La torre negra

Por Louis Bayard

Vidocq. El nombre infunde terror en el bajo mundo parisino de 1818. Como fundador y director de un grupo de policías vestidos de civil de nueva creación, Vidocq ha utilizado su dominio del disfraz y la vigilancia para capturar a algunos de los criminales más famosos y escurridizos de Francia. Ahora está tras la pista de un misterio tentador, las andanzas del joven delfín Louis-Charles, el hijo de María Antonieta y Luis XVI.

Héctor Carpentier, un estudiante de medicina, vive con su madre viuda en su casa, ahora transformada en una casa de huéspedes, en el Barrio Latino de París, en los días políticamente peligrosos de la restauración. A tres cuadras de distancia, un hombre ha sido asesinado, y el nombre de Héctor se ha encontrado en un pedazo de papel en el bolsillo del muerto: un caso para las habilidades deductivas incomparables de Eugéne François Vidocq, el hombre más temido de la policía de París. Al principio, sospechando del rol de Héctor en el asesinato, Vidocq lo atrae gradualmente en una búsqueda peligrosamente estimulante que les lleva a la verdadera historia de lo que pasó con el hijo de la familia real asesinada.

Oficialmente, el delfín murió de una muerte brutal en la temida Temple, una amenazante torre negra de París de la cual no hay salida, pero durante mucho tiempo se ha especula sobre la posibilidad de que el heredero de diez años de edad podría haber sido pasado de contrabando fuera de su celda de la prisión. Cuando Héctor y Vidocq se encuentran con un hombre sin memoria comienzan a preguntarse si no es el mismo delfín que vuelve de entre los muertos. Sus sospechas se agudizan con el descubrimiento de un diario que revela una impactante conexión de Héctor con el muchacho de la torre y le apoya en su determinación de que se haga justicia a cualquier precio.

En La Torre Negra, Bayard entreteje hábilmente la intriga política, la traición épica, encubrimientos y conspiraciones en un retrato apasionante de la redención familiar y trae a la vida un retrato indeleble de los poderosos y lo profano, Eugéne François Vidocq, primer gran detective de la historia.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: HarperCollins
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 24 jun 2014
• ISBN: 9780062336286

Louis Bayard

A writer, book reviewer, and the author of Mr. Timothy and The Pale Blue Eye, Louis Bayard has written for the New York Times, Washington Post, and Salon.com, among other media outlets. He lives in Washington, D.C.

Vista previa del libro

Parte I

Saint-Cloud

13 Termidor. Año II

PRIMER ENCUENTRO CON el prisionero: poco después de la 1 del mediodía. Prisionero a solas en la celda. No ha comido la cena. Ni el desayuno.

Se percibe un hedor extremo a través de las rejillas. Debo hablar con Barras sobre las condiciones. Hay pilas de excrementos por doquier. Orina, sudor, moho, piel putrefacta. Hartazgo de ratas. Gusanos, cucarachas, piojos.

Veo al prisionero en un camastro, aproximadamente del tamaño de una cuna. (Por razones desconocidas, el prisionero se niega a dormir en una cama.) El tobillo sobresale en un ángulo antinatural. Las rodillas y las muñecas están extremadamente hinchadas, de color azul y amarillo.

El prisionero lleva puestos únicamente unos harapos mugrientos y unos pantalones rotos. Ya ni se viste ni se desviste. Se notan exageradamente las costillas en la piel. Los brazos y las piernas salpicados de llagas purulentas. El cuerpo está cubierto de la cabeza a los pies de alimañas. Encuentro bichos y piojos en todas las arrugas de la sábana, de la manta.

El prisionero se sobresaltó cuando abrí la puerta. Se giró hacia nosotros, pero no movió nada más. Abrió los ojos un poco cuando bajé la vela hasta su cara, pero los cerró de inmediato. La leve luz le hizo daño. Al parecer, el prisionero no ha visto ninguna luz durante al menos seis meses, y se le puede considerar ciego en la práctica.

El prisionero no respondió cuando le di los buenos días. No respondió a mis preguntas. Capté una leve respiración a través de los labios (cubiertos de hongos). Una gran araña negra le subía por el cuello. Descubrí una rata que le estaba comiendo el cabello al prisionero. La saqué con dificultad. Eso provocó que el prisionero me hablara por fin, para darme las gracias.

Le pedí al prisionero que se pusiera en pie. Se negó. Tras pedírselo de forma repetida, intentó levantarse, pero la faltó fuerza. Fue capaz de dar dos pasos con mi ayuda, pero le resultó extremadamente doloroso, a todas luces. El prisionero se desplomó en cuanto quité el brazo. (El guardia, que estuvo presente durante toda la entrevista, se negó a ayudarme a levantarlo.)

Tras devolver al prisionero a su camastro, le prometí regresar a la mañana siguiente para comenzar el tratamiento. Al oírlo, el prisionero me suplicó con un murmullo casi inaudible que no me preocupara. Comentó que su único deseo es morir. En cuanto lo permitiera Dios.

Debo hablar con el general Barras para que se limpie la celda y que haya más luz para el prisionero. La rodilla es lo más preocupante en el aspecto médico. El prisionero obtendría beneficios físicos del baño, de los ejercicios, del contacto con la familia, con los amigos, con cualquiera. Debo hablar con . . . También debo . . .

Qué hemos hecho . . .

Capítulo 1

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El mendigo de la esquina

SOY UNA PERSONA de una cierta edad ya. Tengo la edad suficiente como para haber cometido todo tipo de tonterías, pero descubro sorprendido que el único consejo que puedo dar es este: no dejes que encuentren tu nombre en los bolsillos de un muerto.

Un nombre, sí. Yo me llamo Hector Carpentier. Hoy día, soy el profesor Carpentier, de la École de Médecine. Mi especialidad es la venereología, lo que constituye una fuente continua de diversión para mis alumnos. «Vente con nosotros. Carpentier va a explicarnos la segunda etapa de la sífilis. No vas a volver a follar en tu vida», suelen decirles a sus amigos.

Vivo en la Rue de Helder, con un gato naranja llamado Baptiste. Mis padres ya murieron, no tengo ni hermanos ni hermanas, y no he sido bendecido con hijos. En resumen: yo mismo soy la única familia que tengo. En ciertos periodos de calma, mi mente divaga hacia esas personas que, sin ser parientes en el sentido estricto de la palabra, adquirieron todos los rasgos, todo el significado de la familia . . ., al menos durante cierto tiempo. Si insistís, diría por ejemplo que recuerdo mejor a los compañeros con los que estudié en la facultad de Medicina que a mi propio padre. Y respecto a mi madre . . . Bueno, sigue presente después de todos estos años, pero desde cierto punto de vista no es tan «real» como Charles, quien quizás no era tan real después de todo, pero quien fue, durante algún tiempo, como de la familia.

Pienso en él cada vez que veo una penta. Una mirada es lo único que necesito, y me encuentro de nuevo en los Jardines de Luxemburgo, un día de mayo. Miro pasar a una chica hermosa (el ángulo de su sombrilla, sí, el brillo amarillento de sus guantes), y Charles está observando las flores. Siempre está observando las flores. Sin embargo, esta vez sí que arranca una y la mantiene en alto para que la vea: una estrella de mar egipcia.

Tiene cinco pétalos, de ahí su nombre. Es más pequeña que un suspiro. Imaginaos una estrella de mar sacada del fondo del mar y . . . No importa, no conseguiría describirla con justicia, y lo cierto es que tampoco es tan excepcional, pero allí puesta, en la palma de su mano, me convierte en su propiedad, en cierto modo, lo mismo que todo lo demás: el scottish terrier que está roncando en un banco; el cisne que se acicala las plumas traseras en la fuente; la estatua de Leónidas cubierta de musgo. Yo soy la medida de todas esas cosas, y ellas lo son de mí. Es suficiente, o eso supongo.

