"Oh, that's the hell of it, Doctor. He has."

And then, from the folds of his peacoat, Herbaux withdraws a pistol.

"Is this part of the game, too?" asks Charles as I shove him behind me.

"Doesn't matter to me which of you goes first," calls Herbaux. "All cats are gray at night."

Very slowly, very carefully, he points the muzzle straight at my heart. He cocks the pistol. He squeezes one eye shut. . . .

And then, confoundingly, one of his knees buckles.

And the other.

With a great roar, he topples to his side.

Something stirs now in the shadows behind him. A crouched figure: shapeless, except for a luminous length of razor. This figure rises now, swallowing the space so lately vacated by Herbaux.

"Who are you?" I call out.

Calmly, the figure sheathes the blade and steps round the fallen man's writhing body.

"I demand to know who you are! "

"What?" comes the dry reply. "No thank-you ?"

A woman's voice. That's enough in itself to stun me into silence. Charles, though, finds only encouragement. He peers down at Herbaux's crumpled form and inquires:

"What did you do to him?"

"The hamstring," she answers, shrugging. "Saw it done to a racehorse once."

"Bitch," hisses Herbaux, attempting to rise.

She kicks him back down. "Quiet! Or I'll tell your friends you got brought down by a girl."

"He's only mad because he lost," Charles explains. "He has to make us breakfast now."

Half laughing, the woman whips off her cloak and, in a startling gesture, offers it to me. For the first time, I'm conscious of my naked torso, speckled with cuts and bruises and bites. I'm conscious of something else, too: the lining of her cloak. A bright scarlet. The color of a cock's comb.

"You," I say, dully. "You've been following us round town. Following us for days."

"What if I have? You didn't really think he'd let you go running across Paris all by yourselves?"

No need to ask who he is. Vidocq, like God, requires no antecedent.

"He's no fool, after all," says the woman. "Whatever else he is. But I don't believe you recognize me, Doctor."

Numbly, I shake my head.

"I'm Jeanne-Victoire. Arnaud Poulain's girl."

Quickly, the coordinates reassemble themselves. The thief who robbed Leblanc. That terrible apartment in the Marais. Rags everywhere and stolen shoes and broken boards . . . and there, resting on a chafing dish. . . .

"A baby," I blurt.

It's too dark to see her eyes, but the slight recoil of her head . . . that much I see.

"She's with my brother now. In Issy. She likes it there."

From under her scarlet cloak, she draws a silver whistle and puts it to her lips. Straightaway, we hear the rumble of answering boots.

"The gendarmes'll be here in a minute," she says. "Go with them to the guardhouse, Doctor, and maybe they'll fetch you some new clothes, eh? As for me, I'm going to catch some winks. You boys are enough exercise for one day."

She's halfway down the alley before I think to call after her.