"Whether or not Charles is the king," I say, "someone believes he is. Someone had Leblanc and Tepac killed. And if that's the case, who would lose the most if Louis the Seventeenth came back to life?" "Start with Louis the Eighteenth."

"No." I give my head a robust shake. "The King is old, he's ill, he has no children of his own, he's ready for his reward. It's the Comte d'Artois who has the most at stake here. If another king were to rise up, a king capable of having children of his own, then Artois' line is disinherited in a trice. And if Artois doesn't go quietly, then France will be forced to choose between two monarchs. What's to keep things from escalating into civil war? Which almost certainly would finish what the Revolution started. An end to monarchy, now and forever. I ask you . . ." And here I raise my eyes to his. "Is the Comte d'Artois the sort of man to take kindly to that prospect?"

Vidocq says nothing at first. He only cups his hands round his empty bowl of coffee, twirls it in quarter turns.

"Serious charges, Hector."

"I know."

In the next second, he's pushing away the coffee bowl and slamming his hands down on the desk.

"I like it, Hector! "

"You mean you agree?"

"No, you're brimful of shit, but who cares? You're thinking like a policeman. When I remember what a timid little sod you were just a couple of weeks back, scared of your own voice, and now look at you, with your grand, beautiful theories! I couldn't be prouder if-well, enough praise. Tell me where you left Monsieur Charles."

"In bed."

"Ohh, sleeps well, does he? Well, let him know from me, it's early to rise tomorrow. The first test is at hand."

I'm ca refu l no t to use the word test with Charles. Later, though, I won't remember what I call it. Outing, maybe. Lark . . . adventure . . . Well, at any rate, that's the spirit in which he enters into things. It's no trouble at all to shepherd him into the office of Vidocq's secretary, Coco-Lacour, and to leave him there with nothing more than a deck of cards and a red ball for entertainment. I slip into Vidocq's adjoining office, where the etching of Francois Villon has been removed to reveal a peephole, carved in the shape of an eye.

This particular orifice is scaled to Vidocq's height, which means that the Baroness de Preval requires a footstool to reach the peephole, and even then, to see through it, she must rise an inch or two more on her slippered toes.

"Well, Madame?" says Vidocq, leading her back to earth.

She crosses slowly to the window, stares out at Sainte-Chapelle, ivory with sun. At last:

"What would you have me say, Monsieur?"

"No more than you care to say."

Her shoulders give a delicate shrug. "I am loath to disappoint you," she says, "but you must understand. A quarter of a century has passed since I laid eyes on the dauphin, and he was a mere boy at the time. Surely someone of your indefatigable nature, Monsieur, could find someone more suited to this task than I."

"Ah, Madame, you do yourself a disservice. Were you not a bosom companion to the Princesse de Lamballe?"

She turns on him with a f lash of fan. "I hadn't supposed you to be a student of ancient history."

Grinning, he claps his hands to his breast. "We brutes do require civilizing inf luences, Madame. Toward that end, I've begun acquiring art."

"The police trade is more lucrative than I realized."

"Loyalty has its rewards, yes. As it happens, my most recent acquisition came from the Galerie Barrault. Would you care to see?"

Stooping under his desk, he draws out a canvas, loosely wrapped in burlap, and lays it across his desk.

A trio of young women, captured in the very ripeness of their beauty. Their bodies are sheathed in cotton lawn. Their necks and shoulders burn moth-white. Violets lie strewn about their straw hats with bohemian dishabille.

"You can see the artist's name right there," says Vidocq. "Madame Vigee-Lebrun. Not the original oil, of course-Barrault would have charged a great deal more for that-but not without a certain interest, either. The figure in front, of course, is the Princesse de Lamballe. Lovely, wasn't she? But perhaps, like me, you're most struck by the woman positioned over the Princess's left shoulder. As you can see, the artist has done her the distinct favor of portraying each iris in its true color. One blue, one brown."

The Baroness's hand trembles, yes, but the closer it comes to the canvas, the steadier it grows. Until it comes to rest, finally, not on her own long-ago ref lection but on the seated figure of the Princesse de Lamballe.

"Paintings never did her justice," says the Baroness.

Her hand draws slowly away.

"You are correct, Monsieur. She was my dear friend. She stayed on in Paris when all the rest of us left, for no other reason than that the Queen needed her. You may recall how her loyalty was rewarded."

Vidocq bows his head, mumbles into the carpet. "It was a terrible episode. . . ."

"Yes, the mob was unusually thorough in her case. They ravished her first. Then they set to tearing her apart, piece by piece. Her head- her beautiful head-was cut off and set on a pike. Paraded beneath the Queen's window at the Temple."

"Such a tragedy," says Vidocq, letting a moment of silence unfold before once again picking up the thread. "I believe-am I correct in saying the Princess was superintendent of the royal household?"

"She was."

"In which capacity she would have seen much of the royal children."