Por supuesto, nuestra situación no ha cambiado. Seguimos siendo hombres marcados, tanto él como yo. Pero en este momento, me imagino un leve atisbo de esperanza. Me refiero a la posibilidad de que estemos señalados para otras cosas. Y todo por esa pequeña flor, sin importancia, a la que habría pisado cualquier otro día con el mismo respeto que a una alfombra.

He pensado últimamente en él porque la semana pasada recibí una carta de la duquesa de Angulema. Se encuentra en el castillo que el conde Coronini posee en Eslovenia. El sobre estaba cubierto de sellos, y la carta, redactada con su habitual escritura tímida, era casi un ensayo sobre la lluvia, rematada por plegarias. Me pareció reconfortante. Se dice que la duquesa está escribiendo sus memorias, pero no me lo creo. Ninguna mujer ha mantenido más escondida en su seno su propia vida. Tengo la sensación de que la mantendrá ahí hasta que el forense le asegure que ya está muerta.

Algo que puede tardar mucho en ocurrir. Dios es curioso en ese sentido. Cuanto más desee uno de sus siervos encontrarse en su presencia, y les aseguro que la duquesa lo desea, durante más tiempo los mantiene encadenados a su vieja envoltura mortal. No, lo que Dios ansía son los blasfemos. Por ejemplo, Robespierre. En el punto culminante del Terror, Robespierre decidió que el término Dios tenía demasiadas connotaciones que recordaban al Ancien Régime, así que utilizó su cargo como jefe del Comité de Seguridad Pública y declaró que a partir de entonces a Dios se le llamaría el Ser Supremo. Creo que hubo una especie de festival para celebrar el ascenso de categoría de Dios. Puede que incluso hubiera un desfile. Yo solo tenía dos años.

Pocos meses después, mientras se dirigía entre gruñidos al cadalso con media mandíbula arrancada de un disparo, ¿acaso Robespierre pensaba en disculparse? Nunca lo sabremos. No tuvo tiempo para escribir sus memorias.

Yo dispongo de mucho mucho tiempo, pero si tuviera que escribir mi vida, no creo que comenzara con las genuflexiones habituales. Me refiero a todos esos antepasados con alabardas, o a las comadronas que te tomaban en sus mitones desgastados. No. Tendría que comenzar con Vidocq. Y quizás también tendría que acabarla con él.

Después de todo, con qué facilidad se nos escapa el tiempo. Me basta con cerrar los ojos, y dos décadas desaparecen con una simple exhalación, y me encuentro de nuevo en . . .

El año 1818. Según los archivos oficiales, se trata del vigésimo tercer año de reinado de Luis XVIII. Sin embargo, menos los tres últimos años, su majestad ha reinado en otro lugar, escondido, podría decirse si uno no fuera amable, mientras cierto corso convertía a Europa en su reposapiés. Eso ya no importa. Han encerrado al corso (de nuevo); los Borbones han regresado; se han acabado las guerras, y el futuro está despejado.

Este curioso periodo de la historia de Francia recibe el nombre de la Restauración. La implicación es que después de todos esos experimentos sin sentido con la democracia y el imperio, el pueblo francés ha recuperado el sentido común y ha invitado a los Borbones para que regresen a las Tullerías. Nunca se menciona toda esa incomodidad pasada. Todos hemos visto suficientes maniobras políticas como para varias vidas, y ahora lo sabemos: defender a muerte una idea conduce a la propia muerte.

Yo también lo sé, aunque soy demasiado joven en el momento en que comienza este relato, tan joven que apenas soy capaz de reconocerme. Me faltan cuatro años para cumplir la treintena. Soy delgado, de piel sonrosada, con tendencia a resfriarme. Mi padre ha muerto hace unos dieciocho meses. Nos legó a mi madre y a mí la casa en la que me crie, además de cierta tierra sin cultivar en Chaussée d'Antin, que ya he perdido debido a ciertas malas inversiones. Para ser más concretos, fui el inversor principal en una hermosa bailarina flaca llamada Eulalie. Tenía unos hermosos ojos negros, además de un modo de sonreír ladino que parecía deslizarse sigilosamente desde la parte posterior de su cabeza. También sabía chasquear las muñecas de un modo suave cuando sacaba los huesos de las articulaciones, y era un sonido que nunca perdía su encanto.

He oído decir que las cenas, las representaciones, los carruajes y los guantes no cuestan nada en París. Eso es completamente cierto si no eres tú quien los paga, y durante el tiempo que estuve con Eulalie, ella no pagó absolutamente nada. Formaba parte de su encanto. Cuando se vio forzada a ello, admitió que le debía dos mil francos a la modista, y otros mil trescientos a su tapicero, y, ¡oh, Dios mío!, qué otra cosa podía hacer, me pareció lo más natural del mundo vender las tierras de mi padre y pasear en zapatos embarrados con un único traje negro.

Más tarde me enteré de que el dinero acabó en manos de un funcionario de tribunal llamado Cornu, que llevaba cinco años viviendo con Eulalie, y con quien tenía dos hijos.

Siempre le disgustó que nadie montara escenas, así que nunca tuvimos una discusión. Me dejó todo un sótano lleno de recuerdos, que es donde paso la mayor parte de estos primeros tiempos de la Restauración. Allí rebusco. Mi madre y yo vivimos en el Barrio Latino, y para compensar la pérdida de las propiedades, comenzamos a aceptar huéspedes. Eran sobre todo estudiantes de la universidad. Mi madre, con su tocado de redecilla, preside la mesa de la cena; yo me dedico a reparar las goteras. También las cosas que chirrían, si puedo (las viguetas están un poco podridas en la tercera planta). En mi tiempo libre acudo a los laboratorios de la universidad, donde el doctor Duméril, un viejo amigo de la familia, me permite que lleve a cabo mis experimentos, aunque nadie tiene muy claro en qué consisten. A la gente le cuento que me encuentro en mitad de una monografía, pero de hecho llevo en mitad de la monografía desde hace dos años. La verdad es que lo único que tengo realmente terminado es el título: «La eficacia terapéutica del magnetismo animal en conjunción con diversas prácticas orientalistas de la antigua . . .».

Ah, prefiero no seguir. Una vez se lo recité entero a mi madre, y en su rostro apareció una expresión de tristeza tan profunda que decidí no volver a hablar de ello . . ., y casi decido también abandonar por completo el proyecto. Si hubiera sido más valiente, lo hubiera hecho.

¿Por qué mencioné la monografía? ¡Ah! Porque volvía del laboratorio la mañana en cuestión. No. No es exactamente así. Vuelvo de Le Père Bonvin.

Es lunes. El veintitrés de marzo. Ya es primavera, para ser exactos, aunque está tardando en llegar a París. Hace una semana que llegó un temporal de aguanieve grisácea que se ha quedado como un huésped indeseable y maligno. Ya no es posible distinguir entre aire y agua. Se oyen chapoteos por todos lados: los tuyos, los del hombre que te sigue, los de la mujer que camina delante de ti. Nos rodea una oscuridad líquida en continuo movimiento, como si todos fuéramos ranas de un reino sumergido.

Los paraguas no sirven de nada. Aprietas el sombrero con fuerza contra la cabeza y mantienes las solapas del cuello del abrigo levantadas mientras sigues caminando. Aunque no tengas ningún sitio al que ir . . ., ¡vas!

Sí, todo eso me describe bastante bien cuando entro en la Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève, con una determinación ceñuda y sin ir a ningún sitio en concreto. Excepto a mi casa. La calle está vacía a excepción de Bardou, quien alza la cabeza a modo de saludo. Bardou es mi referencia principal, porque mantiene su puesto en la esquina sin importar el tiempo que haga. Dicen que perdió un brazo hace mucho en un molino de papel, y aunque trabaja de sacristán de vez en cuando, siempre vuelve a su puesto al lado del maldito pozo, y siempre que paso procuro darle una o dos monedas (últimamente más de cobre que de plata), y él muestra su agradecimiento inclinando la cabeza hacia un lado un par de centímetros. Es nuestro ritual, y me resulta extrañamente tranquilizador en su conjunto.

