person.
“Where’s Topolain?”
Têtu walked into the apartment, followed by Yann. Even half awake and with a thumping headache, Monsieur Aulard could see that the dwarf was in a bad way.
“My dear friend, are you unwell?” He looked back at the door, expecting to see Topolain come panting up the stairs behind.
“Topolain’s dead,” said Têtu with a sob.
“Dead!” repeated Monsieur Aulard. “Dead? Not Topolain! He was larger than life. How can he be dead?”
“A bullet,” said Têtu, his face collapsing as tears appeared in his watery red eyes. “He was shot like a dog.”
“No, no, no! Mort bleu! Yann, speak to me, tell me this is a nightmare!” He grabbed hold of the boy’s flimsy coat so that the sleeve came away from the armhole with an unforgiving ripping sound.
“Count Kalliovski shot him,” said Yann.
“But why would Count Kalliovski kill Topolain?” His teeth were beginning to chatter. He pulled his housecoat tight around him and abstractedly went over to the fireplace, throwing a few wet coals onto the burning cinders. It had the immediate effect of puffing clouds of smoke back into the chamber and he started to cough as Yann opened the window.
The bitter coldness of the air cleared the smoke and Monsieur Aulard’s head too, long enough at least for him to realize that he was in deep trouble. He sat down heavily on an armchair whose horsehair insides were spilling out. It creaked alarmingly under the weight of his hangover.
“The trick must have gone wrong. It must have been an accident.”
“It was no accident,” said Têtu. “The count knew exactly what he was doing. He tampered with the pistol.”
“But why would Count Kalliovski, who is famous and respected, murder a mere magician?”
It was the question Yann had been asking himself all the way back to Paris, a question Têtu up to now had refused to answer.
"Because,” said Têtu wearily, “Topolain recognized Kalliovski, and instead of keeping quiet he let his tongue get the better of him. Topolain knew him from a long time ago, when he was called by another name.” He spoke so quietly that Monsieur Aulard was not sure that he had heard him correctly.
Yann could see that if Kalliovski was a fraud he would want no one knowing it. Still, Têtu’s explanation raised more questions than it answered. He put a half-frozen pan of wine on the fire to boil, searched through the mess to find some glasses, and cleared the table as Têtu took one of the loaves from out of his jacket, where it sat before them like a golden brown sun.
At the sight of the loaf, Monsieur Aulard’s attention wavered from his immediate grief. “Where did you get that?” he asked.
“From the Marquis de Villeduval’s kitchen.” Têtu broke off a piece and handed it to him.
The hot wine and bread worked their magic on Monsieur Aulard. With a huge sigh he went to get dressed, reappearing with his wig placed lopsidedly on his head, his waistcoat buttons done up wrong, and his shirt hanging out.
“I have a full house, all tickets sold and no performer!”
“You’ll have to find someone else,” said Têtu.
“Mort bleu,” said Monsieur Aulard. “I tell you, if I weren’t so kindhearted, I would have you two thrown onto the streets for your failure to protect Topolain. Why, he was one of the greatest magicians France has ever seen!” He wiped his eyes and, putting on his heavy outer coat and scarf, opened the front door, letting in a blast of icy wind from the stone stairwell. “You can’t stay here, you know.”
"Don’t worry, we’ll soon be gone,” saidTêtu. “Count Kalliovski is after us too. We had trouble getting out of the château alive.”
“ Mort bleu! You know who he is too, don’t you?”
“Yes, for my sins, I do.”
“Who is he, then?”
“That,” said Têtu, closing his eyes, “would not be worth my life to tell you.”
Monsieur Aulard arrived at the theater and started to make inquiries to see who could
“Where’s Topolain?”
Têtu walked into the apartment, followed by Yann. Even half awake and with a thumping headache, Monsieur Aulard could see that the dwarf was in a bad way.
“My dear friend, are you unwell?” He looked back at the door, expecting to see Topolain come panting up the stairs behind.
“Topolain’s dead,” said Têtu with a sob.
“Dead!” repeated Monsieur Aulard. “Dead? Not Topolain! He was larger than life. How can he be dead?”
“A bullet,” said Têtu, his face collapsing as tears appeared in his watery red eyes. “He was shot like a dog.”
“No, no, no! Mort bleu! Yann, speak to me, tell me this is a nightmare!” He grabbed hold of the boy’s flimsy coat so that the sleeve came away from the armhole with an unforgiving ripping sound.
“Count Kalliovski shot him,” said Yann.
“But why would Count Kalliovski kill Topolain?” His teeth were beginning to chatter. He pulled his housecoat tight around him and abstractedly went over to the fireplace, throwing a few wet coals onto the burning cinders. It had the immediate effect of puffing clouds of smoke back into the chamber and he started to cough as Yann opened the window.
The bitter coldness of the air cleared the smoke and Monsieur Aulard’s head too, long enough at least for him to realize that he was in deep trouble. He sat down heavily on an armchair whose horsehair insides were spilling out. It creaked alarmingly under the weight of his hangover.
“The trick must have gone wrong. It must have been an accident.”
“It was no accident,” said Têtu. “The count knew exactly what he was doing. He tampered with the pistol.”
“But why would Count Kalliovski, who is famous and respected, murder a mere magician?”
It was the question Yann had been asking himself all the way back to Paris, a question Têtu up to now had refused to answer.
"Because,” said Têtu wearily, “Topolain recognized Kalliovski, and instead of keeping quiet he let his tongue get the better of him. Topolain knew him from a long time ago, when he was called by another name.” He spoke so quietly that Monsieur Aulard was not sure that he had heard him correctly.
Yann could see that if Kalliovski was a fraud he would want no one knowing it. Still, Têtu’s explanation raised more questions than it answered. He put a half-frozen pan of wine on the fire to boil, searched through the mess to find some glasses, and cleared the table as Têtu took one of the loaves from out of his jacket, where it sat before them like a golden brown sun.
At the sight of the loaf, Monsieur Aulard’s attention wavered from his immediate grief. “Where did you get that?” he asked.
“From the Marquis de Villeduval’s kitchen.” Têtu broke off a piece and handed it to him.
The hot wine and bread worked their magic on Monsieur Aulard. With a huge sigh he went to get dressed, reappearing with his wig placed lopsidedly on his head, his waistcoat buttons done up wrong, and his shirt hanging out.
“I have a full house, all tickets sold and no performer!”
“You’ll have to find someone else,” said Têtu.
“Mort bleu,” said Monsieur Aulard. “I tell you, if I weren’t so kindhearted, I would have you two thrown onto the streets for your failure to protect Topolain. Why, he was one of the greatest magicians France has ever seen!” He wiped his eyes and, putting on his heavy outer coat and scarf, opened the front door, letting in a blast of icy wind from the stone stairwell. “You can’t stay here, you know.”
"Don’t worry, we’ll soon be gone,” saidTêtu. “Count Kalliovski is after us too. We had trouble getting out of the château alive.”
“ Mort bleu! You know who he is too, don’t you?”
“Yes, for my sins, I do.”
“Who is he, then?”
“That,” said Têtu, closing his eyes, “would not be worth my life to tell you.”
Monsieur Aulard arrived at the theater and started to make inquiries to see who could
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