Journey to the Core of Creation. Brian Stableford
a lady, sir,” she said, “asking for Monsieur Dupin.”
“A lady?” I echoed, more in puzzlement than surprise.
“Yes, sir,” Madame Bihan confirmed, “and a child.”
Had I echoed the latter item of information, astonishment would no doubt have come to the fore, but I did not. The drumming of the rain on the widows had reminded me that it would be extremely impolite, on a night like this, to leave a lady—let alone a child—standing on one’s doorstep.
I hastened to the door without bothering to mutter any further response to Madame Bihan, and begged the lady to come into the hallway even before making any assessment of her appearance and quality. That would have been difficult, in any case, until she was within direct reach of the light of the solitary oil lamp hanging from the ceiling of the vestibule.
She was evidently grateful for the consideration; although she had presumably arrived in a fiacre, the short interval between stepping down therefrom and being admitted into the house had sufficed to soak her upper garments, for she had no umbrella. When she had removed her slightly-bedraggled hat I saw that she was mature—not quite as old as the century, but not far off—but still very handsome. Her eyes were a piercing blue and her brown hair was only just beginning to display flecks of gray. Her clothing was not cheap, but not aristocratic either, Parisian in its tailoring but provincial in its style. It was evidently a traveling costume, and gave every indication that she had come a long way. Her complexion was not excessively sunburned, but her skin was beginning to show evidence of the inevitable stress exerted on Norman delicacy and pallor by a long sojourn in the south.
I confess that I hardly glanced at the child, who was a girl approximately twelve years old. She seemed somewhat vexed by the rain, although her broad-brimmed hat and capacious cloak had saved her from its worst effects, but she was sufficiently well brought-up to stand meekly by, half-hidden behind her mother. The family resemblance between the two left no doubt in my mind that the lady was, in fact, the child’s mother.
“Is Monsieur Dupin here?” the lady was quick to ask, with a rather un-Parisian carelessness regarding the formalities of introduction.
“No, Madame,” I relied. “He dined here, but he was summoned to the Prefecture. He promised to return, but....”
Still showing no respect or etiquette, she cut me off. “The Prefecture?” she queried.
“Yes,” I said. “He is often summoned, as a...consultant.”
The lady’s lips pursed slightly. “Lucien,” she said, more to herself than me, as if the explanation of Dupin’s absence had suddenly occurred to her. Evidently, she knew—or had once known—Paris’s Prefect of Police well enough to think of him in first name terms.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “As I said, he promised to return, but....”
Again, she cut me off, this time rather paradoxically, to say: “I’m the one who owes you an apology. I really should have introduced myself. My name is Madame Guérande, and this is my daughter Sophie. I’m very sorry to call on you unexpectedly like this, at such an unsocial hour, but Amélie told me that Monsieur Dupin was here, and assured me that it would be acceptable to look for him here.”
It took me half a second to realize that she not only thought of the Prefect of Police in terms of his first name, but that she thought of Madame Lacuzon, Dupin’s concierge and guardian, in the same informal way. That was by far the more remarkable of the two facts, all the more astonishing because Madame Lacuzon, who protected Dupin’s privacy with all the fierce determination of a dragon, had made the remarkable exception of telling Madame Guérande where he might be found, and assuring her that it would be perfectly acceptable to seek him out at my house.
For the time being, however, politeness demanded that I try to make my visitors a little more comfortable. The only fire that had been lit outside the kitchen—which doubled as the servants’ parlor—was in the smoking room, but the windows had been open earlier in the day and I had been saving my pipe until Dupin returned, so the atmosphere was not as toxic as it might have been, and it seemed to me that their greatest urgency was allowing the two visitors an opportunity to relieve the chill of their sudden dampness. While Madame Bihan took their mantles away in order to dry them by the kitchen stove, I brought two more armchairs to the hearth and sat them down. I offered the lady a glass of brandy, which she refused, asking instead for some warm milk for Sophie. I gave the order to Madame Bihan, who accepted it with no more complaint than a world-weary sigh.
Sophie sat down meekly in the chair I had moved for her, but Madame Guérande did not accept my invitation immediately. Instead, she moved around the room curiously, inspecting it with what seemed to me to be unnecessarily minute care. The walls were, of course, lined with books, which she was not content merely to scan with a glance. She was actually inspecting the titles—those which could be read on the spines in spite of the uncertain light—as if attempting to measure me by my reading habits.
A full half minute passed before she suddenly turned to look me in the eye and said: “Your name would not be Poe, by any chance?”
I suppressed the shock of the question, and all the possibilities raised by the fact that it had been asked. “No,” I replied. “Mr. Poe was a close friend of mine once upon a time, and we still maintain a correspondence, although it has become a trifle desultory of late. It was from my letters that he drew the information on which he based a number of stories in which Monsieur Dupin figures as a character, but I never had his literary talent. My name is Reynolds: Samuel Reynolds.” I felt a curious thrill as I articulated the syllables of my name, and realized that Dupin’s contagious discretion had affected me to such a degree that I rarely pronounced them any longer.
“Are you from Virginia?” she asked, point-blank.
“I’m originally from Boston, Massachusetts,” I told her, a trifle stiffly. “I lived in Virginia for some years in my youth, and met Mr. Poe at university there. I traveled a good deal before settling in Paris, and no longer feel myself to be a native of anywhere in particular. I have not entirely lost my appetite for travel, but Monsieur Dupin is a reluctant tourist, and....”
This time, she did not interrupt, but I left the sentence dangling of my own accord, not entirely sure how to explain the fact that Dupin’s reluctance to leave Paris somehow functioned as an anchor restraining my own excursions.
Madame Guérande did not seem surprised to learn that Dupin was a reluctant tourist, but a shadow of doubt passed over her face, which was then in the lamplight, and I immediately jumped to the conclusion that she had some interest in breaking that habit.
What she said, however, was: “I’m glad that he has a friend. He needs society, although he is probably still reluctant to recognize or admit it. I’m sure that you’re good for him.”
I was sure of that too, although I was by no means sure exactly why it was the case. “Have you known him long?” I asked, mildly.
Madame Bihan brought in a tray, which not only had Sophie’s warm milk but a bottle of red wine, already uncorked, some bread, butter and a selection of cheeses. I could tell be the glint in the lady’s blue eyes that the sight of the food and wine was by no means unwelcome.
The cook positioned the tray carefully on an occasional table, and then stood back, as if to check that I had arranged the armchairs appropriately. She nodded briefly, and returned to the kitchen after the briefest of glances in my direction.
Instead of answering my question, or taking her seat, Madame Guérande suddenly reached out to a bookshelf and plucked a book out of the array.
“Telliamed!” she said, with a slight hint of delight. “I once gave Auguste a copy of this....” As she spoke she opened the volume and glanced at the flyleaf—and her features suddenly changed. “This copy, in fact.” she added. She seemed disconsolate—as if the idea that Auguste Dupin might have given away a copy of a book of which she had made him a present was difficult to bear: a more than commonplace betrayal.
I hastened