## Chapter 223: The Devil’s Contractual Spirit (4k6)
The dimly lit corner of the Coburg Theater’s grand hall found Vidocq reaching into his corset, pulling out a pocket watch. He opened the gold-plated lid, revealing the hour hand pointing precisely at eight o’clock.
He glanced up at the theater hall, already packed to the brim, the sound of a powerful and melancholic orchestra filling his ears.
On the central stage, the musicians of the London Philharmonic Society played their instruments with fervor. The organ, violins, flutes, and oboes glowed with golden brilliance under the dazzling light of the chandeliers above.
In the lounge beside the aisle, a few priests in religious attire could be seen, preparing to pray and preach between the first and second parts of the “Passion of St. Matthew.”
But none of that mattered, as all eyes were focused on the center stage, where Felix Mendelssohn, in a tuxedo and with a faint smile playing on his lips, stood with closed eyes. He held a baton, his movements resembling a frenzied dance, as he conducted the choir from Westminster Parish, clad in pristine white robes, who sang their arias in perfect rhythm.
The young pianist and conductor, renowned throughout Europe, drew in countless gazes with his overflowing musical talent and charming appearance.
The ladies in the front row, die-hard fans of Mendelssohn, couldn’t help but press their hands against their pounding hearts, sighing, “The most beautiful fate imaginable would be to succumb to consumption and die in Mendelssohn’s arms, with that pale, ethereal beauty.”
Perhaps their sighs had an effect, for as the music transitioned, the faint smile on Mendelssohn’s face gradually faded, replaced by a growing pain and sorrow.
As his baton rose dramatically in the air, the alto aria of the choir echoed: “Repentance and guilt, tearing this sinful heart into two. May my tears be worthy to anoint you, faithful Jesus, repentance and guilt…”
At that moment, the priest who had been waiting in the aisle, holding a Bible, made his entrance. He pressed the Bible against his heart and joined in the chant: “Then one of the twelve, called Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests…”
The baritone playing Judas followed with a chant: “I will deliver him to you. What are you willing to give me?”
The priest continued to hum: “And they agreed to give him thirty pieces of silver. So from that time he sought an opportunity to betray him.”
The soprano’s voice was filled with grief, her tone desolate: “Flow, the blood of my heart. Ah, a child you raised by your own hand, who sucked from your breast, has turned into a venomous serpent and vows to kill his nourisher. Flow…”
Standing against the wall, Vacoul couldn’t help but spit on the ground, muttering under his breath: “Damn it, who are they talking about? Who said the job was for thirty pieces of silver? It’s six thousand francs, a fortune. Are they singing this about us? Boss, has our plan been exposed?”
Vidocq glanced at him: “Vacoul, learn some culture in your spare time, they’re singing about Judas.”
“Ah… Judas, you say!” Vacoul’s face flushed, and he tried to save face by finding a weak excuse: “I thought they were singing about the Virgin Mary.”
Vidocq rolled his eyes: “Never mind, I’m too tired to argue with you. Just do your job, leave the thinking to me. We’ve got the program for tonight figured out. After the ‘Passion of St. Matthew’, it’s Mr. Hastings’ ‘The Clock’. Use this time to find Mr. Dumas’ hiding place. As soon as Mr. Hastings is ready to take the stage, we strike.”
Vacoul felt a pang of anxiety: “But boss, that’s too tight a schedule. You expect me to find someone during a single piece of music? That’s asking too much.”
Vidocq, with a sneer, looked at his incompetent subordinate, his hand itching to slap him: “You idiot! The ‘Passion of St. Matthew’ is two or three hours long. If you can’t manage to find someone in that time, I’ll have you boiled in a pot.”
Vacoul was terrified by his boss’s fury. He hastily reassured him, his thumb pointing skyward: “Boss, you even know this? No wonder people say you’re not like a regular thug. Sophisticated, sophisticated!”
Vidocq, enraged, reached into Vacoul’s skirt, his hand clamping down and pulling out nearly two pounds of cotton: “Go now!”
Vacoul, terrified, scrambled up the stairs to the second-floor box, his backside trailing behind him.