Pero hoy, veintitrés de marzo, ese ritual se ve roto de un modo bastante inquietante. Lo hace el propio Bardou, quien comete la peculiar falta de mirarme directamente. Gira su rostro hacia mí y me mira con toda la intención.

¿Me está reprendiendo en silencio por mi tacañería? Admito que es lo primero que pienso, pero se me ocurre otra posibilidad mientras recorro la calle en dirección a mi casa, y es algo más sorprendente todavía que el hecho de que me haya mirado. Me refiero a la posibilidad de que no sea Bardou.

Me echo a reír mientras miro hacia atrás. Que no sea Bardou. La misma forma encorvada y en cuclillas. El sombrero deshilachado y las botas rotas, casi a punto de deshacerse, pero sin acabar de hacerlo nunca. ¡Y el muñón, por Dios! Se estremecía como una varita de adivino. ¿Que no era Bardou?

Dejo de pensar en él en cuanto entro en casa. Los estudiantes que alojamos se han ido a las clases. Mi madre se ha marchado con Charlotte, la criada, a elegir cortinas en el Palais-Royal. Estoy solo. Ante mí se presentan unos minutos valiosos, listos para ser desperdiciados. Me quito los zapatos casi a patadas y me tumbo en el diván de arpillera, en el que se supone que no debe sentarse nadie. Me pongo a leer las noticias de Talma del último número del Minerve Française (que he tenido que llevarme a escondidas del Le Père Bonvin porque no puedo permitirme pagar la suscripción) y me dispongo a . . . Iba a decir reflexionar, pero dormitar me parece más apropiado. Cuando oigo los golpes en la puerta, tengo la sensación de que me están sacando de un profundo foso.

«Da igual. —Me pongo el periódico sobre la cara—. Charlotte la abrirá.»

Ah, pero Charlotte no está en casa. No hay nadie en casa aparte de mí, y cada vez llaman con más fuerza e insistencia. Puedo hacer caso omiso, ya lo he hecho antes, es una capacidad que tengo, pero los golpes suenan ya con mayor rapidez, y en mi estado de sopor empiezo a preguntarme si no forman una especie de código, algo que no sabré hasta que no abra la puerta. No tengo tiempo de preguntarme si quiero saberlo, porque ya me dirijo presuroso hacia el recibidor para correr el cerrojo y abrir la puerta de par en par . . .

Y ahí está Bardou. Con la cabeza inclinada y la voz ahogada.

—Le pido mil perdones, señor.

Es lo más sorprendente que le haya visto hacer jamás. Está de pie. Por primera vez desde que le conozco . . . y quizás la última. Su cuerpo encorvado gira en el aire. Dentro de un segundo se derrumbará.

—Un poco de pan . . . —jadea al mismo tiempo que se apoya en el marco de la puerta—. Por favor . . .

Hay algo que debo dejar claro. Ahora mismo, no albergo ni una pizca de caridad. Solo una cierta sensación de terror. No quiero que se muera en el suelo de parqué, porque incluso si consiguiera hacer desaparecer el cuerpo, mi madre lo olería, lo cubriría de cera y lo añadiría a mi larga lista de faltas y afrentas. No se trata de una lista física, escrita en papel, es algo interminable, serpenteante y fluido, es la lengua rosada de una gran serpiente, que casi me roza el cuello mientras corro hacia la despensa de Charlotte . . .

«No debe morir en nuestra casa. No debe morir en nuestra casa.»

No hay pan, pero sí algo que . . . parece pan. ¡Una pasta de almendras! Puede que tenga ya una semana. Perfecto.

Regreso con el dulce rancio y una leve sonrisa en los labios, y en la puerta . . .

No hay nadie.

Oigo un carraspeo a mi espalda. Es Bardou. Alguna fuerza desconocida lo ha trasladado a nuestro comedor. Está apoyado en el aparador.

—He . . .

Me quedo sin habla cuando agarra el pastel y lo devora en dos bocados.

—¡Argh! —exclama mientras arroja a un lado el envoltorio—. Es mierda de lagarto.

Luego se sienta en el mismo diván donde yo estaba tumbado (en el que se supone que no debe sentarse nadie).

Una vez más, las palabras, los reproches corteses, no salen de mi boca, porque acabo de darme cuenta del cambio de voz de Bardou, que se rejuvenece con cada segundo que pasa.

Y eso no es nada comparado con el cambio físico del propio Bardou. Se está deshaciendo. De su manga vacía salen un puñado de lazos, y el brazo que le queda se escurre hacia el interior de la pechera, y a los pocos segundos, aparece milagrosamente otro brazo donde antes solo había un muñón.

«Como una hidra. Le crecen nuevas extremidades», pienso mientras lo miro asombrado.

—Verá, buen señor, no sé qué es lo que trata de . . .

No me presta atención, porque está demasiado ocupado pasándose las manos por la cara . . . y arrancándose la cara de Bardou al hacerlo.

¿Por qué dejarlo ahí? ¿Por qué no arrancarse el cabello blanco directamente de la cabeza, como un ave que cambiara de plumaje en un solo segundo atroz?

Ahí está el polluelo atrevido: el cabello es una masa húmeda de color castaño; la boca está arrugada en una mueca llena de sarcasmo. Los ojos de un color azul grisáceo se asoman por encima de una nariz proporcionada y hermosa. Lo más preocupante de todo es el leve rastro de una cicatriz sobre su labio superior.

—Sepa . . ., sepa que . . . —tartamudeo—. Hay un cuartel de la policía . . . a dos manzanas de aquí.

El desconocido sonríe detrás del pañuelo, que está cubierto con los restos de la cara de Bardou, y me habla con una voz suave y extraña.

—Cuatro.

—¿Perdón?

—A cuatro manzanas —insiste con la paciencia de un cura—. En la esquina de Cholets con Saint-Hubert. Podemos ir ahora mismo si lo desea.

Y entonces se produce la transformación más asombrosa de todas. Se yergue. No. Eso no es suficiente para describirlo. Crece. Como si, de repente, hubiera descubierto que tenía otros doce centímetros de columna vertebral y estuviera desplegando toda esa estatura desconocida. La diminuta figura del viejo decrépito de la esquina se ha convertido en un individuo corpulento de un metro setenta y cinco. De hombros anchos, aspecto orgulloso y directo, construido a lo largo de líneas geológicas, con una gruesa capa de músculos que se transforman en salientes de grasa . . ., pero la grasa de algún modo vuelve a convertirse en músculo, por lo que se mantiene como una unidad indisoluble, una criatura de poder bestial, capaz de paralizarte la laringe.

—Debo pedirle que se marche ahora mismo de esta casa —le conmino—. Ha . . ., ha supuesto que podía esperar demasiado de mi caridad . . .

Puede que me tiemble un poco la voz, pero no estoy seguro. Solo oigo el murmullo malhumorado del desconocido.

—Llamar pastel a eso . . . Más bien era una piedra del pavimento . . . ¿Pero qué se cree que . . .? —De repente, alza la voz—. ¡Por Dios!, ¿no tiene algo con lo que hacer bajar eso?

Se fija en una botella de vino a medio beber que hay sobre el aparador. Saca el corcho de un tirón y luego toma una copa del armario de la vajilla para alzarla hacia la luz y estudiarla con cierto escepticismo. De repente, en la mano aparecen manchas de eccema por la suciedad, como si las hubiera invocado de la nada. Por último, vertió el vino con gran cuidado en la copa antes de pasear su nariz de trufa por el borde.

—Mucho mejor —dice tras tomar un par de sorbos—. Un Beaune, ¿verdad? No está mal.

Yo . . . busco un arma con la mirada. Es sorprendente las pocas que hay a la vista. Un par de cuchillos para la mantequilla. Un candelero. Quizás Charlotte dejó un sacacorchos en el cajón. ¿Cuánto tiempo tardaría en encontrarlo? ¿Cuánto en . . .?

Pero todos mis cálculos y planes se desvanecen en cuanto habla.

—Por favor, doctor Carpentier, siéntese.

Capítulo 2

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Muerte de una patata

ASÍ, SIN MÁS, me desarma. Por un motivo excelente: me ha llamado «doctor».

