Pyrexia – Chapter 29
Montparnasse awoke and he knew almost at once that something was wrong in the city.
When he had first moved in, he had blacked out his window so he could sleep through the day. He had no need of the sun; he could tell the time near enough by the sounds of the street below. Montparnasse always listened hard when he first awoke. If the sounds were those of the evening, then he would go back to sleep for an hour, or lounge in bed and reflect on how sophisticated it made him. If the sounds were night sounds, then he rose and dressed quickly, because he knew that when dealing with the Patron-Minette it was best not to make himself conspicuous by his absence.
Tonight, however, he heard nothing at all.
Montparnasse went to the window. He stood for almost a full minute, staring straight ahead as if he could see through the heavy canvas he had plastered over the panes. He heard not a single voice, not a single footstep.
His stomach wrenched with anxiety. Montparnasse scratched at the edge of the canvas until he managed to slip a fingernail underneath it. The cheap paste he had used to secure it gave easily, and he peeled back a corner. A wedge of yellow light streamed through the gap: tawny dusk light. The dust motes in the air leapt into sharp contrast, and all at once the room seemed shrouded.
Montparnasse blinked. His nocturnal eyes ached, and they were slow to adjust.
The street was empty. Montparnasse watched for what felt like a long time, but no one passed by. He pressed first one cheek against the glass, and then the other, but the rest of the street was as still as the patch outside his window.
His hands shook has he smoothed the canvas back into place. His throat felt like a fist. It was in his nature to be suspicious, but he did not think there was a man in the world who would not be nervous to find an entire neighborhood vanished around him.
Montparnasse dressed quickly. He twisted his hair up with a few practiced strokes, and put on a suit of funeral black. He wanted to look respectable, or, at the very least, anonymous. On impulse, he concealed a little folding knife in his waistcoat. If he went out, he might find some use for it.
The door to the rooming house had been left ajar. A woman stood on the front steps in bare feet. She was wearing a threadbare shift, a dressing gown knotted hastily over it. Montparnasse recognized her as his neighbor, though they did not know each other well. She had several young children, and she mended shirts for a living.
She supplemented her income in the usual way.
Montparnasse watched her back for a moment before going outside. Her hair was down; he supposed she had been ready to receive clients but no one had come. Montparnasse liked whores. He trusted them more than he trusted clean women. Before he stepped outside, he cleared his throat so that she would not be startled.
"What is it?" he said.
She looked at him dispassionately, and then inclined her head in the direction of the river. "Fighting in the streets."
Though the light was almost gone from the sky, Montparnasse could make out two columns of smoke drifting upward into the deepening night. It explained the empty streets: this was not a wealthy neighborhood. The people who lived here preferred to stay out of the way of the police. But as that anxiety eased, a new deeper dread came to replace it.
"Who?" he said. His voice was a rasp.
The woman shrugged as if lifting a burden. "I don't know. Everything is so slow to trickle down here. Maybe they mean well…"
"I know someone who—" Montparnasse snapped his mouth shut so quickly that his teeth clicked together. She watched him for a moment, to see if he would speak again, and then turned away.
"There hasn't been much shooting yet, but I've heard the drums more than once. They're moving troops in. They're not going to tolerate any foolishness. I remember '28, though. You could get in if you wanted to. Right up to the end, if it was important enough."
Montparnasse said nothing.
"It's a bad night for it, though," the woman said. "Things like this always happen when there are bills due."
Montparnasse barely heard. In fact, he was not thinking of the woman at all. All at once, his body jerked as if a current had passed through it. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out the coins he found there. Without looking at them, he pressed them into the woman's hand.
"That's a loan," he said. "Not charity."
He did not think that she thanked him. If she did, he was already too far away to hear. He bounded off the steps, and once he hit the street, he started to run.
Night closed in quickly, and no one came to light the lamps. The windows were all bolted and shuttered.
Montparnasse was glad for the dark. He moved in the shadow of the buildings where he couldn't be seen. Three times, cabriolets passed him in the street, the drivers bent low on the box, whipping the horses to a gallop. If there was anyone else on foot, they were as conscientious about staying hidden as Montparnasse was.
