Matthew Pearl - The Poe Shadow

Do not jump to conclusions. Monsieur Montor had no particular affection for Louis-Napoleon-the president-prince, a spoiled and arrogant product of fame who had made two failed and foolish grabs at power before-but Montor enjoyed his own current position and had no desire for it to be altered. It was not Washington, with its lukewarm food at even the best hotels' dining rooms (even the corn cakes were only "warm" and not hot!), that he enjoyed but the fact of being an emissary to another country.

Montor read as many French newspapers as could be found in Washington (it was during the commission of this activity, you'll recall, that his interest was long ago diverted by a Baltimorean reading articles about one Auguste Duponte). Montor observed that more of the French press was aiming at the president-prince lately. In small ways, but nonetheless. Now Napoleon had ordered the prefect and the police to shut down uncooperative newspapers. What were Napoleon and his advisers anxious about, really? What did they expect the revolutionists would do? What grand plan could they concoct now? France was already a republic! They could elect someone other than Louis-Napoleon. But perhaps they could also first weaken Napoleon's position enough that an enemy from outside would come in to take advantage… No, Monsieur Montor did not guess the true plan any more than others did. Still, he worried constantly about events around the Champs-Élysées.

He had smaller worries, too-local worries. There was a Frenchman found shot in nearby Baltimore. It was said by some that it was that infamous rogue lawyer, the foppish "Baron" Claude Dupin, who had been living in London. What was he baron of? No matter, the fool was no doubt involved in some mischief. Still he was a Frenchman, and Baltimore 's high constable had written with word about it to Monsieur Montor.

But this had happened a few weeks ago already, and it was not even on Montor's mind this evening. He thought only about sleep. He had two great pleasures in life, and to his credit neither involved superficial concerns of wealth or power. This is what separated him from men like the prince's ministers. Montor liked most to entertain and be admired by strangers, as we have already alluded to, and besides that he liked to sleep, many hours at a time.

There was one of Montor's encounters with that young Baltimorean in the reading room, studying articles on Auguste Duponte. Montor spoke with awe about Duponte. He could not remember the last time he had heard of Duponte performing one of his magnificent feats, but no matter. This young man was so engrossed Montor did not wish to dissuade his study. This was some time ago, almost six months, and Montor, who was blessed with a short memory, only barely remembered the young gentleman or their numerous conversations. Until this evening, when Montor walked into his house. It took him a moment to think to himself that it was strange that his hearth was already roaring with a fire, and another moment still to notice someone sitting at his table.

"Who-? What is-?" Montor could not think of the proper words. "Who allowed you in, sir, and what is your business?"

No answer.

"I shall call burglary… " Montor warned. "Tell me your name," he commanded.

"Don't you know me?" came the question in fine French.

Montor squinted. In his defense, the light was dim and the appearance of his visitor somewhat frightful and haggard. "Yes, yes," he said, but he could not remember the name. "That young man from Baltimore…but how have you come in here?"

"I spoke to your servant, in French, and told him we were to have an important government meeting that must be private. I ordered him to return in two hours, and paid him for his trouble."

"You had no right to…" Yes! Now Montor remembered this face. "I remember. I first met you in the reading rooms, studying the French newspapers. I helped you with your French language and took you around a bit. Quentin, isn't it? You were looking for the real Dup-"

"Quentin Hobson Clark. Yes, you remember."

"Very well, Monsieur… Clark . " The engine of Montor's mind was now clicking. "I shall have to ask you to leave my property at once."

Montor was alarmed to have an intruder in his lodging, even one who had previously been an acquaintance and had seemed so harmless. He was also alarmed at the name, Quentin Clark. He had retained almost no memory of the name from the reading room. But the name meant something else to him as of late.

It took Montor a few moments to be able to produce any sound, and it came out as merely a breath. "Murder! Murder!"

"Monsieur Montor," I said when he had finally calmed down, "I believe you know all about the Baron Dupin."

"You-" he began. "But you-" Montor was finally able to explain that Clark 's name had been wired to Montor as the suspect in the attempted assassination of a Frenchman.

"Yes. Me. But I did not shoot anyone. However, I believe you know something more to assist me in determining who did."

Montor now seemed more reluctant to cry out. "Help you? After you invade my house, bribe my servant? Why are you doing this?"

"Simply for truth. I have been forced to look for it with an ungloved hand, and I will."

"They told me you were in prison!"

"Did they tell you so? Did they tell you they were plying me with poisons to manipulate me into a confession?"

Montor muttered, "I do not know what you wish me to say, Monsieur Clark! I have nothing to do with such foul play and have never even met this…this…so-called baron!"

"The men pursuing him were a pair of French rogues. I believe they were under the command of someone else-some person of great intelligence and foresight." Since Bonjour had told me they could not have been working for the Baron's creditors, and since the rogues had spoken of "orders," I knew there was more to it than the two blackguards. "You are surely aware of Frenchmen in and out of this area."

"I do not stand at the harbor peeping into the windows of ships, Monsieur Clark! Do you know the police will look for you for this…this outrageous trespassing." He frowned, remembering they would already be looking for me for a far worse offense. "You seem very different from when we met, monsieur."

I stood above him and looked over him coolly. "I believe you know where men like them would hide, and who would shelter them. You know all the important French citizens who reside in the region of Baltimore. Perhaps some dangerous characters like these rogues would even find you."

"Monsieur Clark, I work directly for Louis-Napoleon since he has become president. If there were French outlaws here, and they wished to hide from your authorities and ours, they would not come to me. You see that, don't you? Think of it." He noticed that I listened seriously to this point, and now tried to switch topics to gain my sympathies. "Didn't I help you research Auguste Duponte, the real Monsieur Dupin? Yes, what of that? Did you find him in Paris?"

"This has nothing to do with Auguste Duponte," I said. I made no threatening motion, no sudden gesture toward him. Yet he cowered; that he believed me wild and violent made me almost inclined to prove him right.

It wasn't even necessary to demand that he tell me whatever he knew. "Bonapartes!" he suddenly babbled.

"What do you mean?" I asked, annoyed.

"In Baltimore," he continued. "Monsieur Jérôme Bonaparte."

"You introduced me to some Bonapartes at that dress ball you took me to before I left for Paris. Jérôme Bonaparte and his mother. But why would someone like Jérôme Bonaparte know more about such rogues? They are relatives of Napoleon's, aren't they?"

"No. Yes. Not ones that Napoleon acknowledged, I mean. You see, when the brother of Napoleon-the true Napoleon, Emperor Napoleon, I mean-when this brother was traveling through America as a soldier at nineteen, he courted and married a wealthy American girl, Elizabeth Patterson. You met her at the ball-the ‘queen.' They had a son, named Jérôme after his father, and that is who you met with her, the man dressed as the Turkish guard. When he was no more than a baby, Emperor Napoleon ordered his brother to abandon the poor bride, and after a brief struggle the brother at length obeyed. Elizabeth Patterson, now abandoned, returned with her son to Baltimore, and this family would never again be recognized by the emperor. They have been separated from their proud family line ever since."