En estos primeros tiempos de la Restauración, nadie me cree merecedor de ese título, y yo mucho menos. Por ello, aunque me agacho para sentarme, me siento elevado por ese «doctor». Sí, me esfuerzo por ser merecedor de ello.

—Bueno, ya veo que me conoce, pero yo todavía no he tenido el honor de saber vuestro nombre.

—Es cierto —admitió.

Empieza a pasear por el comedor inspeccionándolo, casi olfateando, y toqueteándolo/ manoseando todo. La mesa de madera de árbol frutal con la superficie desgastada. Las jarras de cristal jaspeado y mellado. Las marcas de quemaduras en la pantalla de color marfil de la lámpara. De todo lo que toca emana un aura de mezquindad.

—¡Ajá! —exclama mientras pasa el dedo por una pila de platos de rebordes azules—. De Tournai, ¿verdad? No se avergüence, doctor. No hay nada mejor que los trabajos forzados para mantener barata la porcelana.

—Monsieur, creo que ya le he pedido el honor de conocer su nombre.

Posa en mí un instante sus ojos de mirada alegre.

—Sí que lo ha hecho, y le ruego acepte mis disculpas. Quizás conozca a un hombre llamado . . . —Se lleva una mano cerrada a la boca, como si fuera un capullo de flor, y el propio nombre surge como una nube de polen—. Vidocq.

Espera, lleno de confianza, a que aparezca una expresión de entendimiento en mis ojos.

—Se refiere a . . . ¡Ah!, ese tipo que es algo parecido a un policía, ¿verdad?

La sonrisa desaparece, y entrecierra los ojos.

—Algo parecido a un policía. Y Napoleón sólo algo parecido a un soldado. Voltaire solo soltó unos cuantos chistes. Le seré sincero, doctor: si no ve las cosas en su verdadera escala, voy a perder la esperanza con usted.

—No, yo no . . . Me refiero a que encierra a ladrones, ¿verdad? Sale escrito en los periódicos.

Se encoge de hombros, pero con un gesto grandilocuente.

—Los periódicos escriben lo que a ellos les parece bien. Si quiere saber la verdad sobre Vidocq, pregúnteles a los canallas que tiemblan al oír ese nombre. Ellos sí que podrían escribir libros enteros, doctor.

—Pero ¿qué tiene que ver Vidocq con todo esto?

—Yo soy Vidocq.

Lo dice como si se le hubiera ocurrido de repente, como si después de haberlo pronunciado una primera vez, no necesitara esfuerzo alguno por hacer suyo el nombre. Es más afirmativo que si lo hubiera gritado a voces.

—Bueno, todo eso está muy bien —le respondo al mismo tiempo que me cruzo de brazos—. Pero ¿tiene documentos para demostrarlo?

—¡Lo que hay que oír! Por favor, doctor que come en vajilla fabricada por convictos, dígame, ¿por qué iba a necesitar documentos?

—¿Por qué? Entra aquí . . . —Me sorprende descubrir que mi ira crece en la misma proporción que la suya—. Se mete aquí, monsieur Quienquiera Que Sea, con sus truquitos y su muñón falso, y me dice «¡Voilà, Vidocq!» esperando que me lo crea sin más. ¿Por qué iba a hacerlo? ¿Cómo tengo la certeza de que usted es quien dice ser?

Piensa en ello durante unos momentos y luego, con cierta pesadumbre, me contesta:

—No puede tenerla.

Es una buena lección para quitarse de en medio. Eugène François Vidocq, si es que lo es, no se somete a los mismos estándares empíricos que el resto del mundo. Hay que aceptarlo tal y como es o irse al infierno.

—Muy bien. Si es usted ese tal Vidocq, dígame dónde se encuentra Bardou.

—Le aseguro que está pasando una semana de maravilla con las hermanas bernardinas. Se está encargando de sus melones. No creo que tenga ganas de volver a su esquina, doctor.

—Pero ¿por qué se iba a tomar tantas molestias? Ocupar su lugar en la esquina, vestirse como él, parecerse a . . .

—Verá, doctor . . . —El desconocido se apoya en la mesa—. Si un cazador persigue a una presa, debe tener cuidado de que no le vean.

—¿Y quién es la presa?

—Pues usted, claro.

En ese momento, giro la cabeza y veo delante del diván mis botas y el periódico a medio leer.

—¿Y por qué iba a tener que perseguirme? —le pregunto.

Pero ya lo sé.

Eulalie.

Me imagino con rapidez angustiosa la lista de ofensas. Eulalie y su funcionario de tribunales . . . Habrían intentado vender plata robada . . . Lo habrían detenido los gendarmes . . . «Te soltaremos esta vez si nos decís quién es el jefe criminal . . .» ¿Y quién mejor al que entregar que al pobre Hector? ¿No lo haría todo por Eulalie . . . todavía? ¿No se dejaría encerrar en La Force por ella?

Y del fondo de mi corazón reseco y encogido llega la respuesta: «Sí».

—Es absurdo. Yo no he hecho . . . ¿Qué podría yo haber . . .?

—Basta, basta —me interrumpe mientras gira el cuello para desentumecérselo—. Si se tiene que producir un interrogatorio, debería dejármelo a mí. Para eso me pagan. A ver . . . —Toma otro trago de vino y se limpia los labios con la manga—. Podría comenzar por decirme qué quería de usted cierto señor llamado Chrétien Leblanc.

—No conozco a nadie llamado Leblanc.

Sonríe levemente.

—¿Está seguro, doctor?

—Todo lo que puedo estarlo, sí.

—Bueno, pues entonces esto resulta un tanto curioso, porque he venido a decirle que monsieur Leblanc sí que le conoce a usted.

Manotea de nuevo en el interior de su pechera y saca no otro brazo, sino un papel de estraza. Está salpicado de manchas de cera y tieso por la grasa absorbida. Desde su superficie mugrienta me asaltan las palabras, negras, agresivas.

Doctor Hector Carpentier

18 de Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève

SE COLOCA A mi espalda este atemorizador desconocido y me observa mientras leo. Noto su aliento en la nuca. El aire se carga de vino.

—Doctor, ¿es su dirección o no?

—Por supuesto.

—Y este es su nombre, ¿verdad?

—Sí.

—Y creo que tiene el honor de ser el único doctor Carpentier de todo París. No crea que no lo he comprobado —añade a la vez que me tira suavemente de la oreja—. Maldita sea, sigo hambriento como el mismo diablo. ¿Hay algo más de comer? Ese puñetero pastelillo . . .

Unos instantes después, le oigo rebuscar en la despensa. Califica cada objeto a medida que lo toma en la mano.

—Unas castañas que han tenido tiempos mejores . . . ¿Peras en conserva? Será que no . . . El queso parece estar bien, pero . . . Este color púrpura sí que da miedo, no se ve muy a menudo . . .

—¡Esto es ridículo! —le dije a gritos—. ¡Nunca he recibido a ese tal monsieur Leblanc en mi casa! ¡Ni siquiera . . .!

«Ni siquiera soy un médico en activo . . .»

Pero el orgullo me impide decirlo. Puede que también me calle por la aparición del desconocido, que sale con una patata en la boca. Una patata cruda, metida

Comentarios para La torre negra

[mamzel_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This was a fun mystery in the league of The Man in the Iron Mask and the myth of Anastasia where a man found battered and near death in a prison. Could this possibly be Charles, the son of King Louis and Marie Antoinette? Dr. Hector Carpentier (whose father was the doctor of Charles before the Revolution) and Eugene Vidocq (a real person), a policeman who was ahead of his time in criminalistics.Vidocq was a fascinating person who loved altering his appearance and was maybe the first person to realize that fingerprints could be used to solve a crime. I loved the period this story took place and the mystery surrounding Charles. That it was narrated by the incomparable Simon Vance made it even more enjoyable. He always sounds like he's telling a story, not reading from a book

[pontori2 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I absolutely loved this book.I got an Advanced Reader's Copy from the publisher through library thing's program. I am so glad to have gotten the chance to read this novel before the rest of the public.The author managed to make me care about the characters within the first few pages. Even though I'm not an expert on the time period, I never felt lost, or that there was excessive exposition. This book kept me riveted until the very end.

