Spectacle(35)

“Why?”

He looked at Nathalie, away, and back at her again. He took a long drag from the cigarette and let it out in an O. “Because I said not to.” His words marched out like patient, dutiful soldiers.

Nathalie’s tongue tripped onto the start of a protest. Not that she knew what she was disputing other than the restriction itself. And his manner of delivering it.

“It’s too risky,” he added in haste, as if afraid he’d forget to say it. He cracked a smile that never reached his eyes. “You need to be safe. Do I have your word?”

“I promise to keep it to myself.”

“Good.” M. Patenaude tapped some ash into an ashtray. “I also think it … might be good if you took the rest of the week off. With pay. I’ll get Kirouac to cover for you through Sunday.”

“Why?” Her voice showed more distress than intended. She’d considered telling him about M. Gloves but was glad she didn’t; if he knew she’d boarded a tram to follow a potential suspect, he might reassign her altogether. “I don’t want to lose this position, Monsieur Patenaude. I am committed to writing this column and writing it well.”

“You won’t,” he said, holding up his hand. He puffed the cigarette and placed it on the edge of the ashtray. “You’re a model journalist-in-training, I assure you. This is only temporary.”

Nathalie didn’t want time off, but she nodded anyway. M. Patenaude was Papa’s friend and was trying to protect her; he knew more than she did about these things.

“If another one of these comes in,” M. Patenaude continued, picking up his glasses, “give it to me. I’ll turn this one over to the police. I’d prefer that you stay anonymous.”

Again he had a point.

“When I’m back on Monday, should I be more descriptive, like he said? It’s rather off-putting…”

M. Patenaude dangled his glasses by the nosepiece. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I think readers will devour it.”

She leaned back. That wasn’t what she expected him to say. Or how she expected him to say it. She’d contemplated telling him about M. Gloves, to ask him his journalist-honed opinion. Now she decided against it.

“Merci,” Nathalie said, looking down at her bag to tie it up. When she picked up her head, she caught M. Patenaude watching her in a way that was—well, she didn’t know what to make of it. Odd, but he was an odd man. Penetrating, but he was evidently prone to such gazes. Curious, but he was a journalist, and journalists were inquisitive.

Even so.

It was only a flicker, but something about his expression told her he knew much more than he was saying.



* * *



The next morning Nathalie went to the morgue, just to see for her own self, and passed the time normally spent writing at the Louvre instead. For the next few days, she’d pretend nothing had changed.

M. Patenaude’s instructions meant she’d have to do exactly that. True, she didn’t want to worry Maman anyway, yet the directive made her uneasy. More deception.

She was getting tired of it all. The visions, the strain she felt afterward, having to hide her power, and now this threat from the Dark Artist. For what? She should be gazing at the ocean that separated France and England, not gazing through the glass that separated the living and the dead.

Fortunately Maman was out with a seamstress friend when Nathalie returned for lunch. For today at least, she could avoid the discomfort of acting like she’d just returned from the newspaper. It was bad enough she’d left the house this morning in trousers to keep up appearances. The less she had to keep up the ruse, the better.

Nathalie changed into her normal clothes and took lunch, a cold tomato soup with chèvre, downstairs to share with Simone and Céleste, as promised.

“She’s asleep,” Simone whispered as she opened the door. Céleste was on the sofa, a miniature version of Simone but with dark brown eyes under those delicate eyelids. A wet washcloth was folded neatly across her forehead, and her face was flushed. “It’s worse this time. Every time she gets a fever, it takes longer to break. She’s had this one for three days. She’s complaining of stomach pains now, too.”

Simone kissed Céleste on the head as they walked past. The little girl stirred, a look of pain flashing across her face. She opened her eyes long enough to say a sleepy hello to Nathalie before rolling to the side to rest again.

“I—I didn’t know she was this sick,” said Nathalie. “I know you’ve said so, but to see her this way…”

“Upsetting, isn’t it? This talkative little bunny, red-faced and unable to stay awake.” Simone shook her head. “No one knows what it is, only that she gets better and then it comes back.”

“She’ll get better once and for all,” Nathalie said, because what Simone needed most was hope, not a reminder of the uncertainty.

The two of them sat at the table, eating soup and talking in hushed tones, until Simone’s mother returned from the market. Mme. Marchand, fatigued but pleasant, was most thankful for the soup.

A short while later, Nathalie and Simone rode the omnibus to the wax museum. Louis was so excited for Simone to see the newest tableaux that he’d gifted her with two tickets—one for her and one for Nathalie. He wanted, Simone said, for her to describe her impression to him rather than go with her. “He plans on writing a poem about our reactions,” Simone said in a whisper, as if anyone on the bus knew Louis or cared about his poetry.