Floats the Dark Shadow (9 page)

“He was going to bomb the Sacré Coeur!” one fellow told them.

“Too good to be true,” Paul said.

“Killed six
flics
,” another man announced. “A hero of the people!”

“Murder is not heroic,” Theo challenged.

“Disagree with the mob and lose your head,” Casimir warned.

“
Aristos
like you don’t use their heads,” Paul said in his nastiest tone. “They have no brains to put in them.”

“Let’s use our feet for dancing!” Theo broke in. She did not want her friends arguing.

“I’ll ask the band to play the Dynamite Polka,” Paul said. Theo presumed that was not a joke.

“I doubt you’ll even need to request it tonight,” Casimir muttered.

Wanting only to escape thoughts of death, Theo dashed across the street to the Moulin de la Galette. Lit by lights in the garden, the old windmill glowed in the moonless night. She plunged forward, determined to forget both the trouble outside and the grim world of the catacombs. La Galette was the perfect escape. Theo loved the rustic nightclub, with its hodgepodge interior. Decades ago, grain was ground here. Now chandeliers glittered above the polished wood floor and green latticework decorated the walls. She paused on the threshold and closed her eyes, letting the music begin to work its magic and sweep away the sourness of the street. When she opened them, Averill was by her side, a question in his eyes.

“Dancing,” she said again, knowing only movement would break her free of the clinging shadows. Averill smiled and offered his arm. Paul and Casimir appeared behind him. Theo and her poets joined the swirling throng, dancing and drinking till the doors closed at dawn.

~

The sky was paling as they left.
 
Paul led them to a nearby
boulangerie
on the rue Tholoze, promising perfect croissants. He knew the owner, the rotund and apple-cheeked Monsieur Pommier, and coaxed him to open the door to them. The baker’s voluptuous wife and elfin daughter were just pulling their bread and morning pastries from the ovens. The shop was filled with the heavy aromas of warm yeast, baked wheat and rye, brandied raisins, marzipan, and melted chocolate. Theo laughed, dizzy and ravenous from the deluge of scents. She bought golden brown almond croissants. Unable to wait, she bit into one of the pastries. “This is amazing. So crusty!”

“I have my secret pleasures.” Paul chose a savory pastry with ham and cheese.

Averill smiled at her. “You are sweetly decorated.” Her breath caught when he reached out and brushed the flakes of puff pastry from the edges of her mouth. An innocent touch? Or an innocent excuse for a touch?

“We must have
café au lait
for our picnic,” Casimir declared.

“But the cups...” Ninette, the lovely young daughter, looked flustered. Tendrils of black hair framed the perfect oval of her face. Her eyes were chocolate brown and delicately tilted.

“I will buy them,” Casimir said.

“Don’t be absurd,” Paul said. “I will bring them back to her.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer absurdity, Noret?” Casimir retorted.

Paul rolled his eyes. Since he was a regular, the baker agreed Paul could return the cups later. Theo watched as Ninette poured foaming milk into the fresh black coffee and served them with a charming blush. That splash of pink would be lovely in a portrait that framed her in the golden tones of the pastry, and the crusty loaves of bread on their wooden shelves would make a strong background pattern. The foreground would have coffee in the pure white cups—not the pale, breakfast
café au lait
, but a deep, rich brown. Theo felt a tingling of delicious excitement. The challenge of drawing the catacombs lingered, a murky cloud in her mind, black as the ink she’d use. Painting this beautiful girl in the cozy bakery would be a golden counterpoint. Theo determined to come back soon and see if Ninette would pose. She could work on the portrait on rainy days.

Carrying their breakfast feast, they climbed to the pinnacle of the hill. From there it was a short walk to Sacré C
œur
with its wide steps overlooking the city. Theo sat down, savoring the view of Paris and the meal to come. She wished the tree-topped shoulder of the hill didn’t obscure the view of the Eiffel Tower. It was strange to have it absent in the vast panorama. Averill and Casimir settled on either side of her, but Paul hovered behind them. Together they sipped their
café au lait
, sharing the quiet morning with the masons arriving to work on the still unfinished basilica. Although it was incomplete and unconsecrated, services were being held inside. Whenever the doors opened, the sound of organ music flowed over them.

Still standing, Paul gave the church a look of loathing. “It is an atrocity.”

