A Spark Unseen (17 page)

I stood, smoothing two or three errant curls, and went to peer out the window. The red doors were not in sight, the angle was too sharp, but what I did see was the slouching man, hands in pockets, propped against the stones of the house that was directly across the street. I stepped back from the window. No matter how Mr. Babcock tried to soften my fear, the man had my pulse throbbing against the tight material of my dress. And then Mr. Marchand was in the salon.

“Bonjour,”
he said, bowing formally, sleek and preened as always in an immaculate suit. “You see how I am behaving, Miss Tulman. No kisses today, though you are looking so very beautiful.”

I closed the shutter with an angry
snick
, hiding away the sight of the slouching man. How Mr. Marchand could manage to find the exact words that would irritate me every time he opened his mouth was a mystery. He must have seen me bristling because he turned to my maps and papers, still spread out on the table.

“You are planning your day, Miss Tulman? And where is your escort, this Mr. Babcock?”

“He will be ready shortly, Mr. Marchand. I’m sorry to have caused you an unnecessary trip, but I did say there would be no need. Please stay and have a cup of tea if you like, but I’m afraid I must say good day to you. I have several things to attend to.”

And before he could respond, I had given him a curtsy, hurried out the door, and away up the stairs. Exhaustion or no, Mr. Babcock needed to wake. The morning was wearing on, and he would want to know that the man was once again outside, watching the house.

I knocked softly on his door. “Mr. Babcock?” When there was no response, I turned the knob, peeped inside, and then threw the door wide. The room was empty, the bed neatly spread up, Mr. Babcock’s coat, hat, and cane all missing. I had been waiting all this time and Mr. Babcock had been gone, perhaps since before I got up, and without even the courtesy of a note.

I bit my lip, disappointment flowing bitter and out of all proper proportion. The morning was mostly gone, and perhaps the one institution I would not now get to visit was the one that actually held what I sought. And despite my saucy declarations during yesterday’s miserable tea, how many of these places were actually going to allow a woman inside unescorted? Not many. Perhaps none.

I marched back downstairs and into the salon, the bonnet I’d left on the foyer table now snatched up and in my hand. Mr. Marchand dropped my map and jumped to his feet.

“I accept your offer, Mr. Marchand. Would you mind if we left by the courtyard?”

T
he next on your list is Charenton, Miss Tulman. Would you prefer a carriage, or …”

“Walking is fine, Mr. Marchand, as long as we do it quickly.”

He grinned. “I think that wheels will get you there faster than your feet, Miss Tulman, though you do walk with such a hurry.”

I relented, ignoring his amusement — everything I did seemed to amuse him — and we boarded an omnibus, climbing up to the open second story. I paid little attention to our direction or Mr. Marchand’s occasional comments as the horses pulled us through the rain-washed maze of the city streets. But I did look at the faces around us, noting each in my memory. So far I had seen nothing that would make me suspicious, no one in the same place twice, no one that seemed particularly interested in my person. I looked carefully all the same.

We had visited two hospitals that morning, one for those who could not pay, little better than a street gutter, and one for those who could, a fine building with swept floors and nurses that wore white aprons and served red wine. Though when it came to the end of a life, I was no longer convinced that the misery for those in clean beds was very less than for those in the filthy. It was all death, disease, and pain, and it had sickened me. But there had been no sign of Lane. The idea of finding him immediately, on my first day of searching, was ridiculous, of course. The practical side of me knew this. But the illogical half, growing larger by the minute, could not help but be disappointed.

“Come, Miss Tulman,” said Mr. Marchand. I saw that the omnibus had stopped. He steered me out of my seat, down the narrow set of stairs, and onto the sidewalk. I looked behind as we walked, but if we were being followed, I could not see it.

