Édmonde had advised me to avoid all visitors, for fear that I would betray our plans. But when Auguste knocked unexpectedly on my door one morning I could not turn him away, knowing it was perhaps the last time I would see him. He entered, saw me lying in bed weakened with pain and laudanum, and frowned.
‘Are you unwell?’
‘Oh, it is nothing new, my friend,’ I replied. ‘Simply the neuralgia that has plagued me all these years.’
‘Do you have enough laudanum?’
I smiled and nodded drowsily.
He wandered over to the writing table where sheafs of paper were spread, the ones you are reading at this moment, and began to cast an eye over them.
‘What’s this?’ he asked. He took the title page. ‘A story? “The Education of a Monster”.’
I somehow managed to rise from my bed and take the page from his hand, gathering all the pages together and slipping them into a drawer. ‘It’s not ready.’
‘Have you started writing again?’
‘I have, but no one can read it.’ He eyed me curiously. ‘Not until it’s finished.’
Auguste’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the matter, Charles? You’re not usually so timid about your work.’
I slumped back onto my bed while he sat in the only chair in the room. ‘Nothing is the matter, I assure you. I will show you in due course and you will be very impressed. Long have you urged me to write stories. I have taken your advice. This one is sure to change our fortunes.’
He smiled a little sadly. He’d heard this kind of talk before. ‘I’m very glad to hear it, Charles.’
I could not bear to see him one last time without bidding him adieu. ‘I . . . I am about to go on a journey, Auguste.’ I could not disguise a tremor in my voice.
‘Where to?’
I hadn’t considered that. Where was I travelling to? ‘The tropics.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘I’ve been wanting to go for many years, as you know.’
I could see that my friend did not believe me, but was indulging me as if I had finally taken leave of my senses. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And when will you be leaving?’
‘Any day now.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Did you come into some money?’
Ah, money. I hadn’t considered that either. ‘Yes – my mother. She sent me some money recently. I will be travelling by train to Rotterdam, and from there to the Indies.’
‘Well, you must come to dinner before you leave, say goodbye to the family.’
‘Yes, with pleasure.’
Auguste stood again. ‘I suppose I should be on my way.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Come for dinner tomorrow night.’
‘I shall, my friend, thank you.’ I was very sorry to see him go.
Left once more to my own devices, I hauled myself to my feet, took the papers out of the drawer and set to work again, writing in my bed, surrounded by papers and empty bottles, which was how I woke the following morning, to knocking at my door and the landlady’s voice calling my name. ‘A letter has arrived for you,’ she said as she came in with a platter containing coffee, bread and an envelope. She began to fuss about the mess but I sent her away. The letter was from Édmonde, and, as before, it showed signs of having been opened before delivery. I contemplated giving Madame Lepage a few choice words demanding my privacy be respected before remembering my arrears and deciding against it. When she had left, I tore the envelope open.
Dear Monsieur Baudelaire,
Please forgive the delay in sending you this letter. I have been undertaking the mission we discussed. Until today, my efforts had come to nought, but I can finally declare that I have made the acquaintance of a suitable candidate. I will meet you tomorrow afternoon at the railway station in Namur. The train leaves Brussels at a quarter past ten o’clock.
I did not go to Auguste’s for dinner that night. Instead, I sent a note explaining I was feeling a little unwell and would visit the following evening. But I did not keep that rendezvous either. Rather, the following day, under a cool grey northern sky, I left the Grand Miroir with no luggage other than a satchel containing this story, a pen, a small bottle of ink, several bottles of laudanum, and a little money. I hailed a buggy and told the driver to take me to the railway station.
The Church of Saint-Loup, where I was to meet my next body, is a sinister and elegant marvel, with an interior embroidered with black and pink and silver. Having met me at the station – standing on the platform like a funereal hourglass – Édmonde brought me to the church, telling me nothing of the person I was about to meet other than she was a young woman who had been fully informed of what was about to happen.
There was a girl of no more than sixteen sitting on the front pew. She turned around as we approached her. It was, of course, you. You were exceedingly plain, wearing a white headscarf and a convent dress. There was something at once defeated and ill-tempered about your expression, as if you had borne the brunt of many beatings. Your complexion was pale and your hair the colour of straw; your only colouring was the pink tinge to your cheeks, which gave you the appearance of being in a state of constant embarrassment. You rose to your feet, biting your bottom lip anxiously.
‘Charles,’ said Édmonde, ‘this is Mathilde Roeg.’ You curtsied. ‘Mathilde, this is Monsieur Baudelaire, the gentleman I have told you about.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir, crénom!’ you said as you curtsied again. I immediately noticed, with a shiver, the low, lilting tones of a Belgian working-class accent, punctuated with that ridiculous exclamation, crénom.
‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ I said, bowing my head. ‘I understand Madame Édmonde has explained to you the nature of our affair. Do you have any questions?’
‘No, sir.’ That lisp was most comical. ‘The lady told me what’s what, crénom! You want to look in my eyes for a few minutes, and then the lady will take me away with her and I will live a life of luxury.’
I wondered if, despite Édmonde’s explanation, you hadn’t fully grasped the proposal that had been made to you. ‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’
‘Yes, crénom! I don’t mind at all. Men have all kinds of strange appetites.’
‘Can you read and write?’
‘Yes, sir! The nuns taught me good, sir, crénom!’
‘Reading, writing and religion, no doubt,’ I sighed. I took a piece of paper out of my trouser pocket, unfolded it and handed it to you. ‘Can you read this out to me?’
You looked at it for some moments as if it were in a foreign language before hesitantly beginning to read, the tinge on your cheeks blushing an ever deeper shade of red as you stumbled over the longer, unfamiliar words:
To amuse themselves, the men of a sailing crew often
Capture albatrosses, those great birds of the ocean,
Who follow, indolent travel companions,
The ship gliding across the sea’s bitter chasms.
Poor girl, you stumbled on the poem’s title, and it only got worse from there. ‘Stop, I beseech you!’ I cried, before you were midway through your labours. ‘You are strangling my words!’ I snatched the paper from your hands and rubbed my forehead to dull the pain that had shot through the blanket of laudanum. ‘Thank you, child, that’s quite enough.’