“It looks like a petrified wedding cake,” Theo agreed, though she loved the domed shape seen from a distance, the travertine stone glowing pure white on the peak of Montmartre.

“An atrocity and a monument to atrocity,” Paul insisted.

It was not aesthetics but politics that made his voice so hard and implacable. Theo sat up straighter, tension tugging like reins at her shoulders and arms, at her throat.

“It was meant to heal the wounds of war,” Casimir said sharply, “and to expiate our sins.”

“To expiate the supposed crimes of the Communards—and to celebrate their slaughter,” Paul snarled. “The Army of Versailles lined them up and shot them. They entombed hundreds in the gypsum mines below—sealed them in with explosives. Our bomber should have blown the Sacré Coeur to smithereens.”

“He is not my bomber.” Casimir’s voice crackled like ice. “During the Revolution, men such as he slaughtered the innocent monks of La Veillée sur Oise and destroyed their hermitage. What little remained of our town the Communards decimated.”

Was that when his chateau burned? Theo wondered. He would have been a child then.

Paul gathered breath to argue, but Averill interrupted, his voice mild. “The basilica was built on the site of the martyrdom of St. Denis.”

“Ah yes…they chopped off his head but he picked it up and carried it two miles, plopping it down where he wanted his abbey built.” Paul sneered.

“Jeanne d’Arc made a pilgrimage here…” Casimir began.

Paul leaned forward, suddenly earnest. “A true heroine, Jeanne. A valiant warrior and a patriot, she did not desert the people of France. Then she was betrayed by the ruling class—”

“It is too early for argument,” Theo broke in. “We don’t need to blow ourselves to smithereens.” As a peace offering, she gave Paul a bite of her croissant, oozing marzipan and crusted with toasted almonds. Hunger triumphed over zeal. Paul turned his back on the cathedral, sat on the step behind them, and proceeded to devour his
petit dejéuner
. The others relaxed and together they watched a soft pink light bathe the rooftops and spires of Paris.

Averill’s gaze was dreamy.
“L’insidieuse nuit m’a grisé trop longtemps….”

Treacherous night, you have intoxicated me far too long. A new poem? Theo leaned closer, but he spoke so quietly she could barely hear him at first. Ever elusive. Then he raised his head and spoke clearly.

O jour, ô frais rayons, immobilisez-vous,

Mirés dans mes yeux sombres,

Maintenant que mon cœur à chacun de ses coups

Se rapproche des ombres.

O day, O cool radiance, abide, mirrored in my darkening eyes, as now, with each beat, my heart draws nearer to the shadows…. “That’s beautiful, Averill,” Theo said. “Yours?”

“He wishes,” Paul said. “Jean Moréas.”

“I have no poems about the dawn,” Averill said, looking out over the sun-washed city. “Only the night.”

Chapter Seven

Their smiling lips seemed to murmur something

—They dream, they lean upon their small, round arms,

Sweet gesture of awakening, faces uplifted,

Unsettled gazes all around...And think

Themselves asleep in some pink paradise.

~ Arthur Rimbaud

“DOUX
geste du réveil, ils avancent le front, et leur vague regard tout autour d’eux se pose,”
Gilles coaxed the drowsing child to wake, to look around.

Tonight, he would let the poem set the mood.

No frenzy this time. His soul was starved and must be filled, but craving must be bridled by artistry. He crouched over Dondre, curbing his impatience. Ribbons of blood crept from the back of the boy’s neck and across the stone floor. They made a beautiful crimson frame for the curling hair, the paling skin. His naked body had a pearlescent glow.

To conjure his lost castle of Tiffauges, Gilles was burning incense. The perfumed smoke rose like soft, black prayers. Prayers to Satan. Candle flames wavered beside the stone walls. They made a fluttering sound, like tiny tongues licking. The shimmer of a scream lingered in the air. When Gilles made the cut, Dondre had shrieked then fainted. The boy was groggy now, barely aware of the pain. It was a rapture Gilles loved, the languishing glory when they bled out slowly beneath him. Sometimes they did not even understand they were dying. So piquant….

“Beautiful, isn’t he?” The other was silent, but Gilles did not need an answer.

