to Saint-Denis-always with the smallest possible retinue-to pay respects to her parents.

On this particular day, however, her devotions are interrupted by

the arrival of two men, unknown to her, who are repaid for their presumption by being thrown to the ground.

"Please," I stutter. "Apologies. No harm meant."

But my voice scarcely registers amid the cloud of sound and is

trumped finally by the man who stands directly over me-the man

who has just threatened our lives.

"Who are you?" he demands to know.

No gainsaying the authority in that timbre. The voice of French civi-

lization, I think.

"How do you come here?" he asks.

From out of the darkness comes an answer:

"My name is Charles Rapskeller."

How near he sounds! Squinting, I can just make out his head,

squeezed against the musty stone.

"And this is Hector," he says. "You mustn't be cross with him, he

was only trying to help. I have a way of getting lost sometimes, I can't

seem to help it."

"Getting lost is one thing," says the voice of civilization. "Coming

down a f light of steps in complete darkness smacks of purpose." In the end, we are saved by another voice, calling after us. "There you are! "

A high, brittle sound, suffused with Rhine water. Such a perfect

simulacrum of German banker that it's not until Vidocq is actually

standing over me that I know who it is.

"Ha! I turn my back for a moment, and you run off like a pair of

highwaymen! Just wait till your mama hears about this." "And you are?" inquires the voice of French civilization. "Alois Herrhausen. Of the Schaaffenhausen bank."

"And these are your sons?"

"My God, no! Nephews, Monsieur. My dear sister, upon learning I

had business in Paris, begged me to take them to Saint-Denis, so that

a prayer might be offered for their recovery."

"And what are they recovering from, Monsieur?"

"Oh, it's-it's a bit . . ." A pall of embarrassed silence, punctured

by a stage whisper. "Dropped on their heads, the both of them. By the

same midwife. And with the same result."