[merrykat · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

A very interesting alternate history of the lost dauphin. Bayard's writing is always conspiratorial with his reader, and this one is no exception. If you have my habit of occasionally reading the dialogue aloud, there is a section that should reduce you to tears. Bayard really does manage to immerse his readers in the time period of his books; terrific.

[tracyrowan · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Historicals are among my favorite types of novel. Not so much the sort where Goody Smith saves Plymouth colony from evil minions of some corrupt government and oh, look! Isn't that Miles Standish over there under the spreading chestnut tree? But rather, the sort where true history and fiction are joined so seamlessly that you actually find yourself thinking that the author's creations were historical figures. Since I'm a huge fan of the late Dorothy Dunnett, my bar is set pretty high, which is part of the reason why I only awarded four stars to Bayard for "The Black Tower." Another part? His prose, though good, isn't the sort that keeps you turning pages obsessively.That's not a bad thing. He's a good, solid novelist, and he has created a believable story about the possibility that the son of Marie Antoinette and Louis the Sixteenth actually survived the French revolution and the years of terror that came after. It's a potent tale; stories about lost princes or princesses stir the imagination. The real-life story of Anna Anderson continues to captivate people in spite of the DNA testing which has proved conclusively that she was not a Romanov, much less Anastasia. Kudos to Bayard for tackling a lesser known story, and giving us a pair of unlikely heroes in the (fictional) Hector Carpentier and the (quite real) Eugène François Vidocq, the man who in 1812 created the Sûreté, which has since served as the model for Scotland Yard and the FBI.While I did find myself pulled into the story, it didn't really come alive for me until about halfway through. And I was tossed right back out again with the explanation of how the Dauphin was smuggled out of the tower because I found it all a little too much of a stretch. But at the same time it wasn't enough to make me stop reading, which proves the strength of the prose, I imagine. My only other complaint is that the character of Charles, the young man who may or may not be the Dauphin, never really came to life for me. I really never got any sense of who he had become. And in fact, none of the characters truly resonated for me, though they were by no means badly drawn.Do I recommend this book unreservedly? No. But I do recommend it. If you're a fan of historicals, I think you'll find it well worth your time.

[jibrailis · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

The French Revolution-- now a memory. However, memories are restirred in Louis Bayard's The Black Tower, wherein Dr. Hector Carpentier is embroiled in a mystery when he discovers a dead man bearing his name and address. Into the scene comes Inspector Vidocq, and together Carpentier and Vidocq are thrown into a series of events that takes them back to the bloody days of the revolution and the whereabouts of Louis XVII, the boy who would have been king of France.I thought this book was delicious. I'm not too well-versed in mysteries and most of the mysteries I've read have been your typical British-manor types. So it was entirely refreshing to read a mystery set in France, and historical France at that. Bayard does a good job of recreating the era. His setting is impeccably well-researched and atmospheric. A lot of the time mysteries focus solely on the mystery so I appreciated the way Bayard focused on the whole package.The premise of the mystery is also intriguing. Like Anastasia, another lost royal, the fate of Louis XVII is tantalizingly mysterious. The mystery is clever, twisting and winding in ways one wouldn't necessarily expect it to go. I think Louis Bayard has created a fantastic adventure with Vidocq and The Black Tower. I look forward to reading more.

[estellechauvelin · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

The Black Tower is a detective story set in the early days of the return of the Bourbon monarchy. Doctor Hector Carpentier is drawn into an investigation of a murder by Vidocq, the historical famous criminal turned detective who inspired Victor Hugo for both Valjean and Javert in Les Miserables. At first Vidocq suspects the doctor of being behind the murder, but it turns out that the crime has its roots a generation earlier and is tied into the fate of Louis XVII, the lost Dauphin.Vidocq is perhaps not quite as much in the spotlight as this reader would prefer, but this remains a rich historical narrative and the unfolding plot will draw the reader in. The fact that questions remained unanswered at the end makes it no less satisfying.

[candyschultz · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Pleasure is personal but for me few things equal the deep enjoyment of sitting down with a new book and being riveted from the first page. I reviewed Louis Bayard's book Mr. Timothy here. His newest novel shows he is just getting better.The Black Tower is historical fiction at its finest. It tells the tale of Louis XVII, the lost king of France. There is quite a bit of historical fact in this book and a great many of the characters were real. For those who are unaware of the history, during the French Revolution the Royal Family was held prisoner for a time in the Temple prison in the 'black tower'. It was from here that Louis XVI was led to the guillotine. After his father's death the eight year old Charles (Louis XVII) was separated from his mother forever. In 1795 his death was announced. Like Anastasia, young Charles' death was difficult to prove and rumors and legends and family claims of pretenders persisted until fairly recently..Bayard has taken one of these rumors and woven a delicious story of mystery, murder and intrigue. While I did not find this book as tense as Mr. Timothy, it was much more fun. Most of the fun was created by M. Vidocq the creator of France's Surete and one of the very first detectives. He is given to costumes that are so effective they even fool the mobs of the 'sans culotte' at the guillotine. Here is some information on the real Vidocq. Using this character was a brilliant choice and he colors the book wonderfully. As his foil Dr. Hector Carpentier is more sober and thoughtful and not altogether happy to be drawn in to the adventure.The adventure itself revolves around the possibility that some person or persons were able to substitute another child for the dauphin and that the young Charles in the book might be the real king. Various factions have reason to either wish for this to be so or to prevent its becoming known if true. Several people are murdered by the latter faction and Vidocq is tasked with solving that crime. Since Dr. Carpentier's name was found on the body of the first victim, he is drawn in against his will. He is also in danger from the killers who think he can identify the King. Ultimately the doctor is required to protect Charles and himself from these killers with much help from Vidocq and his staff. The two get as close to death as anyone during the Revolution and it is only with a tour de force performance by the detective that they are saved.Mr. Bayard does not miss a step in weaving truth and fiction in this book. I have read a certain amount of French history and I cannot find a flaw. In the acknowledgments, Bayard says: "My account of the dauphin's final months in the Temple is about equal parts history and invention. For the real deal, the reader is advised to consult Deborah Cadbury's excellent The Lost King of France. Having the vast library that I do, I was able to close the cover of The Black Tower and open the Cadbury book immediately. A review of the latter will be forthcoming. The two books together make very interesting, though poignant, reading.The Black Tower will be published in August. I cannot wait for the film which would be fantastic. Perhaps Gerard Depardieu could reprise his role as Vidocq.

[bjh3038 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I absolutely loved this book! When I first started it, I was a little thrown off by the use of modern language and forensic techniques in 19th century England, but as I got further along, the writing style combined with the historic setting started to flow together. What annoyed me in the beginning of the book, I found charming by the end of it.

[anglophile65 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Really enjoyed this author's style and the images of the day, 1818 Paris, were very visual. Good story even to the end, kept you thinking and guessing.

[unreachableshelf · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

The Black Tower is a detective story set in the early days of the return of the Bourbon monarchy. Doctor Hector Carpentier is drawn into an investigation of a murder by Vidocq, the historical famous criminal turned detective who inspired Victor Hugo for both Valjean and Javert in Les Miserables. At first Vidocq suspects the doctor of being behind the murder, but it turns out that the crime has its roots a generation earlier and is tied into the fate of Louis XVII, the lost Dauphin.Vidocq is perhaps not quite as much in the spotlight as this reader would prefer, but this remains a rich historical narrative and the unfolding plot will draw the reader in. The fact that questions remained unanswered at the end makes it no less satisfying.

