And-my proudest possession-yellow evening gloves. The one thing I'm missing is a future. But the present, all in all, is

agreeable. For several hours altogether, I wander my rooms, taking in

every feature. Painted woodwork, gilded moldings. A worktable inlaid

with pearl. In the dining room there's an old Persian rug, bought from

Mother Gaucher's in the Rue du Figuier-Saint-Paul. I give up an entire

morning to studying this-every arabesque and palmette-lingering

with special relish on the Tyrian purple of the medallion. At first I think it's the novelty of my belongings that attracts me. Then I realize that their novelty is what troubles me. Couldn't they all

vanish as quickly as they came?

One afternoon early in June, I'm admiring my Japanese-porcelain

dressing table when I receive a surprise visit from Vidocq. He has put

his own reward money to good use: a gray summer suit of lightweight

English cloth; a silver-capped cane. Eau de cologne has kept his natural musk at bay. And there's something else about him: Call it belief.

He carries himself like a man who belongs to these things. With a tiny scowl, he tours my lodgings, poking the merchandise as

heartlessly as a hog butcher.

"Not bad," he allows. "Walls are a bit bare. Never mind, I've got

some art dealers I can fix you up with."

Smiling, I pass him a cordial of brandy.

"Why don't you just sell me the Baroness's portrait?" I ask him. And to my surprise, I'm met not with an answering smile but a grimace.

"Not yet," he mutters. "I may still need it as evidence." "Evidence ? "

Seating himself at my new dining table, he takes a draft of brandy,

holds it for a few seconds in his mouth, then swallows it down in a

single gulp.

"I've been undertaking some inquiries, Hector."

"About the Baroness?"

"No, not exactly. Felicite Neveu."

I look at him. "The washerwoman?"

"With the sickly child, yes. Virgil, wasn't that his name? Well, I

don't mind saying we've had the devil's own time tracking her. When

she left Paris back in '95, she managed to drop off the map. The boy,

too. But we did learn something rather interesting about her prior career. Seems that, before she was a washerwoman, she was employed as

a lady's maid. With a very distinguished family. Care to guess who?

No?" He gives me a quizzical smile. "The Baron and Baronne de

Preval."