The Silent Boy. Andrew Taylor
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to the Rue du Bac. Here is another, much smaller gate set in the wall of the house.
Monsieur Fournier looks up and down the lane. There is no one else about. He knocks twice on the gate, pauses, knocks once, pauses again and then knocks twice again.
The shutter slides back. Nobody speaks. On the other side of the gate there is a rattling of bars. The key turns. The gate opens – not to its full extent, merely enough to allow a man to pass through.
Fournier is the first to enter. Marie pushes the boy after him. As she does so she ruffles his hair.
They are in a cobbled yard with a well in one corner. A fat old man in a dirty brown coat stares open-mouthed at them. Fournier limps towards the great grey cliff of the house. The old man jerks with his head towards the house, which means that Charles must follow.
Charles breaks into a run. Behind him, he hears the gate closing.
It is only when he is inside the house, when he is following Monsieur Fournier up a long flight of stone stairs that he realizes Marie is no longer there. She has stayed on the other side of the black gate.
The room is almost as large as a church. Despite the sunshine outside, it is gloomy, for the shutters are still across the windows. Light filters through the cracks. One of the shutters is slightly open and a bar of sunlight streams across the carpet to a huge desk.
The desk is made of a dark wood ornamented with gold which sparkles in the sunshine. Its top is as big as his mother’s bed and it has many drawers. It is covered in papers – some in piles, some lying loose as if blown by a gust of wind.
Behind the desk, facing into the room, is a stout gentleman whose face is in shadow. He looks up as Monsieur Fournier enters, and Charles recognizes him.
‘I thought you’d be halfway to—’ The gentleman sees Charles behind Monsieur Fournier. He breaks off what he is saying.
‘This is more important,’ Fournier says.
‘What the devil do you want with that boy?’
Fournier advances into the room with Charles trailing behind him. One of the piles of paper is weighted down with a pistol. Charles wishes that he were back with Marie, lying in her bed against her great flank and smelling her strange, unlovely smell.
‘You don’t understand. He’s Madame von Streicher’s son.’
Charles knows that this man is very important. He is Count de Quillon, the owner of this house, the Hotel de Quillon, and so much else. The Minister, Maman says, the godson of the King and once the King’s friend. He sometimes came to see Maman, though more often he would send a servant with a message and Maman would put on one of her best gowns and go away in his great coach.
Only now, when the Count rests his elbows on the desk, does the sunlight bring his face alive. He is a broad, heavy man, older than Fournier, with a small chin, a big nose and a high complexion.
‘This is Augusta’s son?’ the Count says. ‘This? Are you sure? Absolutely sure?’
‘Quite sure, despite the dirt and the rags.’
‘How does he come here?’
‘He ran away and went to an old servant’s. She brought him a moment ago.’
‘So was he with his mother when—’
Fournier interrupts: ‘I don’t know. He was covered in blood when he turned up at the old woman’s house.’
‘It is of the first importance that we discover what happened. Where is the servant? She must know something.’
‘She ran off as soon as we came through the gate.’
The men are talking as if Charles is not there. He might be invisible. Or he might not even exist at all. He cannot grasp this idea. Nevertheless, part of him quite likes it.
‘Come here, boy,’ says the Count.
Charles steps up to the desk. He makes himself stand very straight.
‘What happened at your house that night? The – the night you ran away?’
Charles does not speak.
‘Don’t be shy. I can’t abide a timid boy. Answer me. Who else was there? I must know.’
‘The woman said he simply won’t speak,’ says Fournier. ‘No reason why he shouldn’t, of course – he’s perfectly capable of it. I remember him chattering away ten to the dozen.’
‘Answer me!’ the Count roared, rearing up in his chair. ‘You will answer me.’
Tears run down Charles’s cheeks. He says nothing.
Fournier shifts his weight from his left leg. ‘Give the lad time to get his bearings,’ he suggests. ‘Gohlis can see him.’
‘We don’t have time for all that,’ the Count says. He adds rather petulantly, ‘Anyway, he’s not some lad or other – his name is Charles. I should know.’ He beckons Charles closer and studies the boy’s face. ‘Were you there? Did you see what happened to—’
‘My friend, I think this—’
The Count waves Fournier away. ‘Did you see what happened to your mother? Did you see who came?’
Charles stares at the pistol on the pile of papers. Is it loaded? If you cocked it and put it to your head and pulled the trigger, then would everything stop, just like that? Everything, including himself?
‘It is most important that you tell us,’ the Count says, raising his voice. ‘A matter of life and death. Answer me, Charles. Who was there?’
But Charles is still thinking about the pistol. If he shot himself, would St Peter take one look at him and send him down to the fires of hell? Or would there simply be nothing at all, a great emptiness with no people in it, living or dead?
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ the Count snaps.
The boy recoils as if he has been slapped.
‘Very well, then.’ The Count tugs the bell pull behind him. ‘We’ll talk to him when he’s past his absurd shyness. Someone will look after him and give him some food.’
Fournier rests a hand on Charles’s shoulder. ‘But what about later? If we leave?’
‘Then he comes with us.’ Monsieur de Quillon bends his great head over his papers. ‘Naturally.’
Charles is placed in the care of an elderly, half-blind woman. She lives in a room under the roof over the kitchen wing. Opening out of her chamber is a smaller one, which has a barred window. This is where Charles sleeps.
On the second night, he has bad dreams and he wets the bed.
On the third day, Monsieur Fournier summons him. He is in a salon overlooking the great courtyard at the heart of the Hotel de Quillon.
He is not alone. Dr Gohlis is there. He is another gentleman who used to call on Maman in the old days. He is young and stooping, a German from Hanover. He has cold hands.
In heavily accented French, the doctor asks Charles his name, and Charles does not answer. He asks Charles how old he is. Then he asks exactly the same questions in English and German, and all the while Charles stares out of the window at the weeds in the courtyard and imagines the words rising into the sky like startled birds.
Dr Gohlis examines him, looking at his teeth and poking at his belly with his forefinger. He walks behind Charles and claps his hands, making Charles twitch.
‘There is no physical cause for his silence that I can see. Everything is perfectly normal,’ he says. ‘You tell me he eats and