“Liberté,” I say to them; their eyes travel to the open doors of their cells. Pandemonium ensues.

12

Les Oubliettes

I make it back to the top floor of the tower at a run. Behind the door, I peer into the courtyard as a cry pierces the night. The Ghosts are wailing. The guards on the tower are confused; half of them rush toward the balcony’s edge to stare down at the commotion, giving me time to dart behind their backs across the courtyard into the garderobe. I unwind a rope I found in one of the guard rooms and attach it to a vicious-looking hook, which I fasten to the stone ledge of the privy. Then I grab the rope and in one fluid movement I dive through the hole, dropping headfirst into the cesspit. The rope stops my fall, tearing at my muscles. The stench chokes me, burning my nose and eyes. I climb down the last few inches and lower my feet into a squelching pile. I tug at the rope until the hook comes free and follows down after me. Then I take a deep breath and lie down in the vile muck, allowing it to cover me completely. I do my best not to gag, or move, or let myself think about what’s happening. I’m already covered in the stuff; a little more can’t hurt. Outside, men yell, doors slam, the Ghosts wail louder, and voices shout at them. I close my eyes in my soft, putrid resting place and wait.

Moments later the clatter commences: the door of the cesspit opens. The night-soil men have arrived right on time to empty the cesspit. They appear unconcerned by the running gendarmes and the wailing Ghosts causing chaos around them. They have one job to do, which hasn’t changed for over a hundred years, and they’re going to do it no matter what. They wedge the door open, allowing glorious night air to rush in, and they return to their wagon to get their shovels. I rise, camouflaged by my coating of muck, and dart out the door. Armed with their shovels, they return to the cesspit, and while their backs are turned, I clamber onto their large wagon and hunker down between the foul heaps of excrement.

I lean over and squint between the wagon’s wooden slats toward the light of the gendarmerie, where Ettie and the Ghosts are gathered around a body. Ettie is wailing loudly. The policemen are standing nearby, trying to calm the Ghosts’ hysterical cries of “Murder! Murder!” The slim inspector is there in their midst, barking orders and taking control, her red hair gleaming in the light.

She bends over to study the corpse.

“This victim has been dead for hours,” she says, straightening. She frowns as her eyes wander over the Ghosts. Then she looks up at the tower.

“Something is not right. Check on the inmates,” she says.

My stomach tightens.

“But, Inspector Javert—” a gendarme starts to argue.