William Gibson - The Difference Engine

Oliphant took a lucifer from a box emblazoned with a stippled image of the Bessemer, and struck it. He lit his cigar.

"You tell me that the woman you know as Sybil Gerard is of no concern to France," Arslau said.

"You think otherwise?"

"Perhaps. Tell me what you know of our difficulties with the Great Napoleon."

"Very little. Wakefield of Central Statistics mentioned it to me. The Engine is no longer functioning accurately?"

"Ordinateurs, thank the good God, are not my specialty. The Napoleon performs with its accustomed speed and accuracy in most instances, I am informed, but an outre element of inconstancy presently haunts the machine's higher functions… " Arslau sighed. "Those higher functions being deemed a matter of considerable national pride, I have myself been forced to peruse reams of the most abstruse technical prose in the Empire. To no ultimate avail, it now seems, as we've had the culprit in hand."

"The culprit?"

"An avowed member of Les Fils de Vaucanson. His name is of no importance. He was arrested in Lyons in connection with an ordinary case of civil fraud involving a municipal ordinateur. Elements of his subsequent confession brought him to the attention of the Commission of Special Services, and hence to ours. During interrogation, he revealed his responsibility for the current lamentable state of our Great Napoleon."

"He confessed to le sabotage, then?"

"No. He would not confess to that. He refused, until the end. With regard to the Napoleon, he would admit only to having run a certain sequence of punch-cards, a mathematical formula."

Oliphant watched the smoke from his cigar spiral toward the high ceiling's ornate plaster rosette.

"The formula came from London," Arslau continued. "He obtained it from an Englishwoman. Her name was Sybil Gerard."

"Have you attempted analysis of this formula?"

"No. It was stolen, our Jacquardine claimed, spirited away by a woman he knew as Flora Bartelle, apparently an American."

"I see."

"Then tell me what you see, my friend, for I myself am very much in the dark."

The Eye. All-seeing, the sublime weight of its perception pressing in upon him from every direction.

Oliphant hesitated. Ash from his cigar fell unnoticed to Arslau's rich carpet. "I have yet to meet Sybil Gerard," he said, "but I may be able to offer you information regarding this formula you've mentioned. It may even be possible to obtain a copy. I can promise nothing, however, until I myself am allowed to interview the lady in question, privately and at some length."

Arslau fell silent. He seemed to look through Oliphant. At last he nodded. "We can arrange that."

"She is not, I take it, in custody?"

"Let us say that we are aware of her movements."

"You allow her apparent freedom, yet observe her closely?"

"Precisely that. If we take her now, and she reveals nothing, the trail goes cold."

"As ever, Arslau, your technique is impeccable. And when might it be arranged for me to meet with her?"

The Eye, the pressure, the pounding of his heart.

"This evening, if you so desire," said Monsieur Arslau of the Police des Chateaux, adjusting his gold-embroidered cravat.

The walls of the Cafe de l'Univers were hung with paintings, etched mirrors, and enamel plaques advertising the ubiquitous product of Pernod Fils. The pictures, if one could call them that, were either grotesque daubs, seemingly executed in a messy imitation of Engine-stippling, or queer geometric formulations suggesting the restless motion of kinotrope-bits. In some cases, Oliphant supposed, the painters themselves were present—or such he took them to be, these long-haired fellows in velvet caps, their corduroy trousers smeared with pigment and tobacco-ash. But the majority of the clientele—according to his companion, one Jean Beraud—consisted of kinotropistes. These gentlemen of the Latin Quarter sat and drank with their black-clad grisettes at the round marble tables, or held forth on theoretical matters before small groups of their peers.

Beraud, in an unseasonable boater and a brown suit of intensely Gallic cut, was one of Arslau's mouchards, a professional informer who referred to the kinotropists as members of "le milieu." He was fresh and rosy as a young pig, he drank Vittel and peppermint, and Oliphant had taken an immediate dislike to him. The kinotropists seemed to favor the absinthe of Pernod Fils; Oliphant, sipping a glass of red wine, watched the ritual of glass and water-decanter, of sugar-lump and trowel-shaped spoon.

"Absinthe is the bed of tuberculosis," Beraud said.

"Why do you suppose that Madame Tournachon would choose to appear tonight in this cafe, Beraud?"

The mouchard shrugged. "She is a familiar of le milieu, monsieur. She goes to Madelon's, also to Batiffol's, but it is here, in l'Univers, that she most nearly finds companionship."

"And why is that, do you think?"

"Because she was Gautier's mistress, of course. He was a kind of prince here, monsieur, it must be understood. Her relationship with Gautier has necessarily limited her contacts with ordinary society. He taught her French, or such French as she has."

"What sort of woman, exactly, do you take her to be?"

Beraud smirked. "She is perhaps attractive, but cold. Unsympathetic. In the manner of Englishwomen, you understand."

"When she arrives, Beraud—if she arrives, I should say—you are to take your leave immediately."

Beraud raised his eyebrows. "On the contrary, monsieur—"

"You are to go, Beraud. Take your leave." A measured pause. "Vanish."

The sharply padded shoulders of Beraud's brown suit rose at the word.

"You will instruct the cab to wait, and the stenographer as well. The stenographer, Beraud—his English is adequate? My friend—my very good friend. Monsieur Arslau—has assured me that this is the case… "

"Entirely adequate, yes! And monsieur"—getting up so quickly that he nearly overturned his bentwood chair—"it is she… "

The woman now entering l'Univers might easily have been mistaken for a modish Parisienne of more than common means. Slender and blond, she wore a somber merino crinoline with matching cloak and bonnet, narrowly trimmed in mink.

As Beraud continued his hasty retreat into the depths of the cafe, Oliphant rose. Her eyes, very alert, very blue, met his. He approached her, hat in hand, and bowed. "Forgive me," he said in English. "We have not been introduced, but I must speak with you regarding a matter of great urgency."

Recognition dawned in the wide blue eyes, and fear.

"Sir, you mistake me for another."

"You are Sybil Gerard."

Her lower-lip was trembling now, and Oliphant experienced an abrupt, powerful, and entirely unexpected sympathy. "I am Laurence Oliphant, Miss Gerard. You are presently in terrible danger. I wish to help you."

"That is not my name, sir. Pray let me pass. My friends are waiting."

"I know that Egremont betrayed you. I understand the nature of his betrayal."

She started at the name, Oliphant in terror of her swooning on the spot, but then she gave a little shudder and seemed to study him quietly for a moment. "I saw you in Grand's, that night," she said. "You were in the smoker with Houston and… Mick. You had a gammy arm, up in a sling."

"Please," he said, "join me."

Seated opposite her at his table, Oliphant listened as she ordered absinthe de vidangeur in quite passable French.

"Do you know Lamartine, the singer?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, no."

"He invented it, 'scavenger's absinthe.' I can't drink it otherwise."

The waiter arrived with the drink, a mixture of absinthe and red wine.

"Theo taught me to order it," she said, "before he… went away." She drank, the wine red against her painted lips. "I know you've come to take me back. Don't gull me otherwise. I know a copper when I meet one."