His eyes light on a bottle of half-drunk wine on the buffet. Wrenching the cork free, he grabs a glass from the china cabinet, holds it skeptically to the light (eczema spots of dirt appear from nowhere, as though he's called them into being), and then decants the wine with great care into the glass, running his truff le nose round the rim.

"Better," he says, after a couple of sips. "Beaune, is it? That's not half bad."

And me, I'm . . . looking for weapons. Amazing how few come to hand. A couple of butter knives. A candlestick. Maybe Charlotte left the corkscrew in the drawer? How long would it take to find? How long to . . .

But every last calculation ceases the moment he says:

"Please, Dr. Carpentier. Have a seat."

CHAPTE R 2.

Death of a Potato Jus t like that, he's disarmed me. And for one excellent reason: He has called me Doctor.

In these early days of the Restoration, no one thinks me worthy of that title, least of all me. And so, even as I lower myself into one of the dining chairs, I am rising toward that Doctor. Striving, yes, to be worthy.

"Well now," I say. "You know my name, and I have not yet had the honor of-of being introduced."

"No, it's true," he concedes.

He's on the prowl now-sniffing, inspecting-compromising everything he touches. The rectangular fruitwood table with its matted surface. The clouded, chipped carafes. The scorch marks on the ivory lampshade. Everything, under his touch, gives off a puff of meanness.

"Aha! " he cries, running his finger down a stack of blue-bordered plates. "Made in Tournai, weren't they? Don't look so ashamed, Doctor. There's nothing like convict labor to keep the porcelain cheap."

"Monsieur. I believe I have already begged the honor of knowing your name."

His merry eyes rest on me for a second. "You have, indeed, and I do apologize. Perhaps you know of a man called . . ."

And here his fingers form a bud round his mouth, and the name f lowers forth, like a shower of pollen.

"Vidocq."

He waits, with great confidence, for the dawning in my eyes.

"You mean-oh, he's that policeman sort of fellow, isn't he?"

His smile dips down, his eyes shrink. "Policeman sort of fellow. And Napoleon is just a soldier sort of fellow. Voltaire told a good joke. Honestly, Doctor, if you can't get things in their right scale, I despair of you."

"No, I don't-I mean he locks up thieves, doesn't he? He gets written up in the papers."

A grandiloquent shrug. "The papers write what they like. If you want to know about Vidocq, ask the scoundrels who tremble at his name. They'll write you whole tomes, Doctor."

"But what has Vidocq to do with anything?"

"Vidocq is me."

It has the air of afterthought the way he says it. As though, having breathed the name into the air, he need lay only the gentlest claim on it. And this is more declarative than if he'd shouted the news to the chandeliers.

"Well, that's all very well," I say, folding my arms across my chest. "But do you have any papers?"

"Listen to him now! Papers ! Please, Doctor-eating-off-your-convict-made-china, tell me why I need papers."

"Why, you come in here. . . ." I'm amazed to find my anger rising in direct proportion to his. "You barge in here, Monsieur Whoever You Are, with your little tricks and your faux stump, and you say, 'Voila! Vidocq! ' and expect me to believe it. Why should I? How can I be sure you're who you say you are?"

He mulls it over. And then, with some regret, informs me: "You can't."

It is a good lesson to get out of the way. Eugene Francois Vidocq, if so he is, will not be held to the same empirical standards as the rest of the world. Take him at face value or go to hell.

"Very well," I say. "If you're this Vidocq fellow, tell me where Bardou is."

"Having a lovely week, I assure you, with the Bernadine sisters. Tending to their melons. I think you won't find him eager to return to his street corner, Doctor."

"But why would you go to such lengths in the first place? Taking his place on the corner, dressing like him, looking-"

"Well, now." The stranger leans into the table. "If a hunter is tracking prey, Doctor, he must take care not to be seen."

"But who is the prey?"

"Why, you."