A pair of gendarmes stood sentry at the bridge. Montparnasse crouched low against the inner railing and crept by them. He felt a gamin's thrill as one passed within a meter of him without looking down. Then he was up again, moving so lightly that his steps made no sound. He slipped the patrol on the opposite bank in the same way.
He knew by the tension in the air, by innumerate things that he could not find the words for, that he was close. He thought that if he could only find Enjolras, then his mind would be at ease. They wouldn't even have to speak; in fact, Montparnasse hoped they would not. He wanted nothing more than to see Enjolras once, to know that he was as arrogant and assured and imperial as always, and then he would be at ease.
Montparnasse turned down an alley between two towering tenements and for the next few minutes he moved through utter darkness. Somewhere to the east, a single shot rang out, like the cry of a bird in the night. Never before had he gone willingly into danger. Every robbery was a risk, but a calculated one, and Montparnasse always had something to gain from it. It occurred to him that it must mean something that he was willing to do this for the sake of Enjolras.
It was more than Enjolras' kindness. If Montparnasse had felt nothing but a kind of grudging gratitude, then it would have faded long ago. They hadn't seen each other in months; Montparnasse had not thought of him often, and when he did the memories did not pain him much. There was more to it than that; more than Enjolras' patience or Montparnasse's thankfulness or both of their lusts.
He couldn't understand. It troubled him. And for a moment, he hesitated, and suddenly felt very afraid of the darkness and the uncertainty that lay beyond the end of the alley.
Montparnasse forced himself on. Another three steps and he began to hear men's voices. They were very faint at first, but even when he came nearer Montparnasse couldn't make out individual words. At the mouth of the alley, he pressed his back flat against the masonry and eased himself out onto the street.
He had come out on the Saint-Denis. I t was a main thoroughfare, and a few of the lamps had been lit and across the way four men had clustered in the glow cast by one of them. Three wore the uniforms of guard lieutenants, but the fourth was a civilian. Montparnasse kept back in the shadows and made himself invisible, and presently the three lieutenants moved on.
The fourth man stayed behind, and while Montparnasse looked on, he reached into his coat and drew out a leather pouch. It contained papers and tobacco, and he went quickly through the familiar motions of rolling himself a cigarette. He struck a match and cupped his hands around it. The light fell across his face for no more than a moment, but it was long enough. Montparnasse saw his hawk-like profile, the shock of white hair slicked back from his temples.
There was no mistaking him. It was Razumov.
Montparnasse knew that he had seen something he was not meant to. Razumov had never wanted for connections, but Montparnasse had never suspected that he might have acquaintances amongst the police. Briefly, Montparnasse wondered if he hadn't been the one responsible for the mass arrest at Thenardier's apartment, but he dismissed the idea quickly. Razumov was clearly no common snitch.
Across the way, Razumov raised his head sharply. He stared into the darkness for several seconds before starting forward. Montparnasse realized too late that Razumov was coming towards him, and even then his body was slow to obey his mind's order for it to move. He turned gracelessly, like a man who has been asleep on his feet. Razumov's gloved hand came down on his arm, and, with the strength of a man many years younger, he thrust Montparnasse back against the wall.
"This is no place for a boy like you," Razumov said. When Montparnasse tried to pull away, his grip tightened. The knuckles of his leather gloves creaked, and his fingers cut in hard enough to leave bruises on Montparnasse's arm. "What are you doing here?"
"What's it to you?" In Montparnasse's head, the words had sounded brave. On his lips, they were something much less.
"You came because you thought he wanted your help. You thought he needed you." Razumov released him abruptly. "Go home, Montparnasse. He's beyond your reach now."
Montparnasse shivered. It was bad enough that Razumov knew; he didn't have to sound so conciliatory, so concerned. As if he really understood. "What has happened? I'm not going anywhere until I know."
Razumov looked at him for a while in silence. At least, he took the pouch out of his coat and began to roll himself a fresh cigarette. "We all must make sacrifices, Montparnasse. Fortunately, some are better equipped than others to choose the place and the time and the nature. I ask you this, my boy: what would you do without a fat and stable bourgeois class to prey on? Live by your wits? Get some honest work? No, I doubt it. You would surely starve. Practically no one benefits when the social balance is upset, but that boy whose company you have been keeping would see revolution general all over Europe."