[veevoxvoom · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

The French Revolution-- now a memory. However, memories are restirred in Louis Bayard's The Black Tower, wherein Dr. Hector Carpentier is embroiled in a mystery when he discovers a dead man bearing his name and address. Into the scene comes Inspector Vidocq, and together Carpentier and Vidocq are thrown into a series of events that takes them back to the bloody days of the revolution and the whereabouts of Louis XVII, the boy who would have been king of France.I thought this book was delicious. I'm not too well-versed in mysteries and most of the mysteries I've read have been your typical British-manor types. So it was entirely refreshing to read a mystery set in France, and historical France at that. Bayard does a good job of recreating the era. His setting is impeccably well-researched and atmospheric. A lot of the time mysteries focus solely on the mystery so I appreciated the way Bayard focused on the whole package.The premise of the mystery is also intriguing. Like Anastasia, another lost royal, the fate of Louis XVII is tantalizingly mysterious. The mystery is clever, twisting and winding in ways one wouldn't necessarily expect it to go. I think Louis Bayard has created a fantastic adventure with Vidocq and The Black Tower. I look forward to reading more.

[resaliens_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

The Black Tower by Louis Bayard is a historical mystery set in 1818 Paris involving the lost Dauphin of France, Louis-Charles (who would have been Louis XVII if Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette hadn't lost their heads in the revolution). The novel also features the historical François Vidocq, a former criminal who became France's first Director of Security and one of the first detectives of the modern era.

The writing is good - 1st person present, which is difficult to pull off but Bayard does quite well with snappy (and often humorously vulgar) dialog, flashbacks, a diary, correspondence, and fast-paced narrative. Got a little long in the middle, as modern novels often do, but the denouement was satisfying. Bit of an anti-religious bias (Bayard writes for Salon after all), but again, it's something many modern novels stumble over. Too bad, decreases their shelf life. My rating: 6 out of 10.

[bookmarque · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

The premise tugged at me because of The Man in the Iron Mask, the whole deal with Richard III and the princes in the tower and all those women who claimed to be Anastasia, Grand Duchess of Russia, and it is a little of all those. The inclusion of Vidocq adds a veneer of hard-boiled detective which is weird for this period (and locale) of history, but strangely it works. It balances the social striving that consumes a lot of the lives of everyone else, Hector included. And poor old Hector is in need of structure and stability, especially once he’s hit with the cyclone that is Vidocq. Oh is he ever the man out of his element. Eventually he gets up to speed though and proves an able “assistant” for the hard-driving Vidocq.Like any good piece of historical fiction, this book blends the real and the unreal so skilfully that it’s hard to distinguish. Hector Carpentier, his family and friends are wholly fictional, but the royal family and Vidocq are not and provide anchors of believability. Then there is Hector’s narration. He’s yanked out of his comfortable self-pity by Vidocq’s driving enthusiasm and persistence and his whole attitude of surrender, first to his circumstances then to the pull of the conspiracy theory. The way he tells the tale has the ring of truth. Most of it is conversational and there are no “as you know, Bob’s” at least none so glaring that I noticed. Luckily I knew enough about the French Revolution and Restoration to understand what was not explicitly explained. This time period really came alive for me in the broad strokes and in the details. The journal reports were especially squirm-inducing. Why does the Aristocracy persist? Why do people who largely have been abused by it, seek to restore it? Why do most attempts to replace it fail? Why are humans so damned competitive and suspicious? Why do so few of us have deep compassion? Where does Vidocq get his wonderful toys? These are just some of the questions to turn over while you read about the missing would-be King of France.

[dulac3_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

_The Black Tower_ by Louis Bayard is a very enjoyable historical fiction/mystery set in Paris and its environs during the period of the Bourban Bourbon Restoration, with numerous flashbacks to the Terror of the Revolution. It is a period of huge turmoil and horror for France, where hope and possibility were mingled with despair and the worst elements of the human heart. The story proper begins as the narrator, Dr. Hector Carpentier, recalls for us what is perhaps the most eventful period of his life. It is a time when he was struggling to find his place in a world full of both personal and political upheaval and whose most memorable event may have been his seemingly chance meeting with Eugène François Vidocq, the famous former criminal turned police investigator, considered by many to be the father of modern criminology. As Carpentier tells us: I’m a man of a certain age – old enough to have been every kind of fool – and I find to my surprise that the only counsel I have to pass on is this: never let your name be found in a dead man’s trousers.

Unfortunately for him, Carpentier has fallen prey to just such an occurrence and as a result becomes enmeshed in an investigation involving murder and conspiracy that reaches to the highest levels of French society and threatens to engulf the nation in yet another political upheaval that could destroy what little remains of its tattered foundations. We learn, as events progress, that Louis-Charles the young son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, once thought to have perished in destitution while a prisoner in the eponymous Black Tower, may actually have survived and be in line to claim his rightful place as Louis XVII. Naturally there are many parties with a vested interest to see that this does not come about and the main story revolves around the efforts of Vidocq and Carpentier as they attempt to unravel the mystery of numerous bodies that keep accumulating in apparent connection to the afore-mentioned note bearing Hector’s name. As the mystery deepens and they are led to a strange and simple man going by the name of Charles Rapskeller who appears to be the centre of it all, the two men meet with greater resistance that threatens not only their lives, but the welfare of the nation.

Interspersed with the main narrative are sections from the diary of one of the former dauphin’s keepers. Written tersely in a sort of shorthand, they still manage to provide a bleak and moving picture of the horrors to which the former rulers of France were subjected. In both the flashbacks and the story proper Bayard excels at depicting characters that are people whose lives and circumstances are the result of the world around them and the events that have occurred in their lives. It is in these aspects that I think Bayard’s work shows its most compelling aspect. Regardless of how you feel about monarchy vs. democracy and the ‘realities’ of bringing about necessary political change, Bayard manages to compellingly show us that every action (or revolution) has a human cost. Ultimately this is a book that explores that human cost by taking a view of France from the Revolution to the Restoration and examining the impact of the turmoil of these events on individuals from the lowest to the highest levels of society (which flip-flopped throughout the period). It is in this personal examination of great political events and a concentration on well-drawn characters, without forgoing the complexity both of the people involved and the events into which they are thrown, that Bayard has his greatest success. Added to that is Bayard’s skill as a writer which makes the story move along at a brisk pace with many happy turns of phrase. All in all a very enjoyable reading experience.

[cbl_tn · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I'm a man of a certain age—old enough to have been every kind of fool—and I find to my surprise that the only counsel I have to pass on is this: Never let your name be found in a dead man's trousers.So begins the adventure of a lifetime for Hector Carpentier. Why was his name on the dead stranger's person? That's what the great Vidocq of the Sûreté would like to know. Vidocq's suspicions of Carpentier gradually becomes trust. Together the men begin to unravel a mystery with ties to the Revolution that its survivors in Restoration era Paris have tried hard to forget. Could it be possible that the dauphin, Louis XVII, survived his imprisonment in the Temple? Someone certainly thinks he's alive, and they're doing their best to make sure he doesn't stay that way.I had no idea where Bayard was headed with this historical thriller. The story was perfectly paced. I never rushed ahead of the narrative to speculate about what would come next. Bayard found the right balance between suspense and humor and continually surprised me with both. This kind of historical mystery has long been popular with novelists. (Think of all the novels based on the premise that the Grand Duchess Anastasia survived the execution of the Russian Tsar's family.) Bayard's novel has to be among the best of this niche of literature.