He always tried to select for beauty, though his sacrifices must fulfill other criteria first. If they were not beautiful enough to please him, the heads could be removed before he took his pleasure. And if they were as beautiful as this boy, the head might be worth preserving. Denis had been irresistible, of course. The martyred saint had been decapitated, and so the saintly boy had been as well. Sometimes Gilles would choose one of the loveliest heads—hold it up and kiss it while he satisfied himself. With the boys, if their pink members were especially pretty, he would cut those off and add them to the display. Dondre was very pink there, genitals plump and rosy against his white thighs. Already Gilles had a priceless collection. His own private museum.

There was a moan. Soft, musical. Barely breathing, Gilles waited until Dondre opened his eyes and peered around him. The boy saw, but did not understand, did not recognize him. He was slipping away. At first Gilles was disappointed. Then charmed. Each death was unique.

He must be quick…but not too quick. Opening his clothes, Gilles stretched out upon his prize, his erect member stroking slowly over the tender skin of the belly. Exquisite, delicate friction. Another soft cry.

“Mon cheri,”
Gilles whispered, sweet endearments flowing from his tongue. He moved slowly, slowly, drawing out the sensation.
“Mon ange. Mon petit chou-fleur.”

Dondre trembled beneath him, muscle and nerve guttering like the candle flames. Gilles began to croon a lullaby as life ebbed. The soft cries, his own sighs, the gasping breath were his music. He rocked Dondre gently, soothing him as he stroked. He watched the slow drift down into darkness. He looked deep into his eyes until their gaze fixed upon him. It was a sweet oblivion, sinking into the black well of the fixed pupil as his seed spilled out in the little death.

Gilles shuddered with pleasure. Sighed deeply.

This was his most romantic encounter.

Chapter Eight

Lechery is the wet nurse of Demonism.

~ J. K. Huysmans

MICHEL had barely slept. Dreams of bombs and blood haunted him. New dreams and old knotting together in his brain, his belly.

Walking to work, he paused at the center of the bridge linking the Île Saint Louis to the Île de la Cité, letting the cool morning light clear the gloom from his mind. From here, the twenty
arrondissements
curved out in a clockwise spiral like the shell of a snail, each housing its own diverse worlds. Alone for the moment in the heart of Paris, Michel allowed himself to savor the view of Notre Dame. One of the Impressionists should paint the cathedral at dawn—a grey dawn like today, the muted light flashing with sudden iridescence like the throats of the pigeons strutting at his feet. Shreds of clouds floated like pale banners about the spire of the Gothic cathedral, and washes of sunlight gilded the arches of the flying buttresses. Just across the bridge, the great willow trailed its withes over the embankment, green leaves cascading against the ancient stone. Faint traces of mist still hovered near the quais, but the Seine gleamed silver, flecks of vivid color rippling in the wake of passing boats.

Michel turned at the sound of footsteps. It was the grocer’s wife on her way to early mass. He nodded to her then crossed over to the larger island. The morning was relatively quiet. The
café
conversation of a few early risers mingled with the daily calls and clatter of workmen making deliveries. He chose a
café
at random for his
petit déjeuner
. He patronized most of the
cafés
along his route, wanting them all to know him, to feel free to call on him in need. The coffee was fresh, hot and bitter, the ham and eggs too greasy. He ate a little, paid, and wrapped up the remnants of the food in a bit of newspaper.

It was only a block to the Palais de Justice. Skirting the entrance, he went round to the far end of the building where the feral cats had their domain. There was an allotment in the budget for the feeding of stray cats. In turn, the cats helped control the rat population. It was said to be cheaper than paying for an exterminator. Even with their steady diet of rats and their official allotment, Michel considered them too thin. He brought them his leftovers almost every day. They came when he called. The tamer ones placed their paws on his knee to demand their shred of ham. The wilder ones watched avidly. Michel tossed a bit toward the white queen with soft grey ears. He had his favorites but did his best to make sure they all got a taste.

When the food was gone, Michel returned to the detective offices of the Palais de Justice. Inside, he went to the washroom and cleaned the grease from his hands. When he emerged, another detective was conferring with the desk officer. His prisoner, a fragile little blonde, sat on a bench, awaiting processing at the Dépôt. She looked like a trampled flower. He had seen her sometimes, this past year, walking the streets by the river.

“Is he alive?” She stared about her, obviously in shock.

Michel saw that her hand was badly burned. Acid, he thought, not fire. “Another
vitrioleuse
?” he asked quietly.

