a bulging purse and a wad of papers tied up in a triple layer of oilcloth. Where to start? He began with a crinkled beige envelope, pulling out a blue notebook whose pages were covered in small writing. He settled himself on the trestle bed, began reading and didn’t stop until he had read the whole thing.
When morning came, he put the notebook back where he had found it and went to stand by the window. In the courtyard below, a timid ray of sunlight projected the black shadow of the chimney onto the wall. Between two buildings, there was a glimpse of the sea, calm as a millpond. He looked at it for a moment, his pipe in his mouth, lost in thought. The clear horizon seemed to bode well for the day and he set off to take the woman’s bag to the nuns.
He was told that, after a difficult night, the woman seemed, according to the doctor, to be out of danger. Her name was Sophie Clairsange. A sailor from the Eagle had brought her suitcase, full of beautiful clothes. The poor woman was still fragile, but had managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of food. Would the captain like to see her?
Corentin instructed the novice not to reveal his identity if Sophie Clairsange should happen to ask about him. Surprised, the novice promised to do as he asked.
He left. At Urville, he bought La Lanterne Manchoise hot off the press. A front-page article on the wreck of the schooner recorded that there had been no casualties. Elsewhere, the newspaper bemoaned the uprooting of trees in Cherbourg, which was causing chaos on the main road into the town.
He set off back to the sanctuary of his own home.
Wednesday 10 January
‘What about that washtub?’ grumbled Madame Guénéqué, when she saw that Corentin hadn’t obeyed her instruction.
Without replying, he went up to the attic. Where had he left it? Ah yes, under the bed. He pulled out a wooden box and took off the lid. Inside he found 420 francs, which he hoped would be enough for his needs. After all, the journey there and back in third class cost less than forty francs. The trip to Cherbourg wouldn’t cost much and Landry would be delighted with even such a small sum, which he would go and spend straight away in one of the bistros at the port. Then it would just be a case of renting a cheap room – would twenty francs a month be enough? – and cutting back on his meals. Luckily, he had never had a big appetite.
Paris! A noisy island, a crowded continent as mysterious as the ocean, where he could get lost for ever.
He put the money in his pocket, filled a haversack with clothes and then went back downstairs, dragging the washtub with him.
‘Madame Guénéqué, I’m going away for a few weeks – urgent business in Paris. As soon as I know my address there, I’ll send it to you in case you need to contact me.’
‘You’d be wasting your time – I can’t read or write.’
‘Then you can ask the nuns to help you.’
‘I’m surprised at you, Monsieur Corentin. For years and years you’ve never been further away from here than a rabbit from its warren. People will be talking about this all the way from here to Val de Saire!’
‘I’m counting on you to keep all those busy tongues from wagging, and to make sure the farrier mends that shoe of Flip’s that’s wearing down. The main thing is, don’t forget to give him some water before you feed him his oats, and brush him every day.’
Madame Guénéqué eyed him mischievously.
‘You don’t need to give me all these instructions, Captain, you’ve told me a hundred times before. Ah, Paris, Paris, everyone’s got Paris fever! That lovely lady you scrubbed up so carefully, she’s going to Paris too. The doctor told her over and over that she shouldn’t go, not in the state she’s in, but she’s as stubborn as a mule! They wouldn’t be linked, would they, your two journeys?’
‘Wherever do you get your ideas from? I don’t know anything about her – who she is, where she lives. It’s business, as I said, to do with my uncle’s investments.’
‘Whatever you say. I’ll look after the animals, but it’ll mean me trailing over here every morning …’
‘I’ll give you forty francs. If I’m not back by the end of January, I’ll send a postal order.’
‘Oh, no need for that, Captain, no need for that. Forty francs is a tidy sum!’ she blustered, her eyes round at the thought. She spirited the notes away as soon as he put them in her hand.
With a stroke for Gilliatt and a friendly pat for Flip, he was off. He was clutching the blue earring he had found under the table. Despite the black clouds and the occasional gust of wind, the storm had left the Cotentin peninsula and gone to wreak its havoc further south.
Why had he ever opened that confounded bag? Now, he knew things he wished he didn’t and, if he refused to act on what he had read, it would poison his very existence. He would not rest until he had found the woman whose secrets he had stolen. Come what may, he would seek her in that immense city, full of dangers far more deadly than the storm.
Friday 9 February 1894
It was nearly five o’clock and Paris was succumbing to dusk. Sprawling Paris of the grand houses, the brightly lit avenues, the shady districts, the bustling streets, the sinister streets, the empty streets. Corentin Jourdan knew exactly what he had to do. Either the two women would emerge from the house together, or one would come out alone. Depending on whether it was the brunette or the blonde, he would put the first or the second of his plans into action.
From his garret room, he could see all of the houses along Rue Albouy,1 but the one he was interested in was the building on the corner of Rue des Vinaigriers. If the brunette Sophie Clairsange emerged, he would easily have enough time to get to the stall where his horse was waiting. The carriage station was on Boulevard Magenta and it would take the young woman five minutes to get there. He was familiar with the streets now and would be able to catch up with her.
Chance, destiny and luck had all worked in his favour so far, and fortune seemed to be smiling on his endeavour. Living alone and seldom speaking to anyone had been the best way of gathering information discreetly.
He’d realised he would have to tail carriages or omnibuses at short notice, and so would need his own mode of transport. His budget would not stretch to hiring a carriage and horses; the twenty-five or perhaps forty francs a day necessary would have swallowed up his savings in no time. But fortunately he had discovered a removal man who operated nearby. In exchange for a small sum, the man had allowed Jourdan to hire an old mare who still had some life left in her, and a cart which would be at his disposal any time of the day or night.
Immediately on arrival at Gare Saint-Lazare, he had made for the address he’d found in the notebook belonging to the young woman whose life he’d saved. When he got to Rue des Vinaigriers, the little shop painted in garish blue seemed to beckon to him. There was a sign outside:
THE BLUE CHINAMAN
Madame Guérin
Fine
