"Well, the animal studies were inconclusive." That's one word for it. "I could only conclude that the administrator-me, I mean-had to be able to instruct the subject. This, in turn, required a degree of trust between both parties. Something that can be difficult to realize with a mouse."

"Another human, then?"

"No. Not another."

And like a boy caught stealing blackberries, I roll up my sleeve and present the now-faint ladder of cuts, first remarked upon by Vidocq in Saint-Cloud.

"You tested the theory on yourself," she says.

"Five mornings a week. Staring into a mirror."

"You actually caused yourself to bleed?"

"Well, yes," I say, blushing as I turn the sleeve back down. "It never went on for too long."

Here is what I never tell her: that the act of drawing blood seemed an apt punishment for the waste I'd made of my life.

Here is what I am only now realizing: I don't want to do it anymore.

"Doctor," she says. "You're a very interesting man."

"Madame, I hope you will forgive me if I presume to ask you a question?"

"By all means."

"I'm sorry, but where does the palace think you are going every day?"

"I tell them I'm praying."

"And that satisfies them?"

An enervated smile plays across her lips. "They have long ceased to be curious about me. My husband, in particular."

"Well, then," I say. "That is his loss, Madame."

"I would agree with you."

Late r that af te rnoon, I am passing by Charles' room when I hear him start from slumber. I am about to open the door when I hear his sister's voice calling out to him.

"Marie," he says. "Is that you?"

"Yes."

"May I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"I don't want to be king."

A long pause before her voice returns.

"I know."

CHAPTE R 4 8.

A Confession Wi th C harles on the mend, I'm free to sleep as late as I like- and still I wake just past dawn every morning, and still Vidocq is at least ten minutes ahead of me. Always seated for breakfast when I descend, with his newspaper half swallowing the table, his bowl of coffee smudged all the way round the rim. He shoves over the coffeepot.

"Sleep well?" he asks, without expecting any answer.

Some mornings, Jeanne-Victoire is there, too, but the ritual remains the same, and in my drowsier moments, I could believe that he and I have been meeting like this for years. All the more surprising, then, when Vidocq breaks the accustomed silence one morning to announce: "We have a guest."

I hear the scraping of boots on the marble steps outside. The rustle of a woman's skirt.

"Who is it?" I ask.

"Old friend."

And then the mighty door opens to reveal the Baronne de Preval.

Dressed very much as she was when I met her in the Rue Ferou. A black damask dress, a well-mended fichu, yellowing doeskin gloves. But with this addition: a gauze of envy. Her eyes take in Vidocq's Aubusson rugs, the Empire console, the marble steps . . . all in the hands of a former convict. Oh, it's enough to draw her face into points.