[theokester · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I freely admit that History was always one of my worst subjects in school. I find the stories and encounters of history very fun and fascinating but for some reason I've always had trouble trying to keep straight all the names, dates and events that go along with them. So it was little surprise that I hadn't heard of Vidocq. Apparently Vidocq was a criminal in France in the late 1700s and early 1800s. He turned over a new leaf and founded a crime detection unit and is apparently considered the first private detective. In The Black Tower by Louis Bayard we find ourselves in Paris shortly after the French Revolution. The narrative has us focused alongside the central character of Dr. Carpentier but we are very quickly paired up with Vidocq in an attempt to solve a murder that could have the potential to topple the state of the current French government if it is proven to be based on the conspiracy that the Dauphin didn't actually die but is in hiding somewhere nearby.In spite of the very serious subject matter, there was a surprising amount of subtle humor in this book. When we first meet Carpentier he passes on this piece of advice: "never let your name be found in a dead man's trousers." These sort of nonchalant tongue-in-cheek comments are found throughout the book and serve as a nice break from some of the weightier discussions of murder and politics. There were also segments where the main story narrative was broken up with pages from the journal of a doctor who cared for the Dauphin while he was imprisoned in "the Black Tower." These brief segments were interesting juxtapositions in the main story presenting a unique voice (written in quick abbreviated shorthand) and perspective (the story of the treatment of the Dauphin).I found the writing style to be vividly evocative and rather enjoyable. The scenes and settings are depicted with wonderful clarity and sensual precision. There is a great balance between the formal, taut writing you might expect from the early 19th century as coupled with the personable humor of characters scratching their way through the underbelly of society in any century. I was a bit turned off by the degree to which Vidocq cursed. It did certainly add to his tone as a harsh, brash character but it was a turnoff to have him dropping the F-bomb as frequently as he did. I felt like he could have been just as abrasive without the swearing.The mystery is interesting and fun, hovering around the fringes of conspiracy theory and political intrigue. The way everything played out reminded me frequently of another literary french (Belgian) detective, Hercule Poirot. Where Poirot was more "civilized" than Vidocq, they both possessed similar matter-of-factness that would take people off their guard and allow him entry into otherwise impenetrable circumstances.While a lot of the mystery involved uncovering historical events from decades gone by, the research was interspersed with scenes of action that left our heroes running for their lives. These scenes didn't happen enough to turn this into an action packed thriller but also happened with enough frequency to keep this from becoming a fictional biography or historical treatise. I felt like there was just the right balance of mysterious scrutiny and suspenseful action to keep this book well rooted as a fun yet serious piece of historical fiction.As is often the case with historical mysteries based this closely with reality, the ending was a little bit of a let down. But without actually changing world history and changing the genre to "speculative fiction", there were some limitations that Bayard was unable to overcome. Still, the mystery and conspiracy were rather interesting and were presented in a compelling way. Since I am not an expert on History, let alone French History, I can't speak to the believability of the tale but as a non-historian I found myself drawn in and really enjoying the story and the writing. The style and language might be a turn-off for some readers but if you're a lover of historical mystery and don't mind language that's a bit rough around the edges at times, you should enjoy this book.***3.5 out of 5 stars

[booksfordinner · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Liked this, but didn't love it... Liked it more than 'The Pale Blue Eye'...wasn't super fond of the ending of that one... actually have wanted to read 'Mr. Timothy', but keep reading his other works! Vidoq was my favorite character of his so far, I see the beginnings of a series... Fun historical fiction fare.

[wyvernfriend · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

While interesting, and it did make me want to read more by this author, it seemed to leave me with more questions than it answered, and a mild aftertaste.Vidcoq is the chief of a newly created plain-clothes police force in Paris. In order to solve a murder he drags in to help Hector Carpentier, particularly as the murdered man has Carpentier's name in his pocket. This brings up he mystery of the death of the Dauphin. It's an interesting read but somehow just left me wanting more. I didn't feel that the story had been truly resolved.

[gjbean · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This is a book that grabs you from sentence one and doesn't let go until the end. Louis Bayard has accomplished something rare in historical fiction: using a first person account, he manages to put the reader in a time and place, in this case 19th century Paris, without resorting to long descriptions the narrator wouldn't bother to make. His Paris comes alive organically, with all of its characters -- from the poor living in rat-infested squalor, to the petite bourgeousie, the nobility, and criminals and royalty -- and describes the smells, the monuments, the political climate, the weather and so many other period details so as to make you feel like you are there. That he also writes beautifully and has crafted a story that unfolds exquisitely and at a perfect pace makes this a great read and one I will want to return to again and again. The narrator in question is Hector Carpentier, a doctor of sorts, who has frittered away his family's cash and whose mother has turned their home into a boarding house. He is drafted into helping solve a murder by feared police inspector Vidocq, an actual historical character, and in the process discovers that Louis-Charles (Louis the 17th), the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, believed killed as a child by revolutionaries under Napoleon, may still be alive. While the real star of the book is Restoration Paris itself, Vidocq is a close second in all his animal ferocity and uncanny brilliance. Think a French Sherlock Holmes with an edge. The supporting characters are fleshed out beautifully, both men and women, rich and poor, and I'm not describing them because their identity and characters unfold with the twists and turns in the story and are best savored without knowing too much going in. Every time I thought the story had nowhere to go, it went somewhere new, and the characters continued to develop in their complexity and nuance.

[casualfriday_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

In the latest page-turning historical thriller from Louis Bayard, Dr. Hector Carpentier teams up with famed criminal-turned-detective Eugene Francois Vidocq to solve a murder involving the son of Louis XVI, imprisoned during the Reign of Terror and assumed dead, but often rumored to be alive. As with his previous two books, this one is very atmospheric and twisty-turny, with a lot of hair-raising suspense, a touch of pathos, and, through the character of Vidocq, a sprinkling of wry humor.

[justabookreader · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

What happened to Louis the Seventeenth, the young Dauphin of France? A child when he and his family were taken prisoner by the French people, his body was never identified after his death was announced. In 1818, years after his supposed death, the monarchy has been restored but the city is still tense and citizens unsure of their new rulers.Hector Carpentier is a medical student living with his mother and the borders they share their house with when Vidocq, a well-known and well-feared detective, approaches him on his way home one afternoon asking why a dead man had his name. Hector has no answers and Vidocq wants them. He drags him along on his investigation, disguising him when necessary, and pulling him deeper into the mysterious disappearance of the young Dauphin. When a young man is found who may indeed be the true Dauphin, Hector is torn between finding the truth and wanting to protect the terrified and simple man.I don't read many mysteries but I found this one to be rather satisfying. I didn't care as much for the characters as I did the setting here though. I like stories from this time period and anything where Marie Antoinette is featured. She doesn't play a big part here, it's more her memory, but I found the mystery surrounding the events of those times appealing.Vidoq is a great detective character. He's a former criminal and part of a new plain clothes police division in Paris. He obeys no rules, is uncouth, and terrifying in his means. Torture has no negative connotations and he feels liberal use is what is called for when dealing with criminals. He's not a likable person, although he has his moments, but he does add a dark and unsuspecting air to the story.If you're looking for a quick, entertaining read, The Black Tower works. It moves fast, the setting is interesting, and the characters are engaging.

[lbspen · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Overall I enjoyed reading this mildly earthy book for the shining moments when the characters came alive, for instance when Hector's mother has an unguarded conversation with her son while polishing silver. Another bright point is the setting. The author managed to capture the cumulative "post-trauma stress disorder" permeating the populace just after the French Revolution. Late in the book I was disappointed with what seemed to be an overly convenient contrivance, but I had wrongly jumped to conclusions. All the loose ends are tied up at the end of the story, though I only gave it 4 stars because there were a few implausible elements and it seemed that the author didn't know what to do with Hector at the end.

[vernefan · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

The Boy King LivesDown through the centuries, the history books and legends have had us all believing that the future King Louis the 17th, son of Marie-Antoinette and King Louis the 16th, died in a tower soon after the beheading of his parents. It is said that he was thrown in the Black Tower of Paris during the French Revolution, left there to rot and die, and hopefully be forgotten. But there have long been other theories, that somehow La Petite Louis just may have escaped. Gaslight mystery author Louis Bayard triumphs in this his third novel, creating a finely tuned realistic world of Paris in the early 1800s. This is a murder mystery of the highest quality, introducing two delightful sleuths akin to Holmes & Watson that will unravel the clues of three deaths that occur due to the mystifying conundrum of the possibility, that young Louis-Charles is alive. Alive and hidden from those who know he survived, and those that want him dead. This is the time of the Restoration, a time when the descendants of the throne would lose their lofty royal seats if Louis were found and restored to the throne of France. Two incredibly well developed sleuths bring this mystery to the forefront of Victorian thrillers. Dr. Hector Carpentier, son of young Louis' physician, and a very unusual detective, a dastardly and sarcastic ex-convict turned cop, Francois Vidocq. Vidocq is the bane of every criminal's existence, the terror of the town, a clever intuitive man with eyes in the back of his head. Sharp as a tack and a bit crazy, he and Hector begin a friendship that turns partnership, as they go undercover and trace the lines that lead to the past. Hidden journals, found documents, long overdue confessions, and interviews with various players, soon reveal the truth regarding the secrets of Louis' childhood spent in a dark, damp, and fetid hell. Although there is not a lot of high suspense or action, the talent that Bayard shows us as he brings Victorian Paris alive on paper, is worth every finely crafted line of Dickensian-like prose. One will feel the mist and fog envelope them as they turn the pages, will hear the rattling of coaches on cobblestones, and will occasionally look up from this novel with a sense of foreboding and remember to lock the doors and keep the lights on as you continue on, not able to rise until the end is in sight. This was my first Bayard novel and I now can't wait to purchase his others. I sincerely hope that the author is considering bringing back these two great characters of Hector and Vidocq, this would make a wonderful ongoing series. I fell in love with Vidocq, not since the Pink Panther's Inspector Clouseau has an author come up with a detective with so much charisma, although he's rather cheeky! Bravo to the author, quite a sensational story.