"He never said anything like that to me."
"There was no need. I've seen this play out before. Russia is no stranger to upstarts and opportunists. The Tsar is my employer, and he doesn't want any trouble like that during his time, so he sent me to see that Paris becomes a warning."
Montparnasse shook his head. "I don't understand. M. Razumov, who are you really?"
"That's a curious question. I'm Razumov. I have never been anyone else."
"But how do you know M. Enjolras?"
"How do I know you? How do I know the Patron-Minette? I collect acquaintances, as simple as that. Listen, my boy. There are countless revolutionary sects throughout the city, and I have been, over the course of the past few years, in touch with most of them. M. Enjolras set out today thinking that there was to be a mass mobilization of troops in every neighborhood of the city, but in truth I warned most of the lieutenants not to take to the streets. Don't think I chose at random, though. I know what mercy is. I spared the working men, the union leaders, those who contribute. That left only the professional upstarts and a handful of endlessly matriculating students. Even betrayal will not wound them too deeply. They will go to their deaths as happy as any man could."
Razumov dragged on his cigarette, savoring it.
"And in good time," he went on, slowly. "The papers in London and Warsaw and Munich and Petrograd will print cautionary tales to last another generation. They will know my work here, but never my name. Alas, my boy. It is weary work."
Montparnasse was shivering as if caught in the grips of a bad chill. He had to set his jaw so that his teeth wouldn't chatter.
"He'll die, then," he said. He had heard everything Razumov had said, but it was slow to make sense to him. He had to move through the information piece by piece, setting everything straight.
"Yes," Razumov replied. "I am certain he will."
"Tell me where he is."
Razumov sighed. "My dear boy…"
"Tell me!" he snapped. "I'm going to warn him. You can't stop me."
"I would not dare try. But you must try to understand, warnings will mean nothing to him. He's a mad dog, Montparnasse. He's lost his reason. He loves nothing so much as the thought of his death."
"I'll find him," Montparnasse said. "Whether you tell me or not."
Razumov's lips pressed into a tight line. "At the Corinth wine shop," he said. "Where the Rue de la Chanvrerie terminates in a dead end. I've been to see their fortifications. You'll do best to come around from the back."
Montparnasse nodded, taking it in. As he turned to go, he abruptly recalled the knife tucked into the lining of his waistcoat, and he reached to touch the hilt as if to assure himself that it was there. As always, it acted as a charm to revive his strength.
He had just laid his palm flat against the hilt when he heard a footstep behind him, the scrape of a boot on the stones. Immediately, all thoughts of Enjolras dropped out of his mind and furious animal instinct moved to replace them. Montparnasse drew the knife with a flourish, turning around and dancing back a step in the same movement.
He saw the dagger long before he registered that it was Razumov who held it. He kept the long blade low, near his hip and poised to thrust upward so that it would not catch a stray gleam from the streetlight.
Their eyes met a moment. Montparnasse could see from Razumov's that he was neither surprised nor afraid; he had the calm, expectant look of a man well used to covert assassinations. Montparnasse could not say if his own expression was so composed.
Then Razumov moved, and Montparnasse was moving too, as if borne forth on a tide or before a gust of wind. Razumov came in low, aiming for the knot of muscle below Montparnasse's ribs where he could hit him hard and cut off his wind so he could not scream.
Montparnasse twisted, going up on one foot, precariously off balance. He felt the blade of Razumov's dagger graze his hip, so close that it passed through the tail of his coat. It tangled there, and Razumov had to pull hard to retrieve it. But by then Montparnasse had brought his knife up even with his chest. He cupped his free hand around the butt of the blade, and he leaned. The weight of his body drove the blade home.
It lodged high on Razumov's chest, wedged in snuggly between two ribs. Razumov died without so much as a whisper.
The corpse fell, and Montparnasse stepped back, avoiding the worst of the blood. His knife was in his hand, and without looking at it, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the blade. He didn't look at the soiled handkerchief either, when he let it fall, crumpled, to the pavement beside Razumov. He put the knife away inside his waistcoat, and then he turned and ran. Sprinting in the shadow of the buildings toward the dead end in the Rue de la Chanvrerie.
