"Funny thing," says Vidocq, tracing the letters' outlines. "The stationer is Bromet's. I'm sure you know the shop, Hector. Venerable firm, very close to the medical school. But you see, when I showed Monsieur Bromet this particular example of his handiwork, he couldn't make heads or tails of it."

"Why not?"

"Oh, dear me, he said. Such an old piece of paper, but that particular watermark-why, we've been making that one less than a year. Oh yes, he was quite sure of it. He registered the watermark himself last September."

Vidocq rests his finger on the edge of the paper, gently pushes it away.

"Well, you could've blown me out to sea, Hector. Your father died-more than a year and a half ago, wasn't it? Now I may be missing something, but I believe that makes this document of ours-well, I hate to be crude, but most people would call it a forgery." He nods, very slowly. "Yes, indeed, someone has played us a pretty little trick, it seems. And, of course, being the sort of fellow I am, I had to ask: Who? "

He taps his pine stem against his nose. Once, twice.

"Well, last night," he says, "I couldn't sleep, no surprise. So, to pass the time, I started to sketch out a little profile in my head. I figured whoever our forger was, he had to be someone with-let's say, lots of practice writing like your father. Years, even. Someone who could do it in his sleep, practically. And whoever it was-I'm guessing he truly believed Charles was the lost dauphin and knew we needed just one more piece of evidence to nail the case shut.

"So this fellow, I imagine he sat down and asked himself: What's the one identifying mark on Charles Rapskeller? The birthmark between the toes, yes? I'm guessing he noticed it when he was"-a soft clearing of throat-"when he was helping Charles with his boots. So now he just had to plug that little detail into a fake document. Then sit back and let it do its work.

"And through it all-I'm convinced of this, Hector-the fellow was acting in perfect faith. With the very best of intentions, yes. He just wanted to see justice done."

I touch the small crust of sediment that's settled across the bottom of my glass. I put it to my mouth, and I feel my lips shrinking back.

"It's an interesting theory," I say.

"Yes, I'm chockfull of theories today. And none of them proven, more's the pity. Oh, Christ! I went and forgot why I came here in the first place."

Reaching once more into his satchel, he pulls out another document. Sets it on the table in front of me.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Just my little account of the whole affair. Everything that happened from-mm-Leblanc's death onward. Not for public consumption, you understand, strictly for my files. I figured since you were so much a part of everything, Hector, you could look it over for me, and if everything checks out, then just"-his gloved hand grazes along the bottom of the last page-"just sign your name there, would you ? "

I pick up the first page and turn it over, but the words break down the moment I try to read them.

"This all looks much as I remember it," I say.

"Are you sure? I'd hate for you to sign your name to something that didn't happen."

You could put a hundred listeners in the room-no one would hear any other meaning in those words. No one but me.

"I'm certain," I tell him.

"Well, then, thanks very much. You don't have a quill about, do you ? "

"On the desk."

"Ah! Here we are. Fresh inkwell, too! Everything's so new here."

He sets the implements in front of me and then-who knows why?-turns away. It could be he's feeling merciful, and yet his back is somehow a worse sight than his face. And as I move my hand across the paper, I still feel him-oh, yes-in every loop and slash.

"All done?" he sings out.

He stares at the signature with an unchanging expression. Then he sets Father's note alongside it. Studies both documents for a few moments longer. Then, nodding, he returns them to his satchel.

"That about does it," he says, quietly.

He's nearly to the door before I have the capacity to call after him.

"Chief ! "

And that single word creates a kind of envelope around us. For it is the first time I've ever addressed him by that title.

"Why did you take me along?" I ask.

"Take you where?"

"To Saint-Cloud. You didn't need me there. I was only going to get in the way. Why did you bother bringing me in the first place?"

No way to parse the expression in his eyes now. If pressed, I might identify notes of regret, amusement, nostalgia. The barest hint of ire. "Well, it's like any journey, Hector. It goes faster with a bit of company." He tips his hat forward. "I think the journey's over now, don't you ? "