***

The doorbell rang at 13 Rue Thibaud, and François, the house butler, tutted so loudly that it echoed through the hallway.

“Who can that be at this time?” He grumbled his default mode at any time of the day. Through the frosted glass of the outer door, he could see the caller was slightly built and, even with the distortion of the fenestration, somewhat in need of a wash. His prediction was confirmed as he cast his eyes over a scruffy teenager standing on the doorstep. The youth held out his hand, which, in between thumb and forefinger, gripped a small envelope bearing a seal. His palm formed a cup to receive his anticipated reward.

François snatched the package and was about to close the door in the messenger’s grubby face. However, on examining the seal, he froze, cancelling his actions, and examined the urchin closely—but not too close. The air from outside was wafting the boy’s odour into the vestibule, and it wasn’t pleasant.

“Where did you get this from, boy? Did you steal it expecting a reward? You’ll get that, alright, the back of my hand. Speak up!” The old man’s perspective had soured further towards this unwanted pest.

“Please, Monsieur, I was given it by the writer himself. He said a Franc now and one from the re, res, re-sip-y-ent,” he stammered.

‘A Franc indeed? I’ll add my foot up your arse to accompany that cuffing!” Growled François, simultaneously raising his hand and lifting his foot. The boy cowered but didn’t run. The flunky shoved a hand deep into his pocket and fumbled around, trying to locate a coin. Finally, he pulled out a single copper sou and placed it into the boy’s still outstretched hand. By his expression, one would think that the butler had added further to the lad’s collection of filth with a turd.

“A miserable sou? One-twentieth of my promised wage?” The boy groaned.

“I’ll have it back in exchange for my earlier offer if you don’t clear off.” François sneered, this time slamming the door shut. Through the glass, he could see the lad hadn’t moved. “I mean it. Now, before I call the gendarmerie,” he continued.

“Don’t worry, I’m going. A curse on you, you old bastard. You and this whole household.” With that, he disappeared from view, his profanities fading with distance. With a curl of the lip, François turned on his patent leather heels and made for his master’s study.

“What was all that fuss about, man? Can’t you keep the noise down?” Bellowed the Marquis from behind his substantial Louis XIV desk.

“Forgive me, my Lord. It was an undesirable youth. He left this for you, sir, from a significant source. I took the liberty of looking at the seal. You may want to open it immediately.

“Thank you, Françoise, I’ll be the judge of that. That will be all.” The Marquis took the envelope and slapped it several times on his other palm without viewing the seal.

“There is one thing, my Lord. The waif demanded payment. He was quite aggressive, sir. I had to compensate him for his inconvenience and avoid an awkward situation. As you will see, the source of the correspondence is controversial,” the butler uttered, remaining rooted to the spot.

“Awkward? Controversial?” The Marquis looked at the seal, and his face drained of colour. “Oh my God, man! Why didn’t you tell me?” He gripped the little envelope with both hands as if it were alive.

“I did, my Lord, a moment ago,” Françoise replied, “along with the boy’s demand.” He shuffled uncomfortably on the spot.

“Yes, yes. Alright. How much was it?” The Marquis clutched the letter to his chest with one hand and fished in his waistcoat pocket with the fingers of the other. He pulled out a silver five Franc piece and handed it to his servant. “Here, that’ll have to do.” Françoise could hardly believe his luck. A week’s wages in exchange for a sou! He hoped the correspondence would continue. He pondered that he would be able to retire as he bowed his head and reversed out of the room.

The Marquis immediately tore open the envelope and pulled out the card from inside. He held it up, and his already pallid face turned translucent with horror.

The boy entered Lapérouse on the Quai des Grand Augustins. He stood out like a fly in a lemon tart. A customer made to grab him by his scruffy collar but was stopped mid-action by the barman. He nodded at the well-meaning habitué, then shook his head vigorously. The lad made his way to a darkened corner of the ornate bar, inhabited by a single occupant. A man was lying on the chair, legs stretched out and crossed, emphasising his height and slim build. Garbed entirely in black, he resembled a panther ready to pounce.

“Bonsoir Sire. This one accepted your invitation, thanks to his greedy butler. We are down nineteen sous, but the invitation found its recipient.” The word slipped off his tongue without effort. Despite his appearance, his intonation was as crisp and clear as a Sorbonne graduate. A total reversal from his alter-ego on the doorstep of the Marquis.

“Good, good. So, were there no injuries this time? Please do not call me by that name,” the big man whispered, his voice transforming akin to the hiss of a black mamba.

