Whenever we passed through a town to replenish our food supplies, residents would close their windows and cross their fingers: the passing of a Night Mail coach was a bad omen. Twice we were refused entrance and forced to go another way. I tried to convince Servin to remove the black crêpe and carved allegorical images that decorated the hearse. Without these, it would look like any other carriage, but he refused.
‘Maréchal Dalessius personally decorates each coach and no changes are allowed. He wants us to be recognized from afar. Alternate routes and delays shouldn’t concern us. As he says: A detour is just another road.’
I had been eager to arrive but now that the wheels (about to take one last turn before falling off their axles) were shakily tracing the route to Toulouse, I felt that mixture of exhaustion and unease that comes over a traveler whenever he reaches a new city.
We delivered the last coffin to the rue des Aveugles. The house belonged to M. Girard, a toy manufacturer. A long table displayed wooden horses painted blue, puzzles of city maps, porcelain dolls, and armies of tin soldiers that seemed to be returning in defeat: broken, hungry, their flag in tatters.
‘Is she your daughter?’ I asked.
‘The Night Mail is known for not asking questions,’ Girard replied.
‘That’s true, sir,’ Servin said, worried my curiosity might reduce or eliminate the tip altogether. ‘Please forgive him. Young Dalessius is new to the profession.’
The owner gave us each a few coins, but Servin snatched mine from me.
‘You should be glad you rode here for free,’ he said under his breath.
He asked the toy manufacturer whether he wanted us to move the coffin to another room in the house.
‘Just there is fine,’ Girard said, anxious for us to leave. Since we were no longer in danger of losing the tip, I asked about the cause of death.
‘She ate a poison apple,’ he snapped, pushing us toward the door.
We came out of the house, and Servin said good-bye there and then. A shipment was waiting for him on the outskirts of the city. He offered his hand, and in it was a coin. He told me to take care, and if anyone asked who sent me, to say anything at all, that I was an emissary to the devil or the Huguenots themselves, but under no circumstances was I to tell the truth.
I found lodgings near the market and took a room where I had to pay two nights in advance.
‘Are you here for the festivities?’ the proprietor asked. His face was scarred by illness and injury, and he was missing three fingers on his right hand.
‘No. Is something happening tonight?’
‘Celebrations begin in a few days.’
‘And what are you celebrating?’
‘The day the people of Toulouse had the courage to get rid of four thousand Huguenots. It’s the two hundredth anniversary.’
‘They were expelled?’
‘Straight to the hereafter. Never, sir, will you see such fireworks - not even in China! I lost three fingers when I was igniting them fifteen years ago, but don’t think I regret it. The moment I was hurt, I thought: Others have to smell gunpowder and are blown to pieces on the battlefield; I get to be a hero right here. I’d do it again, especially now, with the Calas family as the guests of honor. A whole year of boredom, sitting by the fire, greeting visitors as they come and go; a whole year of waiting just to watch the world explode. I can start to feel my lost fingers as the day draws closer.’
That night I looked out the window in my room and saw five men dressed in white robes, hoods pulled up, carrying an image of Christ. Voltaire had warned me: Be careful of the White Penitents. Windows opened as they passed and wilted flowers showered down on their linen hoods.
The room I took was cramped and cold. Previous guests had scratched their names into the musty walls. The blanket was so dirty it was much heavier and warmer than if it had been clean. Insects of every kind crawled along the floor. As I waited for sleep to free me from these annoyances, I studied the bugs with my magnifying glass. I even kept a few specimens: I liked to press them between the pages of my books as reminders.
The next morning, I bought a fresh loaf of bread. The bakers of Toulouse were paying homage to the Calas boy: it was in the shape of a hanged man, sprinkled with salt and raisins, the little noose decorated with sesame seeds. I finished reading Voltaire’s briefs and set out for the Calas house.
The judges had ordered a twenty-four hour guard be posted there. I asked the only soldier on duty if I was allowed to go in, but he said no. I had predicted as much and pulled out a bottle of wine with a loaf of that bread. The guard stepped aside, and I wandered through the now empty rooms.
All of the inhabitants had been hauled away: the father, the mother, the sister, the brother, the friend who was visiting, even the maid was in prison, and every last piece of furniture had disappeared as well. All that remained was the large, rusty nail that had held Marc-Antoine’s rope. I felt I had crossed all of France just to see that nail.
‘Why didn’t anyone take it?’ I asked the soldier.
‘They say it’s cursed. No one wants to touch it.’
I walked over to test its strength and show him I wasn’t superstitious, but changed my mind.
‘Were you here when they looted the house?’
‘No, but I was told they came down the street singing and carrying torches. As soon as they got here, they stopped and stood in silence: inspiration had vanished and they didn’t know what to do, whether to kneel down or lay waste. Their enthusiasm was renewed the moment they stepped through the door: most of them had never been in a house like this, and they discovered what fun it was to empty drawers and upend furniture. Other people’s lives are such mysteries. At some point, one of the women wanted to burn down the house and set fire to a curtain; the others put it out and nearly set her on fire. They all arrived together but left alone, arrived singing but left in silence, arrived with torches but disappeared in darkness.’
I studied every last corner with my magnifying glass as the guard followed me around. There were fewer signs of the Calas family’s whole life than of the looters’ brief stay: tatters of clothing, splinters of wood, chicken bones, and broken bottles.
‘There aren’t enough saints in these godless times; that’s why people are willing to pay such a high price for relics. You can buy the hanged man’s teeth on the black market for two francs apiece.’
‘I wonder if they’re even real.’
‘Oh, the hundreds of teeth, nails, and locks of hair for sale are all real. By the time I came on duty, only the martyr’s books were left. No one wanted them because books aren’t relics. But you seem like you might be interested. Maybe we could come to an arrangement.’
The guard mentioned an exorbitant sum. I gave no reply but concentrated on examining the nail instead. He dropped the price lower and lower until, discouraged and irritated, he knew he had no choice but to listen to my offer.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ I proposed as I cleaned the magnifying glass on my shirt. ‘I don’t have the money to buy the books, but if you let me look at them I’ll pay you one coin now and another when I’m done.’
He agreed and went to the window to make sure no one was coming.
‘I’ve hidden them.’
We