[thecriticaltimes · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

In this new novel by Louis Bayard, carefully drawn French sleuth Vidocq searchers for the Dauphin, the lost son of Louis-Charles, Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette's. At first this book appears to be a mystery novel, and during some of the initial chapters this created some confusion since it becomes clear later that this amazing book is instead a careful character study. When seen from this perspective The Black Tower provides a glimpse into what must have been a remarkable part of European history. Thoroughly enjoyable, well researched and carefully crafted, this book is an amazing study of how strong, extraordinary and common people deal with events thrown on them they could never imagine themselves becoming involved in.

[theoclarke · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Bayard's great skill is his ability to evoke historical periods implicitly. In this case, the culture post-revolutionary France is captured by adopting the attitudes and values of its people. The tale has several protagonists: the failed medic narrator, the first police detective, and the man who might be the usurped king of France. Each lends his own dimension to the picture of early nineteenth century Paris.

[miyurose_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I love historical fiction that introduces me to a time I’m not familiar with, in this case, the French Restoration following the ousting of Napoleon. Unlike The Firemaster’s Mistress, a recently unfinished read which also took place in an unfamiliar era (early 1600s England), I almost immediately got a feel for Paris in the early 1800s. One is pulled into this story not by Hector Carpentier, who serves as little more than narrator for most of the book, but by Vidocq, the eccentric yet extremely effective police chief who comes to Hector in search of a murderer. And, someone who actually existed! A fact I did not know until after I finished. That’s another mark of good historical fiction to me… it sends me straight to Wikipedia to learn more. It left me wanting to know about the real mystery of the Dauphin, and whether he really did live or die. History does not truly know, and by the time you get to the end of this book, you’re not sure Fiction knows either.

[craso_3 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This novel is set in France during the Restoration. Everything is in flux. People are getting used to being ruled by a king after the Revolution and the rise of Napoleon. What if Marie Antoinette’s lost son, Louis-Charles, turned out to be alive? This possibility brings back memories of the Revolution; horrible, bloody memories. Would people embrace the new King or push him away? That is the crux of this novel.The calling card of medical student Hector Carpentier is found in the pocket of a dead man. This brings him under the watchful eye of Vidocq of the Surete. Hector becomes Watson to his Holmes as they investigate the murder. The investigation takes them from slums to high society and leads them to the unthinkable; the Dauphin who reportedly died in the Black Tower at the age of ten.I had never heard of Vidocq before. According to The Vidocq Society website he was a criminal who offered his services as a police spy and informer and became so successful at catching fugitives of the law that he was named the first chief of the Surete, in 1811. Vidocq eventually directed a force of detectives who had also been criminals. Some consider him to be the father of modern criminal investigation although what we know of him comes from his own memoir and he had a tendency to embellish the truth. In the novel he is a physically big man who is crude and rude and has a commanding presence. His is a master of disguise; not unlike Mr. Holmes. Vidocq’s demeanor almost turned me off of reading this book. I am used to the gentleman detective and Vidocq is a very coarse man. Hector, the narrator, and the simple minded Charles were so engaging that they made this story a real page turner.

[smiley_13 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Fun, light, mystery read about a lost king of France in the 18th century. Fast.

[thetometraveller · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Restoration Paris, 1818. It has been over twenty years since the Revolution, Napoleon is in exile and the Bourbon kings are back on the throne of France. But the past still echoes...Hector Carpentier is an ordinary medical student living at home with his mother, where she takes in boarders to help make ends meet. He is suddenly thrust into a murder investigation when detective Eugene Francois Vidocq turns up on his doorstep. It seems Hector's name has been found on a piece of paper that was concealed on a dead body. Hector has never seen or heard of the victim before. He is at a loss to explain why the man might have had his name and been at pains to hide it.Before he knows what's happening, he is swept along with Vidocq and into a case that has the potential to shake France to its core. The evidence points to a conspiracy to kill a simple, quiet young man who lives in the country and who just might be the heir to the throne of France, Louis-Charles. During the Revolution, Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI were both killed. Their two children, Marie-Therese-Charlotte and Louis-Charles were imprisoned in the Black Tower. Marie was eventually released but Louis-Charles died in prison. Or did he? The rumors have always circulated that he might have escaped and impostors have turned up before. But this young man has no memory of his early life and does not claim to be the lost prince. Someone believes he is, though, and they are intent on his death. It is up to Vidocq and Hector to unravel the mystery and protect the unassuming, fragile young man.Louis Bayard paints a fascinating picture of the little-known real life detective, Vidocq. The world's first real police detective, he had a background in crime and had been imprisoned in his youth. He knew the criminal mind from personal experience and was able to use his knowledge to become an extremely successful detective. To me he seemed to be a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Columbo because of his flair for disguise and his gruff demeanor. Restoration Paris is likewise brought to life brilliantly. This book is a wonderful historical adventure.

[kasthu_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

The Black Tower is a what-could-have-been murder mystery. Set in 1818, not long after Napoleon had been deposed and the French monarchy reinstated, the novel begins when a man is found murdered in the streets of Paris, carrying a calling card with Dr. Hector Carpentier’s name on it.Enter Eugene Francois Vidocq, one of the most legendary and feared detectives of the early 19th century (and such an influence that Victor Hugo modeled both Jean Valjean and Inspector Javert on him; a Wikipedia search on Vidocq reveals that he is credited with introducing record-keeping, criminology, and ballistics to the field of criminal investigation). Vidocq has just established the very first plainclothes police force, said to be composed of some very dangerous ex-cons. It’s into this world, where the line between the law and crime is smudged, that Dr. Hector Carpentier enters.On the surface, the dead man, Leblanc, and Carpentier have nothing in common. But the mystery soon leads Carpentier and Vidocq into a dangerous search into the secrets of the murdered royal family—and entertain the thought that Louis-Charles, the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, and who was imprisoned for many long months, might still be alive.I’m always skeptical of historical fiction that’s written in the first person—but surprisingly, Louis Bayard manages to make it work in this book. The Parisian underworld is sufficiently creepy, and Carpentier, plays a perfect (albeit watered-down) Dr. Watson to Vidocq’s Sherlock Holmes. I just loved inspector Vidocq, for his razor-sharp wit and ability to transform into another character through disguise. He’s arrogant and cocky (and not above strutting like a peacock when someone compliments him!), but very sure of his abilities as an investigator. He's also sarcastic. One of my favorite quotes from this novel:And then his voice shifts into a sharper register."Of course, if you don't have the stomach for this work...""I have the stomach," I answer, lifting my head towards his. "It so happensI have a heart, too.""Oh, yes," he says, breezily. "I've got one of those myself. I keep it in abox somewhere."There’s a hefty amount of political intrigue and espionage in this novel, made even juicier by the idea that the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette might have still been alive in 1818, long after a time period which everyone wished to forget. The novel is well-written; not a word is wasted here. It’s a fast-paced and utterly convincing novel.