted,’ said Citizen Planchot, hoping now his neighbour might negotiate the sale of the shop.
Still Madame Loup waited by the window, coffin-cold and unconvinced that the devil’s imp was dead.
Then she heard that Anselm had been seen and knew she had no choice but to leave the shop and leave it fast. To that end she invited Citizen Planchot round, and sitting at the kitchen table they came to an agreement. The business and the shop would be his, and Madame Loup would have enough money to return to Mallemort in Provence, her childhood home.
After he had gone she went upstairs to her clean sparse bedchamber and sat on the bed, sewing her new-found wealth into her best red calico petticoat. Packing a few possessions, she went back downstairs and looked round the shop for the last time. It was then she saw a figure in the gloom and her heart sank.
He appeared, to anyone who didn’t know the true colour of his blood, the kind of young man to give your heart to, such were his angelic looks, those golden eyes, that sensuous mouth.
‘Well, well,’ he said. His words snaked towards her; she could feel the venom in them.
‘Sold the business, I heard. Took it into that sawdust brain of yours to do something on your own, without consulting your son and heir.’
Madame Loup had been edging towards the door, but Anselm got there first.
‘We can do this the civilised way, or the hard way.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said. Under her red calico petticoat her knees began to shake.
‘Oh, I think you do, Mother. I want my money.’
She opened her bag and showed him just a few
assignats
that she had kept back for the journey.
assignats
that she had kept back for the journey.
‘You’re making me angry, Mother,’ said Anselm quietly. ‘And you know what happens if you make me angry don’t you, Mother? I want all the money, every last
sou
.’
sou
.’
Madame Loup backed away.
Anselm was in no hurry. He would get his money all right; that was not the point. The point would be the pleasure he would have in seeing her beg for mercy. He put his finger and thumb on her jaw and pushed her hard against the wall. He could feel her soft skin, tissue thin like parchment, in his grasp.
‘You’d better be careful, Mother, that you don’t end up with the rotten chicken meat.’
Madame Loup’s face was turning blue.
‘Now, I ask you again. Where’s the money?’
Ever since Madame Loup had been married, she had imagined her own death as a door through which she knew escape from the final beating was possible, a place where her husband couldn’t touch her. Now she worried that he might be waiting on the other side, ready to grab her. The thought was enough to make her fight with her last ounce of courage, for suddenly she knew what she wanted out of life, and that was to live without fear.
Her new-found strength excited Anselm. He liked resistance. But it was useless.
He could feel her pulse beating, knew that he only had to squeeze and the frayed thread of her life would be broken forever.
He watched emotionless as she gasped for air. Madame Loup’s words were now no more than a desperate whisper; her bird-like hands had curled over, trying frantically to claw at him.
‘Oh, sweet Mary, save me,’ she begged, with what sounded like her last breath.
Anselm had never been worried by his conscience. His moral compass, for what it was worth, his father had stolen from him long ago. The urge to kill was powerful, irrepressible inside him as he squeezed tighter. Madame Loup’s eyes rolled back in her head.
All Madame Loup could see was light. It shone brightly. The Virgin Mary, she felt sure, had come to take her home.
‘Leave her be,’ came a rough voice. ‘Do you hear me? I have work for you, but there’ll be nothing if you kill her.’
Involuntarily Anselm loosened his grip as he recognised the voice of Mr Tull.
‘Let her go,’ said Mr Tull again, talking to Anselm as he would to a dog. ‘Let her go, you pathetic little puke-pot. ‘
Anselm let Madame Loup drop to the floor like a pile of rags.
Realising that she was alive and her protector, whoever he was, looked like a man strong enough to hold Anselm back, she said in a whisper, ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, I tell you this, and it is the truth, you are no son of mine. I didn’t bear you. You were left in a basket of stinking blood and guts. Even your real mother didn’t want you. She was glad to be rid of her devil’s child.’
Anselm rushed towards her once more, but Mr Tull had him by the collar.
‘Save your breath to cool your porridge.’