“She splashed her pimp. The press will be pissing themselves with joy.”

Michel nodded, frowning. There seemed to be a fashion for certain methods of murder, intensified by lurid stories in the press. Like the man he’d recently captured, many men favored hacking their victims to death with an axe. Journalists especially loved to glorify the vengeful woman with her beaker of prussic acid.

“Is he alive?” the girl asked again. She began to cry.

“Dead, you stupid
pouffiasse
!
” the man snapped. She flinched at the insult. To Michel he added, “Acid ate up his eyes—he went head first down the stairs and—.” He jerked his head sideways and gave a guttural cracking sound.

The girl curled up in a ball, weeping silently now. Michel felt a swell of pity. The pimp had most likely corrupted her. Juries were sometimes sympathetic to a
vitrioleuse
, if her tale was pathetic enough. Lately they’d been convicting. When women were sentenced to death, it was usually commuted to life at hard labor. This girl was frail and Michel doubted she would survive
travaux forcés
for very long. But there was nothing to be done about it. Michel was about to ask after his own prisoner, but another officer gestured him down the hall toward the chief’s door. Michel made his way to Armand Cochefert’s office and knocked.

“Enter.”

As expected, Michel found the chief of the Sûreté seated behind his desk. Cochefert had been head of criminal investigations for three years now. He didn’t leave his office—or his chair—if at all possible. He was a heavy man, almost lethargic. At first, Michel had thought his mind lazy, too. But occasionally the case was important enough, or frustrating enough, that Cochefert would venture into the investigation personally. Once the chief took a case, he was fervent in searching for the culprit. Slowly, Michel had revised his judgment. Cochefert leavened practical intelligence with a sly sense of humor. He knew his men’s strengths and weaknesses. If he enjoyed the comfortable world of his office too much, he also knew how to delegate wisely. Michel also approved the chief’s liberal leanings, though sometimes he found them too naïve.

“Devaux,” Cochefert said, by way of greeting. He looked glum but began with praise. “Good work last night. The juge d’instruction has a confession from your anarchist.”

“Already?”

“The villain bragged about it.” Cochefert’s face tightened with anger. He expelled a sharp breath. “I regret the deaths, but killing our men will get him the guillotine.”

Michel nodded. “I had good information.”

“Who tipped you?” The chief took a hard-boiled egg from his pocket and peeled it. As usual, his pockets bulged with them.

“Blaise Dancier.”

“Odd.” Cochefert pursed his lips, pausing between bites of his egg. “Usually he’d take care of someone like that himself.”

“Usually,” Michel agreed. “He had a favor.”

“Ahh….” Cochefert paused. “Just what does he want in return?”

“He is concerned about some missing children. Two of his flock are missing.”

“Children?” Cochefert’s fleshy face sank into a morose expression. He had a very soft heart where the young were concerned.

“Two boys. But when he asked around, he found several other children who had vanished, both boys and girls.”

“If he went to so much bother, we must take him seriously.”

“Dancier wants us to be on guard.” He paused. “I’ve begun investigating but with no success.”

Cochefert pondered for a moment. “Nothing relevant comes to mind, but assign someone to check the files. I will also contact the Police Municipale to keep a closer eye on the streets. You can take a week—see if you can find evidence to link even two cases.”

“And if not?”

“If not, I know damned well you’ll go on working it on the side.” Cochefert twisted one corner of his luxurious walrus mustache. “But I’ll have a special assignment for you soon.”

“Of course.” Officially, Michel investigated homicides rather than gathering intelligence. Unofficially, as a member of Cochefert’s
batallion sacré,
he did what was necessary.

Cochefert tapped a finger against his lips. “Leo Taxil has scheduled a lecture at the Geographical Society.”

“There may be rioting,” Michel acknowledged. Taxil had been writing an exposé of the Masonic Order, claiming that they were all Satanists. He had promised to produce a repentant high priestess of the order, who claimed to have conducted diabolical rites, participated in orgies, and watched a child sacrifice.

Cochefert nodded. “Taxil has requested police protection. I’ve ordered a few men stationed in the auditorium to forestall trouble. He’s chosen Easter Monday to make his revelations. The bigger the splash the better. We could all end up in the Seine.” The chief adjusted his spectacles and poked about his desk, finally pulling a ticket from beneath a file and pushing it across the desk to Michel. “From you, I simply want intelligence.”

