"Simon Hawke - Wizard 4 - The Wizard of Rue Morgue" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

The Wizard of Rue Morgue
The Wizard of 4th Street - 04

Simon Hawke




1
 Prologue

By day, Jacques Pascal scuttled through the darkness of the Paris sewers with
nothing but rats and water bugs for company. He paddled through the tunnels in an old
boat left over from the days when guides had taken tourists on short excursions beneath
the city streets. The complex network of sewer tunnels was like an underground city
beneath the streets of Paris. That they had once been a tourist attraction was something
of a mystery. They were only sewers, after all, and there was not that much to see, but
the public curiosity about the Paris sewers began centuries ago with the publication of
Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. The image of Hugo's romantic fugitive, Jean Valjean,
sloshing through the slimy tunnels had captured the imagination of the public and after
that, the sewers beneath the Paris streets became the setting for all sorts of strange and
nefarious goings-on, at least in fiction.
In the days prior to the Collapse, guides had taken tourists on short fifteen-minute
boat rides through the principal tunnels, beginning on the Left Bank at Pont de l'Alma,
explaining to the visitors how the sewage was chemically treated for use as fertilizer in
the fields outside the city. They had pointed out the telephone lines and the old system
of pneumatic tubes once used for sending letters across Paris. They had shown tourists
how the streets above were clearly labeled in the tunnels and how the branch pipes
were all numbered, corresponding to the buildings above. They had often pointed out
the ones leading to some of the more famous establishments of Paris. Now, no one
came down to the sewers anymore. At least, no one in their right mind.
The Paris sewers had long since ceased being a tourist attraction. Sewage was no
longer treated chemically. At the outlet points, it passed through thaumaturgic
treatment plants, where it was magically processed. But under the streets, the dark and
musty sewers stank and no one remembered who Jean Valjean was anymore. No one
came down to see where he had fled from the relentless policeman who pursued him.
Only the desperate and the crazed ever ventured down into the sewers now and Jacques
Pascal was both.
By night, he crept through the back alleyways and side streets of Montmartre,
searching through the garbage, sustaining himself on scraps thrown out from
restaurants and nightclubs, dressing himself in rags. He wore battered, lace-up army
boots; threadbare woolen pants and sweater; a moth-eaten coat he had fished out of a
trash bin and regardless of the weather, he kept his face swaddled in a frayed and dirty
muffler, his long gray hair sticking out from beneath a shapeless old fedora. He looked
like an old, decrepit derelict, which was exactly what he was.
Once, many years ago, Jacques Pascal had been a featured performer in the
nightclubs whose garbage he now picked through in the dead of night. He had been a
handsome young man, tall, muscular and graceful, and he had set many a chorus girl's
heart to fluttering with his acrobatic feats and carnival stunts. But after trained adepts
had started entering the entertainment business, Jacques found himself unable to