But how could he be sure where Lazare would go? The old Jacobin Club, that building on Rue Saint-Honoré where he had first met the old man? Or La Place de la Révolution? Or perhaps someplace closer to the city’s barrier? But there was one other place—a place that suddenly made sense to him. Jean-Luc recalled the warning words of his friend Gavreau: whatever you do, keep him out of your office. With an instinctive gamble, Jean-Luc made up his mind and ran toward his office in the administrative building next to the Palais de Justice.
The old man knew where Jean-Luc worked. He would also know that, this late in the evening, the building would be empty of clerks and administrators. He would have the privacy he needed to torment the poor woman, and in a location where Jean-Luc could be made to look responsible. Jean-Luc sprinted until he reached the building, climbing the front steps at a leap.
“Damn!” The front door was locked. As hard as he yanked, he could gain no entry. He knocked like a madman, but of course there was no one to let him in; if there had been, Lazare would not have chosen the location.
Jean-Luc was struck by an idea. Running to the side of the building, he arrived at the entrance of the narrow, covered alleyway. There, he froze in his tracks; the archangel Michael, the same oversized statue he’d first found so arresting with Gavreau, loomed in the shadows. Too heavy to move without several strong horses and too tall to fit through the doors into the office building, the angel had been left in this lane. His fierce gaze burned, unseen, as the walls of the surrounding buildings cast their darkness onto this angel of war. Jean-Luc stood, mesmerized, staring at this imposing figure—the arms raised high, one offering a blessing, the other, eternal damnation. Michael held aloft a spear of light, ready to be hurled toward some celestial nemesis.
Jean-Luc forced himself to peel his eyes from the fierce, righteous angel and found the side door at the bottom of several steps. This entrance was locked, too, so he cracked the glass of the door and turned the lock from the inside. He took a breath and stepped into the darkness of the interior.
He was in the cellar—the cold storeroom where the plundered treasure of the victims of the Revolution sat, forgotten. He blinked his eyes, his vision patchy in the darkness. He blinked again, as the outline of a large open space cluttered with objects began to take shape. The hall was filled, nearly every inch of it, with the spoils of noble and Catholic dynasties, the objects’ decorative splendor now obsolete and appearing ridiculous as the cache sat collecting dust. Jean-Luc thought he heard a whimper from some unseen corner of the massive warehouse, as if one of the statues had called out. There it was again, another muffled cry. His heartbeat quickened.
Rows of seized goods—marble statues, furniture shrouded in sheets, cracked mirrors, smaller items of a personal nature such as ivory combs and satin shoes—all obstructed his sight and slowed his movement as he cautiously made his way closer to where he had heard the cry.
“Sophie?” he called out, wincing as his voice echoed loudly off the cold walls of the dark, damp storeroom. Another whimper sounded as his reply. “Sophie!” Jean-Luc cried out again, his heart smacking against his rib cage now. “Sophie, it’s Jean-Luc! Where are you?”
A shriek, muffled, followed by the sound of china tableware crashing to the ground. Jean-Luc darted up the row of statues, glancing from left to right, but her whimpers seemed to be receding from him. “Sophie!” He sped up. At the end of one row of goods he paused, debating which way to turn in the shadowy maze of wasted splendor. He wheeled left and nearly tripped over a footrest covered in plush red velvet, before racing down another row. Why did it have to be so damned dark in here?
A shrill cry, like that of an animal caught in a trap, sounded from his right, and Jean-Luc clambered over a pile of rugs to move toward the noise. “Sophie, I’m here!” He rounded the corner past a tall candelabra and saw her at the end of a long row of statues.
Sophie was on the floor, a heap of disheveled hair and a ripped dress. Bound and gagged, her blue eyes wide in terror. A line of crimson trickled down her left cheek, matched by another wound on the opposite shoulder. And what was that on the white flesh of her bare forearm, Jean-Luc wondered—a bite mark? Clenching his jaw, a growling sound escaping from his lips, he sped toward her, unsure of where her tormenter lurked.
And then a dark object came flying at him, just barely missing his temple as Jean-Luc ducked his head instinctively. When he turned, he saw Lazare, his yellow hair wild and his light eyes illuminated by a savage glow. In his left hand he held a fire poker, which he now lifted to swing once more. He missed Jean-Luc again, the poker smashing violently against a bust of a plump-faced nobleman, shattering the plaster. Shards of statue rained down over both Jean-Luc and Lazare, showering them with a cloud of white dust. Lazare lifted the poker again, and this time its point found the flesh of Jean-Luc’s thigh.