THE COMMISSION
Greuze awoke, in the dark, to an infernal pounding.
"Up, Parisien,
if you want to make Besançon before nightfall."
The words rumbled out in a thick patois that seemed to mash all the consonants
together and elongate the vowels at the same time.
Greuze shambled out of bed in his
nightdress and dashed his foot against the bulk of his portmanteau. He prayed
the Virgin would forgive him the string of curses he uttered as he hobbled to
the door. Unbolting that portal, he flung it wide, and glared up at the shadow
that filled the hallway. Greuze himself was no tall man; he nearly had to crane
for a look at this fellow's face. All he could make out by the fretful light of
the night porter's candle was a broad-brimmed hat angled low, and the
silhouette of a clay pipe.
The porter flitted about, making shushing sounds. The
shadow grasped the fellow's collar with one hand and thrust him several steps
toward the stairwell, down which both light and porter disappeared in short
order. All that remained was a guttering wall sconce some distance down the
corridor. Its haphazard dance lit the gargantuan intruder from behind, evoking
most faithfully the eighth ring of hell.
"Pardieu!" Greuze planted his hands on his hips. "What is the meaning of this, I should
like to know!"
The bulbous end of the pipe slid sideways in the grip
of the ruffian's fist. "You artists, always looking
for meaning. Well here it is: I'm to bring you to Porte-Noire, Parisien. It is four a.m. You have an hour and a half
before we leave for Besançon."
"I left you a—"
"You will take lunch at Dole. We are
expected." The shadow exhaled a cloud of smoke that reeked of Belgian ale.
Lip curled in distaste, Greuze took a step back. His comtois
lackey swivelled toward the stairwell. "Five-thirty."
Seething, Greuze clutched the doorjamb with both
hands and poked his head into the hallway once more. "I am Burgundian,
I will have you know. Born and bred in Tournus!"
The comtois paused,
removing the pipe from his mouth.
"How long have you lived in
"Thirty years, as if it were
any of your filthy business!"
"Thirty years?
Then you are a Parisien." And to punctuate his point, the comtois spat in a corner before continuing down the stair.