‘Go to the devil!’
As Mr Tull dragged him from the shop he was still screaming, ‘I’m going to kill her!’
Madame Loup lay on the floor for a long time, gasping for breath, until her strength returned. She sat up and drank a glass of wine. She knew she had escaped Death by a cat’s whisker. It would be many years before he came calling again, walking through fields of lavender to find her.
‘ ell, I see the shop business ain’t to your liking,’ said Mr Tull, when they were seated in a cafe with a jug of wine in front of them. ‘Calm down, you’re going to need your wits.’
‘Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you around for ages,’ said Anselm, drumming his fingers wildly on the table, his foot tapping a chaotic rhythm on the floor.
‘Away on business. It seems I got back just in time.’
Anslem wasn’t listening. He leapt to his feet. ‘Let me finish her off; it’s what she deserves. She owes me, she does.’
‘By all means,’ said Mr Tull. ‘Go on, kill the old girl; it’s no skin off my nose.’
Anselm was rearranging his scarf, ready to charge back to the butcher’s shop.
‘The only thing is, you wouldn’t get to meet Count Kalliovski.’
His words had the desired effect.
‘Oh,’ said Mr Tull, lighting his pipe. ‘You’re interested, then?’
‘Yes.’
Mr Tull leaned forward and grabbed Anselm by the throat. ‘If,’ he said, knowing exactly where to press to cause the most pain, ‘you breathe a word of what you see tonight, you are a dead man and no mistake. You get my drift?’
Letting go, he poured a tumbler of wine. ‘Have a drink. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.’
I
t was early evening when they reached the Place du Faubourg de Gloire. All that was left of the Bastille were a few stones and blackened earth.
t was early evening when they reached the Place du Faubourg de Gloire. All that was left of the Bastille were a few stones and blackened earth.
‘A place of secrets,’ said Mr Tull.
‘They say it’s haunted by the spectre of the Terror made real,’ said Anselm, remembering what he had been told in the whorehouse where he’d been staying.
‘That wouldn’t surprise me. But I think the Terror is real enough, with or without the spectre.’
‘I’ve heard them say he has a big dog.’
‘Oh, put a rag in it.’
They walked away from the Bastille, towards the Seine ferrymen who were packing up for the night.
‘One last trip?’ asked Mr Tull, bringing out a good handful of coins.
‘For you,’ said the ferryman, pushing his boat into the water, ‘a pleasure.’ He lit the lantern. ‘Take you to La Taverne des Trois Pendus on the other side?’
Mr Tull nodded.
The brown water of the Seine lapped past. Until they reached the south bank the only other sound was the swish of the oars.
They crunched up the shore and climbed the wooden steps leading to the inn.
‘Is this where we’re meeting him?’ asked Anselm.
‘No.’ Mr Tull was in no mood for talking. ‘Sit down and shut up. I’ll tell you when we need to go.’
At midnight Mr Tull shook Anselm awake and stood him up, taking in his appearance.
‘You’re a mess. You don’t half stink too. What, you been sleeping in the gutter?’
‘No,’ said Anselm.
‘Pull yourself together, make yourself look respectable. One other thing. Not one word about the robberies. If you say anything, you’ll be a bag of bones.’
It had started to rain heavily by the time they arrived at their destination: a shop with a shuttered front. Above, in the murky window, hung three dimly lit red lanterns. The room inside was equally empty, with sawdust on the floor and a scrubbed counter on which sat a large ledger. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang. A man appeared from behind a velvet curtain. He was dressed from head to toe in black.
Other books
Herself by Hortense Calisher
The Outlaw (Montana Men Book 3) by Vanessa Vale
For Every Season by Cindy Woodsmall
Closed Circle by Robert Goddard
Goodness by Tim Parks
Hearts & Diamonds by Nichelle Gregory
Mr Blackwell: Teacher Student Romance by S K Quinn
Devotion by Katherine Sutcliffe
The Mermaid's Mirror by L. K. Madigan
Inside Grandad by Peter Dickinson