Michel regarded it dubiously, then picked it up and put it in his coat pocket. “Taxil may have an agent provocateur.”

“Quite possibly. The hall will be filled with dupes, tricksters, and troublemakers. I want your eyes, Devaux. I want your assessment.” Cochefert gestured vaguely, stewing in malaise. “Anything that reeks of devil worship, I want to know who comes sniffing. Sooner or later, they will be trouble.”

“Sooner, most likely.”

“The other night there was a concert in the catacombs, and we heard nothing of it till it was over,” Cochefert complained. “I don’t intend to be caught unawares again. Scrutinize the audience at Taxil’s speech. See who is there that we know. Discover any suspicious newcomers, especially these dabblers in the occult.”

“Taxil accused the leaders of the Rose-Cross of practicing Satanism. I doubt they will give him any credence by appearing. Not Papus, not even Sar Péladan, though he loves a show. Perhaps Vipèrine will come—he has nothing to lose. Claiming to be a student of the Abbé Boullan was enough to get him thrown out of the Rose-Cross.”

Cochefert nodded. “Stanislaus de Gauita’s sinking ever deeper into opium dreams. There may be a power struggle to claim leadership of his occult movement. Vipèrine may try an insinuate-and-seize maneuver.”

“De Gauita has dangerous enemies—and dangerous friends.”

“We must be vigilant. I don’t want another ‘Magical War.’”

“One was enough,” Michel agreed. The magical war between rival Rosicrucians had occurred four years ago. The novelist Huysmans, who worked in the Ministry of the Interior, had been involved. “The station was a wasps’ nest of gossip.”

The memory seemed to captivate Cochefert. “You must admit, it was a most curious war.”

“If you can believe the accounts,” Michel countered. Huysmans had denounced the Rose-Cross movement, accusing the leaders of murdering the Abbé Boullan with black magic. Challenged to a duel, he recanted, but the journalist who had published the article did not. There the story became bizarre. Three times the journalist’s arrival at the dueling ground was delayed because the horses froze in terror. Each time they stood sweating and trembling for minutes on end, before stumbling on their way. Or so the story went. “Tales of the journeys were more dramatic than the actual confrontation,” Michel said. “Both duels passed without serious injury.”

“It was claimed that the bullet remained in the chamber of the journalist’s gun,” Cochefert reminded him. “Such stories, true or not, create their own spells. During the ‘Magical War’, the city went crazy with rumors. Parisians saw demons lurking everywhere. You could feel shivers of hysteria rippling through the streets.”

The trouble began when Huysmans was researching his book on the medieval murderer, Gilles de Rais. It was then that Huysmans made friends with the Abbé Boullan, a defrocked priest. Boullan’s Society for the Reparation of Souls specialized in freeing those possessed by succubi and incubi. From all reports save Huysmans’, the Abbé was doing his best to have sexual congress with succubi and incubi himself. He was an adherent of Satanism who was known to have debauched nuns and officiated at Black Masses. “Let’s hope Dancier’s missing children aren’t victims of some cult.”

“Probably they were beaten to death by their parents and stuffed in a sewage pipe,” Cochefert said glumly. Then he brightened. “Have you read Taxil’s saga—
The Devil in the Nineteenth Century
?”

“Bits and pieces.” Anyone so incendiary was worth checking on. But the stories Taxil spun were beyond belief.

“I read them for amusement,” Cochefert confided. “I loved Moloch, the crocodile demon.”

Michel tilted his head, admitting curiosity.

“Some mad Parisian tries to summon the devil into his parlor. He sits at a table—candles burning, incense wafting—all the usual paraphernalia. Suddenly the table rattles, bounces and flies up to the ceiling. The whole house shakes. Terror and awe abound. The table crashes back to the floor and a malevolent figure plummets from the ceiling, landing all in a heap. It rises. Behold, it is the demon Moloch, in the shape of a gigantic winged crocodile.” Cochefert gestured broadly, miming a display of vast wings. “This Moloch is a demon of talent, a demon of vanity, and a demon of lascivious temperament. He dusts himself off, then proceeds to the piano. He sits down and plays a ditty with the host’s wife, ogling her all the while. He sets himself to seduce her.”