Читать книгу Voltaire’s Calligrapher - Pablo Santis de - Страница 10

I had been eager to arrive but now that the wheels (about to take one last turn before falling off their axles) were shakily tracing the route to Toulouse, I felt that mixture of exhaustion and unease that comes over a traveler whenever he reaches a new city.

We delivered the last coffin to the rue des Aveugles. The house belonged to M. Girard, a toy manufacturer. A long table displayed wooden horses painted blue, puzzles of city maps, porcelain dolls, and armies of tin soldiers that seemed to be returning in defeat: broken, hungry, their flag in tatters.

‘Is she your daughter?’ I asked.

‘The Night Mail is known for not asking questions,’ Girard replied.

‘That’s true, sir,’ Servin said, worried my curiosity might reduce or eliminate the tip altogether. ‘Please forgive him. Young Dalessius is new to the profession.’

The owner gave us each a few coins, but Servin snatched mine from me.

‘You should be glad you rode here for free,’ he said under his breath.

He asked the toy manufacturer whether he wanted us to move the coffin to another room in the house.

‘Just there is fine,’ Girard said, anxious for us to leave. Since we were no longer in danger of losing the tip, I asked about the cause of death.

‘She ate a poison apple,’ he snapped, pushing us toward the door.

We came out of the house, and Servin said good-bye there and then. A shipment was waiting for him on the outskirts of the city. He offered his hand, and in it was a coin. He told me to take care, and if anyone asked who sent me, to say anything at all, that I was an emissary to the devil or the Huguenots themselves, but under no circumstances was I to tell the truth.

I found lodgings near the market and took a room where I had to pay two nights in advance.

‘Are you here for the festivities?’ the proprietor asked. His face was scarred by illness and injury, and he was missing three fingers on his right hand.

‘No. Is something happening tonight?’

‘Celebrations begin in a few days.’

‘And what are you celebrating?’

‘The day the people of Toulouse had the courage to get rid of four thousand Huguenots. It’s the two hundredth anniversary.’

‘They were expelled?’

‘Straight to the hereafter. Never, sir, will you see such fireworks - not even in China! I lost three fingers when I was igniting them fifteen years ago, but don’t think I regret it. The moment I was hurt, I thought: Others have to smell gunpowder and are blown to pieces on the battlefield; I get to be a hero right here. I’d do it again, especially now, with the Calas family as the guests of honor. A whole year of boredom, sitting by the fire, greeting visitors as they come and go; a whole year of waiting just to watch the world explode. I can start to feel my lost fingers as the day draws closer.’

That night I looked out the window in my room and saw five men dressed in white robes, hoods pulled up, carrying an image of Christ. Voltaire had warned me: Be careful of the White Penitents. Windows opened as they passed and wilted flowers showered down on their linen hoods.