He put the money in his pocket, filled a haversack with clothes and then went back downstairs, dragging the washtub with him.
‘Madame Guénéqué, I’m going away for a few weeks – urgent business in Paris. As soon as I know my address there, I’ll send it to you in case you need to contact me.’
‘You’d be wasting your time – I can’t read or write.’
‘Then you can ask the nuns to help you.’
‘I’m surprised at you, Monsieur Corentin. For years and years you’ve never been further away from here than a rabbit from its warren. People will be talking about this all the way from here to Val de Saire!’
‘I’m counting on you to keep all those busy tongues from wagging, and to make sure the farrier mends that shoe of Flip’s that’s wearing down. The main thing is, don’t forget to give him some water before you feed him his oats, and brush him every day.’
Madame Guénéqué eyed him mischievously.
‘You don’t need to give me all these instructions, Captain, you’ve told me a hundred times before. Ah, Paris, Paris, everyone’s got Paris fever! That lovely lady you scrubbed up so carefully, she’s going to Paris too. The doctor told her over and over that she shouldn’t go, not in the state she’s in, but she’s as stubborn as a mule! They wouldn’t be linked, would they, your two journeys?’
‘Wherever do you get your ideas from? I don’t know anything about her – who she is, where she lives. It’s business, as I said, to do with my uncle’s investments.’
‘Whatever you say. I’ll look after the animals, but it’ll mean me trailing over here every morning …’
‘I’ll give you forty francs. If I’m not back by the end of January, I’ll send a postal order.’
‘Oh, no need for that, Captain, no need for that. Forty francs is a tidy sum!’ she blustered, her eyes round at the thought. She spirited the notes away as soon as he put them in her hand.
With a stroke for Gilliatt and a friendly pat for Flip, he was off. He was clutching the blue earring he had found under the table. Despite the black clouds and the occasional gust of wind, the storm had left the Cotentin peninsula and gone to wreak its havoc further south.
Why had he ever opened that confounded bag? Now, he knew things he wished he didn’t and, if he refused to act on what he had read, it would poison his very existence. He would not rest until he had found the woman whose secrets he had stolen. Come what may, he would seek her in that immense city, full of dangers far more deadly than the storm.
Friday 9 February 1894
It was nearly five o’clock and Paris was succumbing to dusk. Sprawling Paris of the grand houses, the brightly lit avenues, the shady districts, the bustling streets, the sinister streets, the empty streets. Corentin Jourdan knew exactly what he had to do. Either the two women would emerge from the house together, or one would come out alone. Depending on whether it was the brunette or the blonde, he would put the first or the second of his plans into action.
From his garret room, he could see all of the houses along Rue Albouy,1 but the one he was interested in was the building on the corner of Rue des Vinaigriers. If the brunette Sophie Clairsange emerged, he would easily have enough time to get to the stall where his horse was waiting. The carriage station was on Boulevard Magenta and it would take the young woman five minutes to get there. He was familiar with the streets now and would be able to catch up with her.
Chance, destiny and luck had all worked in his favour so far, and fortune seemed to be smiling on his endeavour. Living alone and seldom speaking to anyone had been the best way of gathering information discreetly.
He’d realised he would have to tail carriages or omnibuses at short notice, and so would need his own mode of transport. His budget would not stretch to hiring a carriage and horses; the twenty-five or perhaps forty francs a day necessary would have swallowed up his savings in no time. But fortunately he had discovered a removal man who operated nearby. In exchange for a small sum, the man had allowed Jourdan to hire an old mare who still had some life left in her, and a cart which would be at his disposal any time of the day or night.
Immediately on arrival at Gare Saint-Lazare, he had made for the address he’d found in the notebook belonging to the young woman whose life he’d saved. When he got to Rue des Vinaigriers, the little shop painted in garish blue seemed to beckon to him. There was a sign outside:
THE BLUE CHINAMAN
Madame Guérin
Fine Confectionery since 1873
His heart pounding, he had put down his haversack. Now all he needed was to find a hotel or a furnished room, anything as long as it was nearby, and wait. He had looked at the rows of glass jars lined up on the shelves: caramels, sugar-coated almonds, pralines, Turkish delight, aniseed balls, barley sugar, humbugs, gumdrops, marshmallow and liquorice. The symphony of colours had washed over him like a memory of childhood, of freedom and innocence. His vision blurred and he saw again the slender young girl running towards him across a beach, as clearly as if she had actually been there.
The rays of the setting sun glinting on the shop window had brought him back to his senses. Clélia is dead. You’re looking for Sophie Clairsange.
She was there, behind the sweet-shop counter, with a middle-aged woman standing next to her. Should he go in? Push open the door of the gingerbread house? No. He had come so far, and was so close to his goal – so close to her! He must be patient, and not fall into the trap of accosting her too soon.
He had sat at the bar in the Ancre de Fortune café, beside a bakery on Rue des Vinaigriers. It was a tiny place with a provincial air and he felt as though he were back in Cherbourg. Outside, a long, drab strip of fencing partially concealed a warehouse built from tarred wood. The light of a gas lamp cast its spindly shadow across the road and into the gutter. Two stray dogs were playing in the street, and a tow-haired boy was carrying a large jug filled with cheap beer. There was no noise except the puffing of trains coming from the Gare de l’Est.
‘Do you know if there are any rooms to rent near here?’ he had asked the barman.
‘How long do you need it for?’
‘A month or two. I can pay in advance.’
‘Maman!’ the barman had called. ‘You’ve got a customer.’
An old woman had stuck her nose out of the kitchen.
‘If you’re not too fussy, I’ve got an attic. The water’s from a pump and you’d have to go down three floors to get it, and there’s no heating.’
‘That’s fine. How much?’
That evening he had stood daydreaming, gazing at the sky above the huge, dark warehouse, with no thought of what was to come. On the horizon, windows began to light up, casting a wavering glow over the tiled roofs. She was so close by, just behind one of those curtains that fluttered in the night air, his lovely siren.
Over the next few weeks, Sophie Clairsange had not left the house. Corentin Jourdan had questioned some of the neighbours and learnt that the man with a large bag who visited the house each morning was a doctor, and that the woman lodging there was ill. One evening he had caught sight of her briefly, standing at the window. She was well again! He felt relieved.
He was always on the alert, ready to intervene when the time came. He didn’t know exactly what had happened, but his imagination filled in the gaps and led him to gloss over some of the