IV
Kate had not been joking. She needed a gun.
Yuki could walk into a lion's den – taking those tiny steps because she was hobbled by her traditional dress – with nothing but her parasol and come out with a large rug. Clara's stylishly tailored topcoat had neat pockets in the lining, filled with a range of cutting, slicing, throwing, sawing and gouging implements. Kate was the least dangerous of the Agency's current roster. The little apple-peeling knife she'd been keeping up her sleeve would be little use against Guignol and the whole Légion d'Horreur.
The Persian gave her a chit to present to Monsieur Quelou, Chief Armourer of the Paris Opéra. He had his own subterranean domain, with sandbags against the walls and the smell of gunpowder in the air. Besides the swords, spears and axes required by Wagner's warriors and Valkyries, the House maintained enough functional rifles, pistols and small cannon to defend the building against the Mob… which Kate suspected was most likely the plan. It didn't take a Gatling gun to execute Tosca's boyfriend and few productions in the classic repertoire required field artillery, but Quelou kept those too. Erik had lived through the Siege and the Commune. He also had cause to be wary of angry, torch-bearing crowds. There was little about the building and its protocols he hadn't had a skeletal hand in designing.
Quelou first offered her a pair of pearl-handled custom pistols, suitable for Annie Oakley – scarcely a subject for musical drama, Kate thought. The guns felt light to her, more for show than showdown. After consideration, she settled for a plain, battered 'British Bull Dog' Webley. She knew the model – issued first to the Royal Irish Constabulary – and it fit nicely into her reticule. The gun gave her bag enough weight to use as a club if she wasn't in a position to haul out the iron and fire it.
The armourer gave her a lecture on the gun's use. She put on ear-baffles and fired at a straw target with a photograph pinned to it. It was an autographed picture of Emma Calvé, reigning diva of the Opéra Comique – the Paris Opéra's great rival. Kate put a bullet in La Calvé's throat. Her eye was good and the gun was sighted properly.
Before she left, Quelou cautioned her, 'Mademoiselle, take care… don't feel invincible.'
She thought she took that on board. Within a quarter of an hour, his words haunted her.
Outside, in the Place de Opéra, she relaxed slightly. After so much time spent in Montmartre, it was a relief to be in a more civilised district, without apaches in every alley. Looking up at the imposing façade of the Palais Garnier, she even had a comforting sense that Erik was nearby, watching over his Angels. Strange that such a creature should be her patron, but she was used to strangeness.
She sat at a pavement café table and drank bitter coffee while nibbling a crescent-shaped pastry. Pretty girls – from the company's chorus and corps de ballet – chirruped and chattered all around. Likely fellows tried to talk with them, getting mostly short shrift.
She opened a copy of L'Intransigeant, a virulently anti-Dreyfusard paper left at her table. She scanned for items of interest, catching on paragraphs and translating them in her head – she was a long way from fluency, but could now read complicated passages with something like ease. She found a piece by Henri Rochefort, a supporter of Du Roy, about the civilian judges who ruled that Dreyfus was allowed to appeal against his military conviction. 'They should have their eyelids cut off by a duly trained torturer,' wrote Rochefort, 'and large spiders of the most poisonous variety placed on their eyes to gnaw away at the pupils and crystalline lenses until there is nothing left in the cavities now devoid of sight. Then, all the hideous blind men would be brought to a pillory erected before the Palais de Justice in which the crime was committed and a sign would be placed on their chests: "This is how France punishes traitors who try to sell her to the enemy!"' With public discourse on this level, the stage blood and trilling screams of the Théâtre des Horreurs were almost quaint.
The girls at the next table laughed at something.
Kate folded L'Intransigeant, resolved to put it in a public waste-paper bin and spare other idlers its venom.
What was all the amusement about?
A familiar barrel-organ ground.
It was the ape-suited street performer of Rue Saint-Vincent, l'homme-affiche of the Théâtre des Horreurs. He had recaptured his abused partner or procured a replacement. Did the animals come from the same disgusting business which supplied Maximilian the Great with canaries?
The monkey's get-up had changed. Now, it wore a miniature Guignol mask and costume.
'Dance, Sultan, dance,' said Petit Guignol. The shaggy gorilla shook his legs.
The mountebank must be a ventriloquist too, and particularly skilled. The shrill little voice, so like Guignol's swazzle, not only seemed to issue from the mask, but wasn't muffled by the stiff, snarling false face of the gorilla.
She couldn't bring herself to shout bravo, though. She remembered the sewn-together arms.
'Eh, Sultan, what have we here… the pretty ladies of the Opéra…'
Mass giggling.
'And a… well, a not-so-pretty lady, associated with the Opéra.'
The monkey jumped up on her table and snatched the last of her croissant, shredding it with little fingers. It couldn't eat through the mask.
Furious, pained eyes stared out from Guignol's face. She recalled the real Guignol's wild gaze.
The gorilla shambled closer to her table.
Her hand went to her reticule. No… this was someone she'd done mischief to getting their own back. That didn't mean she could shoot him. Quelou would warn her to save her shots for when they counted.
She tried to smile at the beast, who was disinclined to show gratitude to his former liberator. She imagined Sultan had punished him for his bolt for freedom.
Her face burned. She was blushing again.
The chorus girls laughed with good humour. Malign chuckles came out of the puppet-faced monkey. That must be Sultan throwing his voice.
Suddenly, Petit Guignol tugged at her hair and pulled her out of her seat.
'Dance with me, Brick-top, dance,' shrilled the voice.
Applause. She nearly stumbled, but stayed upright, whirled round and round by the trained beast.
The music stopped, but the dance went on. Petit Guignol passed her to Sultan, who gripped her with powerful, hairy-gloved hands. She was face to mask with the mock gorilla. Another set of eyes glared at her, burnt-cork make-up on the lids to blend with the black mask – mirthless, purposeful.
Sultan waltzed with her, further away from her table.
She saw a waiter holding up her surprisingly heavy reticule, miming 'Eh, mademoiselle, you have left your bag…'
So much for being armed.
She struggled now, but the capering thug in the stiff-furred, reeking gorilla suit had a firm grip and deft feet. She was borne away, across the Place de l'Opéra. Petit Guignol dropped to all fours, assuming the role of a monkey rather than a little man, and scampered after them.
'Au secours, au secours!' shrilled a voice –an imitation of hers!
– that earned more laughter. 'I am borne away by this base creature! Who will come to the aid of a poor, defenceless woman stolen by a dreadful beast of the jungles?'
The café patrons clapped, assuming this the finish of an act. Some threw coins, which were collected by a rough who also picked up the abandoned organ. Sultan had not come for her alone. But he had come for her.
This was – she realised – an abduction.
She was turned round and around. She was being waltzed towards a black carriage, its door open. Where a family crest or an official seal might be displayed was a simple red circle.
'What hideous lusts will this naughty creature slake upon my helpless form! What depraved desires does he ache to fulfil!'
She tried to compete with the fake cries of distress but couldn't get breath to shout.
'I must admit, though, that it is quite exciting!' continued the high-pitched voice. 'One comes to Paris for experiences…and this promises to be a very great…experience. Oh, if he wasn't so handsome… if I weren't so homely! I shall elope with Monsieur Sultan! We shall pledge our primitive troth and experience natural love in the trees!'
The knife edged out of her sleeve, but Sultan knew all about that. He squeezed her wrist painfully. The implement fell to the ground and was kicked away.
Finally, close to the carriage, the ape let go of one of her hands.
She tensed, prepared to administer a kick to the groin.
The huge, rubber-palmed hand pressed something sweet-smelling over her face… and she went into the darkness of a swoon.