said it, and saw there the frown of puzzlement, the inquiring look in those dark eyes... "Oh, good Lord, don't tell me Dr. Barnard still carries his grudge!" She leaned forward a little, and touched his wrist lightly with one gloved hand. "I was appalled, just appalled, when someone spoke to me of that letter."
"He wrote eight of them, Madame," said January. "Eight that I know of. Please," he went on, as she opened her mouth to speak again. "If I have offended you in any way, if there is the smallest basis for what he says about offering you insult or betrayal-"
She held up her hand. "No, no, Monsieur. It is I who should ask your pardon, for not looking into the matter immediately. My husband's partner is a hot-headed man, a man who nurses the most foolish grievances. And if you must know," she added, dropping her voice, a sudden twinkle in her eye,
"Barnard's a most abominable little pest. I will speak to him of the matter."
Bastien held the door a little wider, as if to remind Madame of her obligations; January saw that the book on the table was Mercer's Conversations in Chemistry More Especially for the Female Sex. Rose had that one, too. It surprised him that Madame Lalaurie would share her interest.
"I am truly sorry to impose, Madame," he said. "But I apologize..."
"No," interrupted Madame firmly. "No, I will hear no apology. It is I who should apologize, for not taking steps to keep that dreadful man in proper bounds. And I will do so, M'sieu, believe me. Yes, Bastien," she added, with her quick, beautiful smile, "I am now done." She caught January's eye, as if to say, What can one do? and ascended the steps into the house.
The carved door closed.
Was it that simple? January resumed his way down Rue de l'Hopital, shaking his head. He had built her into a monster in his mind, he thought, a malevolent ghost of the fever season. And like a ghost, she had melted, when confronted, into something else.
If she was telling the truth, whispered the voice in his mind.
If she had any intention of doing as she said.
Did her desire for perfection run so deep, that she had to be seen as saintly even by her enemies? Or was the wall so high, that divided the gracious queen from... From what? (From the beginning, please...) He stopped at the flash of something black-and-red in the corner of his eye and, turning, saw an old pralinniere go past him with a willow tray of her wares on her head and Genevi?ve's old shoes on her feet.
The shoes that Rose had passed on to Cora.
He felt as if he'd tripped over something in the road; the momentary sensation of not quite knowing how to react. He'd been watching so long for either the shoes or the dress that he doubted for a moment they were the same. But there was no mistaking the scarred leather on the left toe, the fading lampblack dye, the white laces.
"Madame!" He rounded the corner, pushed through the crowd of the Rue du Levee. "Madame!"
She turned, weathered walnut face puckered with annoyance. She was shorter even than Cora, her headscarf frayed and faded but tied into a fantastic arrangement of points that stuck out in all directions under the weight of tray.
"What?"
"Your shoes..."
To his surprise she whipped the tray from her head, it down on the nearest cotton bale, and balancing gamely, pulled off each shoe in turn and slapped them into his hands. "You want the shoes, you take them! I'm tired of all this concern over a simple pair of shoes!"
She turned to go.
"Wait! No!" He stood foolishly, with the frivolous shoes like flat little pressed flowers in his hands.
"Please..."
" 'Where had you those shoes?' And `Did the nuns say where they got them?' They're just shoes! And a hussy's shoes, by the look of them. I should never have taken them. It'll be summer soon, and what good are shoes in summer?"
"What nuns?" asked January, bewildered.
The pralinniere stared at him as if it should be obvious. "The Ursulines, fool! What other nuns are there?"
She snatched up her basket, turned on her naked pink heel, and was gone, muttering to herself, "What nuns, indeed?"
Still holding the shoes in his hands, very like the idiot the old woman had called him, January started along Rue du Levee at a run.
Rose wasn't in her room on Victory Street. "I think she gone