“No, erm, Monsieur. What do I call you if I can’t use the ‘S’ word?” The young man replied. His words were frozen in the air by a wave of the other man’s hand.

“Monsieur is sufficient if you want to remain in this world, for now,” the older man countered. He gestured to the boy to sit and waved the barman over. “Give him whatever he wants.”

“A large absinthe, please,” the youth said to the barman, who turned to his customer for approval.

“It’s his liver,” the man rasped, shrugging his shoulders. The youth rubbed his hands together in anticipation and studied his benefactor. To say he was mysterious was an understatement. The young man could never recall his employer’s features, no matter how often they met or how many errands he ran for him. As he always did, he took the opportunity to study his master now.

His face was long, and his beard, emphasising this, was as black as his attire. This contrasted his complexion, which was milky-white. There was no facial expression as if he didn’t need one. His thoughts, feelings, and emotions were on a different plane. The boy knew this to his cost and never wanted to revisit it. As for the rest of him, what could he say? One word—black. His clothes had no definition, resembling smoke from burning tar.

However, he paid well, and the recipients usually did too. There were exceptions, like the old bastard that morning, who would fall short or, worse, carry out their threat of violence. The latter took him back several days to his last errand. The recipient, a minor member of the faux-aristocracy, didn’t even accept the package, instead opting to beat seven bells out of the lad with his cane. The thought of that young thug prompted him to enquire further.

“Would you like me to revisit our previous invitee, sir? ” he asked, secretly hoping the response would be negative.

“That will not be necessary. Unfortunately, the young Count can no longer attend,” the man responded, throwing a copy of Le Figaro to his assistant. The lad caught the paper and looked at the front page. His jaw dropped, and he inhaled sharply.

Young Count dies in a freak accident.

He read the smaller print.

…was walking his dog in the Tuileries garden when both he and the pet were savaged by a larger dog. The Count suffered fatal injuries to the throat and died at the scene…

“Another one? That’s three out of three! All turned down the invitation or ignored me.” The newspaper shook, magnifying his trembling hands.

“Yes, a coincidence, isn’t it?” The other man hissed. “So, there’s no need to return for a second helping of his cane.” The barman arrived with the absinthe in a stem glass with a silver knife balanced on the rim, on which stood a large piece of sugar. No sooner had he put it on the table than the boy downed it in one, dropping the crystal into his burning mouth. He coughed violently and wheezed as his eyes watered from the potent green liqueur. The man spun a single Franc towards his charge, who caught it with lightning reflexes. “Nineteen sous, you say? Such a low price for a life,” he added. The words sent a chill deep into the boy’s bones, extinguishing the fire of the absinthe.

“What do you want me to do now, sir?” Enquired the lad, fumbling with the paper.

“Call on the Marquis tomorrow at the same time for his acceptance. Then we can get on with organising the concert. Bring his response here, and I’ll have one last job for you. If it goes well, you’ll have your freedom,” his master replied.

As the boy headed for the door, a customer held out a cane, sending him sprawling to the floor. He got up and turned to observe the cane man stand up involuntarily, then suddenly bend double as if punched by some invisible force. He spewed the contents of his afternoon’s consumption onto the bar floor.

Meanwhile, the dark corner that had hosted the earlier conversation was empty.

You are cordially invited to a concert on behalf of the six million souls exhumed and deposited under this city in the name of progress.

You will be treated to modern classical music from some of our most eminent composers.

The venue is the place of deposition.

The Catacombs,

Place Denfert-Rochereau,

Paris.

R.S.V.P.

***

The Marquis threw the envelope into the fire. Flames wrapped around the yellow paper, turning it brown and then black, before igniting and tracing the path to the red wax of the seal. The wax bubbled furiously before exploding in an incendiary of colour. The light from the seal cast a combination of shapes and shadows on the walls surrounding the Marquis with ghost-like apparitions. His eyes opened wide, threatening to leave their sockets at the sights and sounds created by the burning fuel. One shape resembled a snake and was accompanied by a hissing from the flames in perfect synchronicity, giving it life. The shadow wrapped itself around the man, and breath left his body. For a few seconds, his diaphragm was rigid. At the end of the sound, one word was clear.

“Accept.” The seal disappeared in a final crackle, extinguishing the light show and causing the snake to vanish. The Marquis collapsed onto the carpet, gasping for air, hands at his throat. He grasped the handle near the fireplace and pulled.