bones never creak, and just for tonight, I think, that's where I belong.

And then tomorrow . . . I'll belong to you."

"We've so much to talk about," she protests. "Years and years . . ." "And many more years in which to do it," says the Marquis, advancing. "But, my dear, before we start assigning this young man a

bed at the palace, we must first be sure of his welcome."

"His welcome? How could the rightful King of France not be welcome?"

"I fear not everyone will see it as you do, my child. No, indeed," he

adds, with a meaningful look at us, "not everyone. For the time being,

we must proceed with great caution. Now Monsieur Vidocq here and

the good doctor have watched over Charles all these weeks. I think we

may trust them to shelter him an additional night."

Vidocq quickly seconds the point, and to both their arguments, she has only her own will to oppose. Which proves not quite so formidable as her habit of obedience, even to social inferiors. (The Temple schooled her well.) It's almost breathtaking, the humility with which

she finally addresses me.

"Do you think I might come to call tomorrow morning?" "But, of course, Madame! " interjects Vidocq. "You may consider

my home your personal pied-a-terre."

One condition she extracts before leaving: She must touch her

brother one last time.

Her hands rove round his face, rehearsing the old features. To

which Charles submits gladly.

"We have God to thank for this," she whispers. "There is nothing He cannot do. Till tomorrow," she says, releasing him under slow

duress.

"Tomorrow," he answers.

And so the Duchesse d'Angouleme leaves the room a far different

woman than when she entered. The Marquis escorts her to the carriage, and as the door closes after him, Vidocq f lings his hat straight to

the ceiling. It never comes back. We look up to find it wrapped round

the teardrop crystals of the Marquis's chandelier.

"We did it," he says.

A nice pronoun, that we. Except that for the next several minutes,

he talks only of himself. The grand future that awaits him. Bounties

and rewards, receptions at the Tuileries, invitations to Baron Pozzo's

salon. Before long his own division. (Watch out, Inspector Yvrier!)

And if he gets the title he fully expects, what's to stop him from laying

claim to the Prefecture itself?

This destiny f loats before him a few seconds longer. Then he makes

for the door.