"As I recall, he showed scarcely any interest, even when I showed him the teething ring. But he did-yes, in subsequent conversations, he always contrived to return to the subject. Truthfully, he never appeared more than mildly curious. I had no reason to suspect him of anything."

And now, at last, the implications of her acts find their way home. In a tone of naked awe, she murmurs:

"I told him-"

"Everything," interjects Vidocq. "You told him of me. Of Dr. Carpentier here. You told him that Monsieur Charles was, contrary to his assumptions, alive and well in Paris. Yes, Madame, thanks to the information you supplied, we may now add the destruction of Dr. Carpentier's home to the Marquis's crimes."

Her head drops beneath the weight of each charge-until at last she is staring straight at the f loor.

"I was only making conversation," she whispers.

"As Parisians do," says Vidocq.

Breathing heavily, she begins to knead her temples. For a second, I fully expect her to faint again.

"Oh, God," she whispers. "I sent Leblanc to his death."

"Not to mention Monsieur Tepac of Saint-Cloud," says Vidocq. "Not to mention Dr. Carpentier's mother."

There is something in his manner that forestalls any idea of clemency. Quite sensibly, then, she takes her petition to me.

"Doctor," she says. "Please believe me. I had no idea the Marquis would-he was the Duchess's dearest friend, how could I imagine he would-harm anyone who might be her brother. If I'd known, Monsieur, I should sooner have cut out my own tongue. . . ."

Well, I'm not ashamed to admit it. When a highborn woman lowers herself to pleading, it does tear a bit at your heart, no matter how democratic you think yourself. And all the same, I don't know what I'm going to say until I hear myself say it.

"I do believe you, Madame."

Whatever consolation that gives her, though, is dispelled by the sinister lightness of Vidocq's voice.

"Whether the Duchess will feel the same way," he says, "well, that's another matter. I can run and ask her, though, if you'd like."

The Baroness gazes at him wildly.

"The Duchess is here?" she asks.

"She has stayed the night at this very house. Tending to her brother."

The last bloom of understanding rises up in the Baroness's eyes.

"Brother," she echoes.

And here all attempts at self-control end. Her head falls into her hands, and the tears come in throngs.

"Oh, I am done for," she moans into her thrice-mended handkerchief. "I am done for."

Given her state of mind, the Baroness might easily assume that the figure now descending the steps has dropped straight from heaven, arrayed in judgment. And it's true the Duchess is strangely radiant for so early an hour. Of all of us, she's gotten the least sleep, and yet there is an effulgence to her that I'd wager her own husband has never seen.

With a compressed grace, she travels the remainder of those stairs, and in a quiet voice, she says:

"The Baronne de Preval, I believe?"

The disarray of the older woman's emotions, the condition of her clothes leave her almost incapable of speech. At last, bursting the bounds of propriety, she leaps to her feet and blurts:

"I knew you, Madame. When you were a child. I was dear friends with-"

"The Princesse de Lamballe, yes. I remember you very well. And with pleasure."

The spark of reassurance in the older woman's eyes fades as quickly as it rises.

"I fear that can no longer be the case," she says.

Very steadily the Duchess looks at her. Then, pressing the older woman's hands together, she draws her over to the settee.

"You must not be too hard on yourself," she says. "A great many of us were duped by the Marquis de Monfort. I am part of that sad sorority myself, and so it appears I require every bit as much forgiveness as you, if not more so." Leaning closer, she adds, in a low and clear voice: "You need fear no prosecution from me. Or from France."