Mr. Marchand led us up a narrow road that climbed a small cliff, dropping off to a creek and then a river below, stone buildings rising up on our other side. We reached a wrought-iron gate, and Mr. Marchand rang the bell. A burly man unlocked the gate, large and oxlike with his white sleeves rolled up — he gave me a twinge of homesickness for my gentle Matthew — and I silently handed him one of Mr. Babcock’s papers. A quick glance and he ushered us through a pleasant courtyard of orderly trees and summer flowers at the end of their season, then into a grim building of stone.

I was struck by the smell as soon as we stepped inside, much as I had been in the other two hospitals, the overpowering stench of human bodies and waste, here overlaid with a perfumed soap that was nothing more than a translucent veil. We were in a long corridor of closed doors, iron bars across their tiny windows. And then I became aware of noise, a constant jabbering like a pack of worried dogs, punctuated by the occasional yell or scream. I kept my eyes in front of me, feeling the knotted place inside me twist. This was not a hospital. It was an asylum.

The burly man was replaced by a tiny nun, head and body swathed in white and black, a crucifix swinging gently from her belt as we followed her down the hall. Mr. Marchand translated as we went, something about the numbers of rooms and classes of patients and bowls of soup, but I hardly heard. Through the bars of the fifth door, I saw a man in a bare room with grotesquely twisting limbs; behind the seventh, another systematically pulling out chunks of matted hair; and in the twelfth cell, a man tied to a chair obviously made for the purpose, his shrieks a large part of the disturbance in the hall.

My feet moved on down the hallway, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I thought I had belonged in an asylum once, for a time had thought I was going to one. And I had never even known how much I should fear it.

After twenty-four doors, we left the hall and stood in a garden. People were about in the morning sunshine, all women this time, either busy or indolent, several Matthew-sized attendants stationed around and about, still, but watching. It was more peaceful here, without the noise or smell, these cases obviously not requiring the prison-like conditions I had just seen. A little boy, perhaps four or five, sat in the dirt along the path we were walking, hunched over two piles of small stones. His hair was uncut, a scratch on his arm scabbed and a bit swollen. He did not look up as we passed.

The child’s silent play put me in mind of Davy, and the sight of him, alone, and in this place, set my teeth on edge. I tapped Mr. Marchand’s arm. “Ask the sister why there is a child here,” I whispered.

He spoke, listened to the little nun’s response, and said, “The child is
débile
, not normal, he does not speak or let the others speak to him, though she says he is well-behaved when left alone. He was found at the door …” He listened again to the nun. “… eight days ago, tied in a basket. He will be taken to the Hospice des Orphelins, the place for the orphans, unless the doctors decide it is better to keep him here.”

I watched the little boy with his stones, picking them up, putting them down, arranging and rearranging the piles while Mr. Marchand and the sister walked on down the path. I wondered if this was how Davy had been in that London workhouse, before Mr. Babcock brought him to Stranwyne, playing inside a shell of his own making to escape the horror of what lay just outside. I very much wanted to hit something. Or cry. And then I felt a touch on my hand.

A woman who had been sitting on a bench near the path now stood right beside me. She was small and bent, hair that might have once been blonde now graying, and she was lovingly stroking my hand. I suppressed the impulse to step away and instead stayed very still, afraid to upset her. Mr. Marchand and the nun were far down the path, deep in conversation.

“Such a pretty little girl,” she said, caressing my hand as if it were a baby. “You should know my Charlie. Do you know my Charlie?” She looked up at me expectantly, smiling, her round cheeks succumbing to wrinkles.

“No,” I said quietly, “I don’t know your Charlie.” And then I realized that this woman was speaking English, very good English, only a trace of French in her words. “Are you from England, Ma’am?”

She just smiled dreamily, staring at my hand. Her arms were covered in long, thin, running scars, disappearing beneath her sleeves. I shivered.

“My handsome Charles-Louis,” she said. “He would not come to see his little Charlie, such a fine boy.” She lifted two empty eyes to me. “Would you come to see him?”

