Matthew Pearl - The Poe Shadow

"I understand," I said. "Continue please, Monsieur Montor."

"Outlaws would not seek to find me, an official government minister, as I say, with Louis-Napoleon as the current head of government. But such criminals might seek out those who are estranged from the name of Napoleon. Yes." His mouth loosened and he became excited, as though understanding this was now his mission too. "They might, monsieur!"

"Do you have the city directories for Baltimore?" I asked.

He pointed to a shelf in the corridor. His eyes traveled away from me shiftily, toward the window and door. He'd been caught up momentarily in my questions, but I could see he was now preparing in his mind an indignant report to the police.

It did not matter. I stopped my finger at the right page and tore it out. I could still reach the train depot before Montor's reports reached the ears of the Washington police.

And indeed, the conductor of the train did not seem at all concerned with me upon my boarding. As a precaution, I sat in the last passenger car, and to observe more I opened the window at my seat, provoking malevolent stares when pockets of cold air rushed inside. One fellow spit his tobacco pointedly close to my boots, but I only shifted my legs farther from him.

I looked for any signs of something unusual, having to will my eyes not to close for longer than a few seconds. At one point, as the train made a turn, I saw a young boy running along the front of the train boldly grab hold of the cowcatcher-this was the device in front that forced away animals like sheep, cows, and hogs that strayed onto the track-and, gripping onto this, he managed to swing into the first car. I was startled, but told myself this was just a stowaway. I soon forgot the sight of the boy dangling in front of the train through a short spell of sleep.

I was jolted awake as the train shook with a violent shudder and soon began to nudge into a slower speed as it approached a bridge over a ravine. I jumped to my feet and was about to ask what had happened when I overheard another man as he questioned the conductor and engineer. The conductor had a harum-scarum look about him, as though he were frightened even of himself.

"The train went over a chaise and horse," the engineer said coolly. "Two ladies were thrown out, and pretty well smashed, too. The chaise broken to pieces."

The conductor passed by this engineer and scurried to the next car.

"Good God, mister!" cried the other passenger, looking back to me for the same reaction. I took a few steps backward and checked the door to the freight car that was attached to the end of the train. It was locked.

My eyes were fixed on the engineer's face. I tried to think whether I had heard a crash at all, and cursed myself for having fallen asleep. The engineer seemed unnaturally calm for just having been part of a terrible accident, possibly killing two women.

"Chaise was broken to pieces," the engineer said, then looked flustered as he realized he had already said this.

I interjected casually, "I didn't hear a crash." Of course, I had been asleep, but I felt it was a test worth trying. Could they be lying? Were they slowing down for the police to come aboard?

"Funny, mister," murmured the fussy passenger in front of me. "I didn't hear any crash either, and doesn't everyone say I have the finest hearing in Washington!"

This decided it. I swung myself to the door as the train continued to cut the speed of its engine.

"You there! Stop! What do you think you are doing?" The engineer shouted this at me as he grabbed hold of my arm, but I shook him away hard and he stumbled over a piece of luggage. The passenger who had been speaking, from an overload of confusion, motioned to try to restrain me but stopped cold when he saw from my face that I would not be deterred.

Forcing the door open, I leapt onto the bank of grass alongside the tracks and rolled myself down the side of the steep arched ravine below.

LATER, I WOULDlearn more about the Bonapartes and their quiet residence over the decades in Baltimore. Now, I wished only to find them. I could remember faintly my parents speaking of the scandal, so many years earlier-long before I was born-that ensued when the brother of Napoleon Bonaparte married Baltimore 's richest young beauty, Elizabeth Patterson. That brother had long returned to luxury in Europe. It was the American descendants of Napoleon's lighthearted brother that I had to confront-the Jérôme Bonaparte I had met in costume and his family and allies-to see if they knew those rogues whose presence would prove my innocence.

But I had no particular concern for the Bonaparte family's history or ambitions at the moment. Today the question of my survival was too real.

These American Bonapartes and their offspring had multiplied and spread themselves around the city, and had maintained many homes across Baltimore through their great wealth from the Patterson family and the stipend the jilted wife received from Napoleon. The first address I visited no longer belonged to them at all-but the domestic who answered, a plump Irishwoman, received enough mistaken callers to know where to direct me. Still, it was several jaunts into different quarters, meeting various affiliated persons, before I found the most promising residence: one of the homes of Napoleon's brother's grandsons, estranged great-nephew to the legendary Napoleon himself and cousin, by my rough calculations, to the current French president.

Following the incident on the train, I felt confident I'd eluded any police agents from Washington, but I still proceeded slowly and methodically, which was maddening for such an urgent affair. It was not safe to be out in the light of day. After my escape from the train, I had waited until night in a frigid ditch and then found safe passage back to Baltimore in a covered mail-sleigh, lodging myself in the straw at the bottom of the cart with a few servants and a sleeping Hungarian peddler who, in the apparent throes of a dream, repeatedly kicked me in the stomach with a hobnailed boot. The driver rode through the night over rough stones and paths at a dashing rate as quick as any train.

Out of caution, I waited another day before going to the next Bonaparte address. The house was empty-or, rather, there were no servants and nobody responded to my knocking at the door. But I noticed the carriage house door was open and, as I stood outside, I could see shapes through the windows of the house. Propping myself on a ledge, I pressed against a window and thought I could hear men speaking in French.

When the door opened, I could see two of the figures inside more clearly. I knew one as the rogue who had almost killed me in the carriage factory, and the second to be his partner. The first wore a large bandage fastened around his arm where he had been crushed by the carriage after I had stabbed him.

A different man, the one closer to the street door, was handing over money to the two rogues, who were nodding and soon departed into the carriage house. This third man had the demeanor of being their leader. I waited until they had driven away and then rang.

The man returned to the door. He was grander than the two rogues. Not bigger, exactly, but better fashioned to provoke respect rather than mere fear, with perfectly squared shoulders. For a moment I stood paralyzed as he waited for some word from me. He looked back at me as I stared at him with a vague air of recognition.

"Mr. Bonaparte," I said finally, choking back a gasp. "You are Monsieur Bonaparte?"

He shook his head. "My name is Rollin. Young Monsieur Bonaparte is away, at West Point. You would like to leave word?" He instructed more than asked this, but I declined. There was something in his tone…