‘Mademoiselle, your dinner is served,’ called Scarface to the mound of blankets.
I crept out from behind the door and into the corridor. I was in a passageway. Left or right? I ran to the right as a shout echoed behind me. My trick had been discovered. Turning a corner I mounted a second flight of stairs. I could hear Scarface cursing. A door at the top – I pushed it open and emerged into a twilit cloister. In the centre of the quadrangle was a lawn and sundial. I dashed down the avenue of pillars heading towards the grand door at the end. Overhead, the bells of Notre Dame in her twin towers began to chime for the evening service – I must be very near the cathedral. Where there were people, there was hope. I grabbed the door handle and pulled. It did not move. I could hear Scarface running towards me. I had only seconds left.
‘Come on, damn you,’ I cursed. ‘Shift!’
‘Tut, tut, mademoiselle. From the few words of English I know, I do believe you were swearing.’ The bishop sauntered into view from the aisle to my left, picking his nails clean with a knife. He didn’t seem surprised to see me there.
Scarface reached me and slammed my shoulder into the door as he grabbed my arms.
‘Sorry, your eminence,’ he said breathlessly. ‘She tricked me.’
‘I expected no less of her. Though why she thought I’d put only one lock between her and freedom, I cannot guess.’
‘Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s rude to pick your nails?’ I spat at him.
‘And didn’t yours tell you it’s rude to leave your host without even saying goodbye?’ He tickled my cheek with the point of the knife.
‘I just wanted a breath of fresh air.’ Scarface had my face pressed against the wooden planks of the door. I could hear voices, echoing footfalls, tantalizingly close.
‘Really? Because I could’ve sworn you were trying to escape. No matter. Something has come up, mademoiselle, that requires your presence here in any case. Luc, stop squeezing our guest to death.’ The pressure on my back was instantly removed. I rubbed my bruised arms. ‘Perhaps you would care to accompany me?’
Ibrahim held out an arm. I hesitated – until Scarface Luc prodded me in the back.
‘Where are you taking me?’
Ibrahim produced a key from his pocket and opened the door that foiled my bid for freedom.
‘There are summons that even a bishop cannot ignore,’ he said, pushing me through.
The door took us on to the square in front of Notre Dame. I had scant time to admire the pale stone of the carved arches and statues and the two soaring towers as Ibrahim marched me into the cathedral itself. In contrast to the twilight, it was dark inside. Light seeped through the stained glass, glowing with jewel-bright colours; candles flickered beneath icons. The sounds of the street outside were swallowed up. Like Jonah in the mouth of the whale, we had entered another world cut off from all else, swept along on a tide of darkness to plunge into the very belly of the beast.
Monsieur Ibrahim led me to the chapel behind the main altar. By the rail knelt a man I recognized: it was none other than Maria-Auguste Vestris, principal dancer at the Opera, last seen bowing to a mop in Renard’s kitchen. The ballet master looked up on our approach and rose fluidly to his feet. He seemed unabashed to meet so threatening a person as the bishop, and advanced confidently towards us. I had a second chance to study one of Paris’s most famous sons. I was impressed by the intense expression of his eyes and a sense of hidden vigour – he was like a bow bent, ready to fire. And he was here to meet us of all people. What did this mean?
‘Ah, here is my missing dancer.’ Le Vestris smiled enquiringly at me.
Ibrahim bowed respectfully before the great man and pushed me towards him. I curtseyed, hovering in the no-man’s-land between them. ‘Monsieur, I am sorry if I have inconvenienced you by keeping her as my guest,’ said the bishop sourly. He was clearly doing this with some reluctance.
‘Not at all, not at all.’ Le Vestris turned to me. ‘And how are you, ma chérie? Still able to perform the country dance I saw you doing the other night?’
‘D-dance?’ I stammered.
‘I certainly hope so, as I think it will be a most charming addition to La Fille Mal Gardée – two miniature dancers to complement the adult soloists. It’s going to be a real coup de théatre! I understand your host here had some difficulty believing you were a ballerina so I’ve invited him to see the evidence with his own eyes on Saturday night.’
My brain was slowly catching up with what was happening here. The personal appeal of so celebrated a man had secured my freedom – but the price was a performance at the Opera.
Ibrahim seized my hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Forgive me if I have mistaken you, mademoiselle.’ His lips brushed my fingers. ‘I’ve agreed to sacrifice the pleasure of your company temporarily to allow you a chance to prove your innocence. I have promised Le Vestris to drop all claim to you if you impress me on Saturday.’
‘And if I fail?’
‘You will not fail, mademoiselle,’ said Le Vestris, taking me by the elbow and shepherding me away from the bishop. ‘No one taught by Le Vestris ever fails.’
But Ibrahim’s sardonic smile told another story. He clearly suspected some trick of J-F’s lay behind this rescue. If I failed, he would have further evidence to denounce me to the authorities as a play-acting spy – which was exactly what I was, of course.
‘Until Saturday, Mademoiselle Cat!’ called the bishop, signing a blessing in the air as I left.