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Authors: Carol McCleary
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black cigarettes.
Roth leaned back and rested his head against the seat and listened to the murmuring prattle of carriage wheels and the clopping of hooves. With half-closed eyes Roth watched Michel. He was not the two-legged sewer rat Roth had expected.
The sewer worker’s beard was scruffy and matched his brown hair that was in need of a cut. Unkempt strands hung from beneath his wool cap, but his clothing was surprisingly clean, if well worn. Black rubber boots that came above the knees were the only evidence of his occupation. With his long hooked nose and deep-set eyes, the man had the predatory mien of a pirate captain. His face, pitted as though shot by a scattergun loaded with pox, was dark, giving him a morose and grisly appearance. For a man who spent most daylight hours breathing sewer air, he appeared robust and surprisingly healthy.
The worker had been hesitant to board the stately carriage the minister sent to carry them to the site. The poor fellow sat stiffly, hardly touching anything around him, except to clandestinely feel the plush velvet side panel beside him.
His reticence came not only because he was in a gentleman’s carriage, but because he was in the presence of a man acclaimed as an asset to the whole nation, if not the world. Only this year the grateful French people presented the great microbe hunter with the institute that bore his name.
The carriage pulled to a stop at a curb and Roth lent Dr. Pasteur a hand as he disembarked. The great scientist had suffered another stroke two years ago. At sixty-seven years old, his short hair and beard were white and his agility had limits, but he still looked into places where no one else could see.
As his laboratory assistant, half his age, it was Roth’s job to perform the physical tasks his condition made difficult. Roth carried a wood case which contained the sterilized implements to gather samples and glass jars to store them. It would be his task to gather the specimens.
Dr. Brouardel and his assistant stood a bit aside from Roth and Pasteur. It made no difference to Brouardel that they were all here at the bequest of the minister—he carried the burden with ill grace.
Two prostitutes approached as the men gathered on the street. “Out for some fun tonight, Messieurs?” one asked.
Michel shooed them away. “This is official business.”
“That’s the only kind we do,” the other tart said.
With the night wet, the bohemians who gave the quarter its licentious reputation had retreated from the terrasse tables of sidewalk cafés. They crowded inside smoke-filled café salons to argue politics and art with the passion most men reserved for their mistresses.
Montmartre had also exposed its darker heart as street toughs called apaches came out of the narrow passageways to hover under the gaslights along Boulevard de Clichy. Two of these criminals—thugs—loitered a few doorways down, eyeing them as the smoke from their cigarettes curled up into the falling mist. Their hats were pulled down close to their eyes to make identification difficult, while their pants legs flared at the bottom to make it easier to get knives out of their boots.
The sewer worker jerked his thumb at the two men. “They spit in the soup so only they can enjoy it. The city should sweep them all into the sewers.”
Pasteur gestured with his cane at Michel. “Come, Charon, lead us down to your dark river so we may find a killer.”
Michel gave Pasteur a quizzical look as he opened a rusted iron door to reveal damp stone steps leading down to the sewer. The poor man did not know what to think. With anyone else he probably would have thought they had lost their mind, but this was Dr. Pasteur.
He squinted at Roth in the darkness and whispered, “Who’s this killer Monsieur Doctor talks about?”
“You’ve heard of microbes?” Roth asked, already knowing his answer.
He shook his head no.
“Little animals invisible to the naked eye, so small they can only
Roth leaned back and rested his head against the seat and listened to the murmuring prattle of carriage wheels and the clopping of hooves. With half-closed eyes Roth watched Michel. He was not the two-legged sewer rat Roth had expected.
The sewer worker’s beard was scruffy and matched his brown hair that was in need of a cut. Unkempt strands hung from beneath his wool cap, but his clothing was surprisingly clean, if well worn. Black rubber boots that came above the knees were the only evidence of his occupation. With his long hooked nose and deep-set eyes, the man had the predatory mien of a pirate captain. His face, pitted as though shot by a scattergun loaded with pox, was dark, giving him a morose and grisly appearance. For a man who spent most daylight hours breathing sewer air, he appeared robust and surprisingly healthy.
The worker had been hesitant to board the stately carriage the minister sent to carry them to the site. The poor fellow sat stiffly, hardly touching anything around him, except to clandestinely feel the plush velvet side panel beside him.
His reticence came not only because he was in a gentleman’s carriage, but because he was in the presence of a man acclaimed as an asset to the whole nation, if not the world. Only this year the grateful French people presented the great microbe hunter with the institute that bore his name.
The carriage pulled to a stop at a curb and Roth lent Dr. Pasteur a hand as he disembarked. The great scientist had suffered another stroke two years ago. At sixty-seven years old, his short hair and beard were white and his agility had limits, but he still looked into places where no one else could see.
As his laboratory assistant, half his age, it was Roth’s job to perform the physical tasks his condition made difficult. Roth carried a wood case which contained the sterilized implements to gather samples and glass jars to store them. It would be his task to gather the specimens.
Dr. Brouardel and his assistant stood a bit aside from Roth and Pasteur. It made no difference to Brouardel that they were all here at the bequest of the minister—he carried the burden with ill grace.
Two prostitutes approached as the men gathered on the street. “Out for some fun tonight, Messieurs?” one asked.
Michel shooed them away. “This is official business.”
“That’s the only kind we do,” the other tart said.
With the night wet, the bohemians who gave the quarter its licentious reputation had retreated from the terrasse tables of sidewalk cafés. They crowded inside smoke-filled café salons to argue politics and art with the passion most men reserved for their mistresses.
Montmartre had also exposed its darker heart as street toughs called apaches came out of the narrow passageways to hover under the gaslights along Boulevard de Clichy. Two of these criminals—thugs—loitered a few doorways down, eyeing them as the smoke from their cigarettes curled up into the falling mist. Their hats were pulled down close to their eyes to make identification difficult, while their pants legs flared at the bottom to make it easier to get knives out of their boots.
The sewer worker jerked his thumb at the two men. “They spit in the soup so only they can enjoy it. The city should sweep them all into the sewers.”
Pasteur gestured with his cane at Michel. “Come, Charon, lead us down to your dark river so we may find a killer.”
Michel gave Pasteur a quizzical look as he opened a rusted iron door to reveal damp stone steps leading down to the sewer. The poor man did not know what to think. With anyone else he probably would have thought they had lost their mind, but this was Dr. Pasteur.
He squinted at Roth in the darkness and whispered, “Who’s this killer Monsieur Doctor talks about?”
“You’ve heard of microbes?” Roth asked, already knowing his answer.
He shook his head no.
“Little animals invisible to the naked eye, so small they can only
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