perfectly dreadful man. Who smells of spirits and bear grease and I can’t even say what all else.”
A few more seconds pass as the students decide whether this resolves the question or merely suspends it. They are just reaching for their knives again when Charlotte’s stage whisper stops them in midmotion.
“Vidocq.”
I see the makings of a smile on Rosbif’s wine-tinctured lips.
“Not the scoundrel!” he cries.
“Why, he’s not!” Charlotte swats the back of his head with her apron. “He’s the terror of criminals everywhere, he’s—he’s the reason we can sleep with our throats bare.”
“Oh, that’s good! He’s the last man in the world I’d trust with my throat.”
“The very last,” agrees Lapin.
“My dearest Charlotte, has no one ever told you? Your precious Vidocq is nothing more than a petty criminal.”
“It’s a lie.”
“May God strike me down if it is. Why, I tell you he’s been a cherished guest at some of France’s finest penal institutions.”
An irked look wells out of Mother’s eyes. “That can’t be,” she says. “He’s some sort of police creature, isn’t he?”
“Creature,” says Nankeen, adjusting the spectacles on his Greek nose. “How well you put it, Mama Carpentier. It’s the usual story, I’m afraid. A blackguard chafes at prison confinement and volunteers his services as police spy, a profession which demands only effrontery and a complete want of conscience. Small wonder Vidocq should prove so well suited to it.”
“I’ll tell you what I heard,” says Rosbif, chiming in. “Before he was done, he peached out every last one of his friends, just to curry favor with his new masters.”
“Peached out,” repeats Mother, squinting. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means betrayed, Mama Carpentier.”
And then—from nowhere, it seems—a low smoky voice slides across the table.
“Last I heard, betraying criminals was a good thing.”
We turn and find Father Time mouthing into his plate. Unaware, maybe, that anything slipped out.
In a quiet voice, Nankeen asks:
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m sorry, I thought I heard you speak.”
“It was nothing.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Yes.”
Behind the screen of her napkin, Mother is whispering.
“Hector, is all this true?”
“I’ve no idea,” I mutter.
With a peal of triumph, I would almost call it joy, she cries:
“I knew there was something not right! Didn’t I, Charlotte?”
“And now,” says Nankeen, “this saintly Vidocq has clawed his way to the top of the police hierarchy. And if one required any more proof of how really cunning he is, one need only remark on the startling development that has been bruited in all the papers. This Vidocq, if you can believe it, has founded a brigade of plainclothes police. It is known as the Brigade de Sûreté, and it is composed entirely of thieves, deserters, and scoundrels—the human offal who have ever been his closest companions.” He smiles into his lace cuff. “One can’t help but admire the diabolical brazenness of the man. With the full consent of the Comte Anglès and Monsieur Henry, he has succeeded in blurring every last boundary between good and evil. It’s impossible anymore to tell the law enforcers from the law breakers.”
“From what I hear,” says Lapin, “he splits the crooks’ take with them. And when they won’t pay up, he pitches them in jail.”
“Oh, Vidocq is simply exemplary of his kind,” answers Nankeen. “Scientific studies have quite conclusively demonstrated that the criminal mind is incapable of being rehabilitated. You may dress up a rogue, you may give him a job. Drag him to mass, drive him down the Champs-Élysées. He will always revert to his old ways.” A note of tragedy floats into the monotone. “It’s incontrovertible, I’m afraid.”
“Hector,” says Mother, once again whispering behind her napkin, “if you ever allow that man in our house
A few more seconds pass as the students decide whether this resolves the question or merely suspends it. They are just reaching for their knives again when Charlotte’s stage whisper stops them in midmotion.
“Vidocq.”
I see the makings of a smile on Rosbif’s wine-tinctured lips.
“Not the scoundrel!” he cries.
“Why, he’s not!” Charlotte swats the back of his head with her apron. “He’s the terror of criminals everywhere, he’s—he’s the reason we can sleep with our throats bare.”
“Oh, that’s good! He’s the last man in the world I’d trust with my throat.”
“The very last,” agrees Lapin.
“My dearest Charlotte, has no one ever told you? Your precious Vidocq is nothing more than a petty criminal.”
“It’s a lie.”
“May God strike me down if it is. Why, I tell you he’s been a cherished guest at some of France’s finest penal institutions.”
An irked look wells out of Mother’s eyes. “That can’t be,” she says. “He’s some sort of police creature, isn’t he?”
“Creature,” says Nankeen, adjusting the spectacles on his Greek nose. “How well you put it, Mama Carpentier. It’s the usual story, I’m afraid. A blackguard chafes at prison confinement and volunteers his services as police spy, a profession which demands only effrontery and a complete want of conscience. Small wonder Vidocq should prove so well suited to it.”
“I’ll tell you what I heard,” says Rosbif, chiming in. “Before he was done, he peached out every last one of his friends, just to curry favor with his new masters.”
“Peached out,” repeats Mother, squinting. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means betrayed, Mama Carpentier.”
And then—from nowhere, it seems—a low smoky voice slides across the table.
“Last I heard, betraying criminals was a good thing.”
We turn and find Father Time mouthing into his plate. Unaware, maybe, that anything slipped out.
In a quiet voice, Nankeen asks:
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m sorry, I thought I heard you speak.”
“It was nothing.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Yes.”
Behind the screen of her napkin, Mother is whispering.
“Hector, is all this true?”
“I’ve no idea,” I mutter.
With a peal of triumph, I would almost call it joy, she cries:
“I knew there was something not right! Didn’t I, Charlotte?”
“And now,” says Nankeen, “this saintly Vidocq has clawed his way to the top of the police hierarchy. And if one required any more proof of how really cunning he is, one need only remark on the startling development that has been bruited in all the papers. This Vidocq, if you can believe it, has founded a brigade of plainclothes police. It is known as the Brigade de Sûreté, and it is composed entirely of thieves, deserters, and scoundrels—the human offal who have ever been his closest companions.” He smiles into his lace cuff. “One can’t help but admire the diabolical brazenness of the man. With the full consent of the Comte Anglès and Monsieur Henry, he has succeeded in blurring every last boundary between good and evil. It’s impossible anymore to tell the law enforcers from the law breakers.”
“From what I hear,” says Lapin, “he splits the crooks’ take with them. And when they won’t pay up, he pitches them in jail.”
“Oh, Vidocq is simply exemplary of his kind,” answers Nankeen. “Scientific studies have quite conclusively demonstrated that the criminal mind is incapable of being rehabilitated. You may dress up a rogue, you may give him a job. Drag him to mass, drive him down the Champs-Élysées. He will always revert to his old ways.” A note of tragedy floats into the monotone. “It’s incontrovertible, I’m afraid.”
“Hector,” says Mother, once again whispering behind her napkin, “if you ever allow that man in our house
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