Dust, dirt, excrement everywhere. Mattresses damp all the way thru; atmosphere fetid-poisonous. Work lasted 1 full day-extremely arduous-required freq rest intervals, occasional vomiting. Both men at var times bitten by rats, f leas, spiders. Everything is alive in this room, said one. Companion was heard to say he'd seen cleaner sewers.

23 Thermidor Commissaries have at last agreed to bath for Prisoner. I sent cook's assistant, young Caron, for tepid water, bathed him myself. Sent for Mother Mathieu (mngr of Pere Lefevre's tavern) to cut & comb hair. Hair full of scurf, reached to shoulders, had not been washed in many mos. Exceptionally tender-combing v. painful for him. Mother Mathieu able to clip Prisoner's toenails & fingernails, which were length of claws, consistency of horn.

Garments (entirely infested) removed & burned, replaced w. entirely new linen suit, including pantaloons, waistcoat, jacket.

At end of day, undertook 1st complete examination of Prisoner. Genrl condition v. shocking. Head droops. Lips discolored, cheeks hollow, v. pale w. greenish tinge. Limbs extremely wasted, disproportionately long in comparison to torso. Stomach enlarged. Suffers fm acute diarrhea. Extremely sensitive to noise. Averse to speaking.

Body rife w. ulcers, yellow & blue, most pronounced on neck, wrists, knees. Have attempted to lance & dress but this occasioned grt pain in him. Will endeavor to do more in days to follow.

Prognosis: v. poor. Am preparing full medical report for Barras. Hopeful that, w. aggressive course of intervention, Prisoner's condition can be arrested. New environment wd be v. helpful. Have taken liberty of removing surplus bed fm room of Prisoner's sister so he may sleep in greater comfort.

Most pressing concern: knee. Swollen to twice normal size. Color unhealthy. Prisoner unable to walk w/o extreme pain.

Was forced to reprimand 1 of Temple guards, who, upon entering Prisoner's room, shouted, Back in your corner, Capet. Explained that, from now on, Prisoner was to be called Monsieur. Guard remonstrated, said there are no more "monsieurs," we are all "citizens" now, etc. I was insistent on point, citing authority invested in me by Barras.

Upon hearing my request, Prisoner observed that "Monsieur" was too distressing to him, begged not to be called by that title. When asked which he wd prefer, Prisoner said he wd answer only to "Wolf Cub." When it was pointed out that Prisoner was not animal but boy, Prisoner was seen to smile, for f irst time. Appeared to pity me greatly.

He asked then how old he was? Nine, I said. Yes, that's right, he said.

Will make it a point, in future entries, to refer to Prisoner as Charles.

CHAPTE R 9.

A Journey to Luxembourg F ou r days have passed since last I saw Vidocq, but still I feel him. Every time I take my walk around the block or stroll over to the Rue d'ecole de Medecine or sneak a newspaper out of Le Pere Bonvin, it's his voice, insinuating in my ear. . . .

I could set my watch by you .

And then on Friday morning, something knocks me out of my accustomed orbit. A letter. On lilac stationery with f laking gilt edges and a coat of arms indifferently embossed at the top-paper so brittle I don't trust myself to hold it.

Dr. Carpentier- Recent events surrounding the late M. Leblanc compel me to write. I wonder if I might entreat you to call upon me tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. You may find me in my apartment at No. 17, Rue Ferou.

Failing any further communication from you, I shall await the pleasure of your company. Your discretion is earnestly requested.

Baronne de Preval

The name seems as brittle as the paper. A baroness !

My first thought is that Nankeen and the other boarders are having me on. My second thought-and it's the thought I've been having from the moment Vidocq came into my life-You've got the wrong man.

More than that, the wrong class. The closest I've ever come to aristocrats is Sunday afternoons on the Champs-elysees. Now that the Bourbons are back, it's the best kind of sport, sauntering through the elms while the coupes sweep past. Horses with rosettes in their ears, drivers in wigs and cravats, and through the windows, snatches of powdered skin, a Chinese ivory handle, an uncinching mouth-bud. The notion that one of these women might stop the carriage and usher me in with her superbly enervated arm seems as likely as the King asking me to cure his gout.

In short, there are reasons to doubt this promotion. Look first at the man who brought me the message. Not the usual liveried footman but a common porter, older than Mont Blanc, snarling at the few sous of gratuity I drop in his palm.

Next, look at the address. The Rue Ferou, a quiet little spoke off the wheel of the Luxembourg Gardens, far removed from the thrum of court life. What business does a baroness have living there?

All afternoon, all evening, I limn the many reasons for declining the invitation. By the next morning, I've accepted. I even know why. It's the last thing Vidocq would expect of me.

Pa ris is fogbound this morning. The smokes of last night's fires, woven with sewer fumes and the evaporations of three weeks' rain, lie in sepia drifts on the mansards, in the gutters, along the trees and wagons and vendor booths. Thickly scalloped and all the same moving-renewing-as if the city itself had been caught in the very act of breathing.

The only discernible parts of no. 17, Rue Ferou, are a facade of rough yellow-daubed stone . . . three small windows with blinds drowsily lowered . . . and a wrought-iron knocker carved in the shape of a winking satyr. The knocker won't move, so I have to pound on the door, which is answered by an old concierge, dressed in black merino and grinning like a procuress.

"Dr. Carpentier, yes! She's expecting you."

Taking a candle, she leads me up two f lights of stairs-an act for which her body is deeply unqualified. She has to haul it forward, dragging each leg like a valise.

"You were able to find the way? Oof. Mornings like these, I can barely see my own nose. Grrm. The Baroness will be so glad to see you. I'm always telling her, you know, invite some young people for a change. Fwoof. Much better than those old goats in their-kroomp- blue stockings and their dirty vests. Always mooning, aren't they? The old days. Pwiff. I say what's done is done, bring on the next. I've always been that way. Ploonf."

She stops at last before a door of besmirched oak. A knock and then a bearlike roar.

"Madame la Baronne! Your visitor is here! "

Then, by some prearranged ritual, she turns the handle, opens the door three hairs wide, and backs slowly away, her gasping chest bent parallel to the f loor.

I see worn red tiles under a threadbare carpet. An old round table, a low sideboard topped by a hanging mirror. A bench, unanchored. And a short-backed armchair, the type of grim, cured artifact that might have been lifted from a Breton widow's cottage.

A magnificent woman is sitting there.

No, let me be clearer. A magnificent woman was sitting there. She was wearing peach blossoms in her hair and a gown of loose lawn to accentuate her glorious bosom, and she had doeskin gloves of a paradisiacal whiteness.

But that was thirty years ago. Today, the white has sickened into yellow; the lawn has given way to a black damask dress, no longer fashionable; the fichu has been mended so many times there is almost nothing left to mend.

And that once-handsome, that still-handsome face has hardened into something unyielding and curatorial, like the tablet of a lost civilization.

"Dr. Carpentier." A lightly tickled contralto. "How good of you to come."

She rises from her peasant's chair and offers me her gloved hand. Not knowing what to do, I close it round. With a hint of charity, she draws herself free.

"You must excuse me," she says. "You are not quite the man I was expecting."

I am going to ask what she was expecting, but I'm stopped by the thing I missed on my first canvassing: the spectacle of her eyes. One brown, one blue-borrowed, I would almost conceive, from two different women.

"Would you care for some tea, Doctor?"