Before I could answer, the tiny nun was there, speaking soothingly in French, helping the woman back to her bench. Mr. Marchand was at my elbow. “Could you ask the sister who she is?” I said, almost embarrassed by my relief.

He asked, and the nun shrugged. “Her name is Thérèse,” Mr. Marchand translated. “She is a … a …” He thought a moment. “She is unmarried, a woman who claims the father of her child to be Charles-Louis Napoléon. Our emperor,” he added, in response to my look. He listened again. “The sister says she is a quiet woman, but cannot be given sharp things and must eat with spoons.”

The woman settled back onto her bench, turning her attention to unraveling the threads from her fraying skirt while someone on the other side of the garden cried out in a long stream of gibberish. I looked back to the child, still arranging and rearranging his stones. I would keep Uncle Tully out of a place like this if it took my dying breath. I realized that Mr. Marchand was watching me.

“Do you wish to leave, Miss Tulman?”

I kept my eyes on the child. “Mr. Marchand, would you please tell the sister I do not believe that child is slow. Tell her that he is adding and subtracting, and that someone should give him a slate, and teach him numbers, so that he does not have to use stones.” I stood up a little straighter. “And no, Mr. Marchand, I do not wish to leave. I will see every room.”

Mr. Marchand spoke quietly to the nun as we stepped back into the dimness of the asylum.

When the iron gate had locked behind us, I pulled my map from my bag, but Mr. Marchand took my arm.

“I will buy you a coffee.”

I stiffened. “You shall not. I’ve no time for …”

“You will allow me to insist. I do not escort fainting young ladies about the streets of Paris.”

I resented that statement and opened my mouth to say so, but all at once I was not quite sure that he wasn’t correct. My head felt fuzzy, my vision swimming about the edges. I allowed myself to be pulled down the sloping street, around the corner, and to a shop with tables along the sidewalk. Mr. Marchand deposited me into an empty chair and took the one opposite, gesturing to a waiter.

“Deux cafés,”
he said,
“et deux brioches.”

“I want tea,” I said, sounding like a child.

“And yet this time, Miss Tulman, you will take coffee. And while we wait, you can tell me all about this man you look for.”

I sat still in my chair, the people on the sidewalk breaking around us like a wave, unconcerned pigeons scavenging beneath the tables. The dizziness in my head became a sharp pain behind my eyes. When I glanced up, Mr. Marchand had a coin in his right hand, making it disappear and reappear. It put me in mind of the Miss Mortimers’ delighted shrieks, and for the first time I wondered just how much of this man might be a trick.

“Well, Miss Tulman?”

I had stalled, but my brain had not used the time to supply me with an answer. “What makes you think I am looking for someone, Mr. Marchand?”

He smiled, the little mustache broadening, the wind ruffling the perfection of his slick hair. “You do not like me, Miss Tulman. I cannot think why that would be.”

“Because handsome young men should not act as if they know it,” I blurted, biting my lip in instantaneous regret. I had been thinking more of the Miss Mortimers’ opinions rather than my own. He laughed.

“You are very direct. About some things, that is. About others, Miss Tulman, you are not.” Our coffee and a plate with some sort of fat buns arrived. He put the coin on the table and lit a cigarette while the waiter set out the cups and plates. When the waiter was gone, he said, “But I am glad you find me handsome. Perhaps more handsome than this man you search for, yes?”

“I did not say I was …”

He blew his foul smoke into the wind. “You look in every room, in every bed. But always, your eyes, they skip over the women, the very young, the old, and the men whose hair is brown or yellow. Tell me who he is then, this dark young man.”

I sipped the bitter coffee, pondering the enormity of my mistake in being here with this man. Henri Marchand was not quite the idiot I had taken him for. I set down the cup. “If you wish me to be candid, then why don’t you tell me exactly who you are, Mr. Marchand, and why you insisted on coming with me? I would think a young man in Paris might have something better to do.”