"Before we begin, Monsieur," says the Marquis, "I must beg of you a word in private."

"You may speak freely before these gentlemen," Vidocq answers. "They are as concerned in the matter as I am."

No sign he remembers us, either. Or wishes to.

"If this matter had been left in my hands," he intones, "none of you should be standing here today. I have opened my home to you strictly as a personal favor to the minister. I would bid you remember that."

"Duly noted, Monsieur le Marquis. In turn, I would bid you recall that three people have been killed in order to prevent this meeting. Doesn't their sacrifice make it worth a little bit of your time? And the Duchess's?"

As it did in the crypt, the Marquis's right leg advances into the pose of a duellist. His voice, though, retreats by just a fraction.

"Monsieur Vidocq," he says, "you must understand. I have known the Duchess since she was a little girl. She has weathered three lifetimes of suffering. I wish only to spare her more."

"And I hope only to bring her joy, Monsieur."

A little f lash of reckoning in the Marquis's brown eyes.

"Fifteen minutes," he says. "No more. And the Duchess retains the right to terminate the interview at any time. As do I."

"Agreed," says Vidocq.

Such an air of confidence in him. I wish I had a tenth as much, but I can't seem to find a happy ending to any of this. I see the Marquis, tawny and inviolable. I see Charles, passing something between his feet. (A tennis ball! Where did he get it?) And then, a minute later, sweeping in like a winter storm: the Duchesse d'Angouleme.

Niece to the current king, daughter-in-law to the Comte d'Artois. A more complete vision than she was in the crypts of Saint-Denis but smaller, too, and more crabbed. No white cashmere or scarlet velvet for her. It's corsets and black crepe, thank you, and how are you proposing to waste the next chunk of my life?

"Good afternoon, Madame. I am Chief Inspector Vidocq of the Brigade de Surete."

"I have heard report of you," she says, in a voice every bit as chilly as her extended hand.

"You f latter me beyond all reason. May I present to you the gentleman who has so graciously assisted me in these investigations?" A concerted pause, during which my trousers bunch out in ten places. "Dr. Hector Carpentier."

"Carpentier," she murmurs.

Not knowing what else to do, I stagger forward.

"It is a very great honor to address you, Madame. I believe you had occasion to meet my father. In less happy times."

"Yes," she says. Past and present wash over her, blurring her features. "I remember your father, of course, with great fondness. He was most kind to me and to my . . ." One of her gloved fingers tinkers with the gold cross round her neck. "Me and my-"

"Indeed," says Vidocq, cutting in. "You have graciously brought us round, Madame, to the theme of our inquiry. As I have informed the minister, recent events have raised the possibility-and I mean only the possibility-that the young man you see before you might-a word I cannot possibly overemphasize, Madame-might, I say, be someone not unknown to you."

"Is that what he would have you believe?"

"No, Madame. About his childhood he recalls precious little. He has never professed to be anyone but Charles Rapskeller. The claim has only been made in his behalf."

"And who has made it?"

"Unfortunately, the claimants have had the-the singular misfortune of dying, Madame. In rather untimely fashion. One of them was Monsieur Chretien Leblanc, whom you may also remember."

Another name, whirling out of the past. She lowers her head, as if she could actually dodge it.

"As this young man appears to be in some danger himself, Madame, we thought it expedient to bring him before you. For no other reason than his own safety. If you could absolutely and categorically deny that he is Louis-Charles, Duc de Normandie . . . well then, you might do him the not inconsiderable service of saving his life."

Appealing to her well-known vein of charity. A canny move- except there is not a drop of charity in the Duchess's face now.

"It seems pointless, Monsieur, to deny something so self-evident. You may recall that my brother is dead."

"Well, yes," concedes Vidocq. "That is the generally accepted notion. However, in the absence of-of an actual body . . ."

The Marquis rises from his chair, his mouth shaping itself round in admonition. But the Duchess is well ahead of him.

"This insolence," she says in a slowly simmering voice, "is too much to be borne. You tell me my brother lives. I tell you he does not. As it seems impossible to unite on this point, Monsieur, I therefore propose we conclude our interview at once."

And here interposes the one person in the room whom no one has been paying much attention to.