CHAPTE R 1 0.

The Double Eagle S tart led, the o ld soldier glares out at us from the caves of his eye sockets. In the next moment, his papyrus skin is rent by a grin, familiar in all its essentials, and I know the Baroness has struck true.

The surprise is that Vidocq himself doesn't seem to care. Springing up on a young man's feet, he bows low and, in a voice of pickled suavity, says, "My apologies, Madame. I was reluctant to force myself on you."

"Ah, but I have read a great deal of you in the local press, and I have never been given to understand that shyness is one of your faults, Monsieur."

"Perhaps not," he says, bowing still lower. "But in the face of such extraordinary powers of discernment, I do find myself at a loss for words."

"Madame," I interject. "Would you excuse us?"

I draw Vidocq aside; I lean into his ear. Rage is rising up inside me, but all that comes out is a muff led splutter.

"How-how did- ? "

"How did I know you were making private inquiries?" he growls.

"About police business? If you must know, it cost me twenty seconds and ten sous. Madame la Baronne will either have to hire more discreet porters, or you will have to become a better tipper."

It's one of his gifts, I suppose. In the act of being caught, he manages to catch you.

"So you're telling me I may not even venture out of doors without consulting you."

"Of course you may," he hisses back. "If you'd like to meet the same fate as Leblanc."

"Messieurs," interjects the Baroness. "If you insist on communicating sotto voce, we might as well adjourn to my lodgings." A light pinking in her cheek as she ponders the implications. "In my younger days, I should have balked at bringing two gentlemen home. I'm now at the age when it might actually enhance my reputation."

We ' re wi ping the fog's remnants from our skin-it feels like the oil from a drake's feathers-and Vidocq has gently kicked the Baroness's cat out of his way, and the Baroness is humming something as she sets down her faded silk parasol, and I'm met once again by the feeling that I've been meeting her in this way for many years, gathering in the same room with the old round table and the Breton peasant's chair. The way the Baroness slips into her bedroom, for instance . . . isn't that the kind of casual disappearance one can effect only with longtime friends? And please note her uncluttered gait as she sweeps back into the room, as though she were setting up a game of whist.

Except that she's carrying not a card table but a cross-legged stool in blue satin. And the illusion of domesticity ends in that moment, for this article, so elegant and uncompromising, no longer fits with our surroundings.

Even the Baroness doesn't know quite what to do with it. She makes as if to set it on the ground, then reconsiders and gathers it in her lap, hugging it toward her like a spaniel.

"Monsieur Vidocq," she says, "it has taken me at least an hour to trust Dr. Carpentier. Is there anything you can tell me that would, in your case, accelerate the process?"

Vidocq-from pride, maybe-has kept his makeup on all this time, and some of those assumed years cling to him even now as he strolls toward the Baroness's sideboard.

"Madame, I could say I'm honest as linen, and how should I expect you to believe it? I will say only this. I consider every crime in Paris to be a crime against me. A personal affront, yes ! And it is only when that crime is avenged that I consider my own honor to be restored."

He stands there, studying the image of his altered face in the looking glass.

"As a young man," he continues, "I spent more than my share of time in prisons. The very worst, Madame, I can assure you. I was punished a thousand times over for a single passing indiscretion. The only thing that kept me from surrendering to despair, finally, was the belief-no, the certitude-that I was not like the wretches around me. As much as I deserved to be free, I knew there were men who deserved to be where I was. I had tasted their character. I knew that society could survive only so long as they remained apart from it. That belief has been my salvation-then and now."

An actor at the Odeon might have fitted out such a speech with all manner of curlicues and italics, hurled it straight to "the gods," but Vidocq utters it in a single pacific register and then locks his gaze onto the Baroness's as if she were the only audience he ever coveted.

"Madame," he says. "You are wise to husband your trust. With me, you may invest it freely. And before this day is out, you will have your return."

And still she hesitates. Though the mask of her face does begin to slacken.

"I believe you mentioned an object," he murmurs.

Getting no response, his voice grows even softer.

"An object that Monsieur Leblanc asked you to identify." She nods, brief ly.

"Would you happen to know where he found it, Madame?" She draws a long breath, which she releases in staccato segments.

"He never told me," she says at last. "His correspondent preferred to remain anonymous."

"So he had no idea who this correspondent was."

"Apparently not."

"And did Leblanc take this object with him?"

"No."

It's amazing to watch him now, those big feet treading as lightly as a cuckolder's.

"What did he do with it, then?"

"He asked me to hold it in safekeeping. Until such time as he could retrieve it himself." She makes a grave study of her cuticles. "Leblanc was ever an optimist."

"You have the object, then?" asks Vidocq.

"Yes."

Restraining himself is almost too much labor now. It cinches his lips, tortures his syntax.

"Might we prevail upon your goodness to favor ourselves with it?"