He muttered under his breath as he went: “At least leave me some. Without cotton padding, it’s so cold with the breeze.”
Vidocq, even more furious, cursed under his breath: “Damn it all, if those smart ones weren’t so stubborn, I wouldn’t be stuck with a bunch of donkeys. If I’d known all thugs were this stupid, I might as well have grabbed someone off the streets of London!”
Just as Vidocq was venting his anger, a scene was unfolding in the second-floor box above him. Alexandre Dumas, tied with ropes, sat on a chair beside Tom, enjoying the finest musical event in all of Great Britain.
Dumas hummed along to the music, while Tom sat beside him, his face filled with anxiety.
“Mr. Dumas,” Tom said, “you and I know about this whole thing of you getting out from under the bed. Don’t tell Arthur!”
Dumas rolled his eyes: “I’m not an idiot, why would I tell him? Besides, why are you scared of him? Isn’t he just a little policeman like you?”
Tom, with a serious expression, corrected him: “Mr. Dumas, while I respect you, I suggest you refrain from insulting the name Arthur Hastings in front of a Scotland Yard officer. As far as I know, most frontline patrol officers have a lot of respect for him.”
“Respect him?” Dumas raised an eyebrow: “Respect him for what?”
Tom explained: “For getting us a weekly pay raise of three shillings, of course.”
“Three shillings?” Dumas scoffed: “That’s all it takes to buy you? I think you could have higher ideals, like republicanism.”
“Republicanism?” Tom just asked: “Can republicanism bring us a weekly pay raise of three shillings?”
Dumas, without hesitation, replied: “Of course!”
“Then why is France, which has the best republicanism, worse off than Great Britain? I heard that the working class there never sees meat, but London workers, when they have work, get to eat some meat every day.”
Dumas, who had intended to give Tom a good lesson in his republicanism, was stumped by Tom’s question: “That’s because republicanism failed in France. If it had succeeded, I’m sure things would have been better.”
Tom just shook his head: “Then wait for France to get better before talking about republicanism. No pay raise, and they want us to risk our lives? That’s a scam! Mr. Dumas, maybe you should consider getting a job as a stockbroker on the London Stock Exchange. The newspapers say they’re full of swindlers.”
Dumas was speechless, struggling to find a way to regain his dignity. Suddenly, there was a knock on the box door.
Tom, startled, jumped. He didn’t have time to worry about whether Dumas would cooperate or not. He grabbed Eldred’s socks and stuffed them into Dumas’ mouth, then shoved Dumas back under the bed, like kneading dough.
He had just hidden him when he heard Eldred’s voice outside: “Arthur! Arthur! Are you there? How about we swap boxes? I just saw a bed in your room. You’re lying down anyway, my sofa is more comfortable.”
Just as he finished speaking, the voice of a servant came from outside: “Sir, are you truly Mr. Hastings’ friend? This is Mr. Hastings’ private lounge. He just instructed us not to disturb him, saying he’s been working too hard lately and needs a nap before going on stage.”
“Of course, I’m his friend. If there’s anyone in the world who’s a friend of Arthur, it’s me. You don’t believe me? Call him out, see if he recognizes me.”
“This… I don’t doubt you, sir, but I’ve called out a few times and there’s no response. Perhaps Mr. Hastings is asleep. I think we should leave it be.”
“Leave it be? Don’t you have a key? Open the door for me. If he complains later, it’s on me.”
“Sorry, sir, I understand you might be unhappy, but out of professional ethics, I must decline.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll figure something out myself.”
Eldred stood outside, looking at the retreating servant with displeasure. Before he could complain, the tall and alluring Coconut Tree Lady, standing beside him, smiled alluringly and pulled out a set of keys from behind her: “Darling, what do you think of this?”
Eldred was stunned for a moment, then overjoyed: “Oh! My darling! I didn’t know you were not only beautiful but also had such incredible skills! Did you pickpocket those keys from the servant?”
“Hmm!” Coconut Tree, twirling her arm around Eldred’s, asked: “But darling, are you sure we won’t be discovered here?”
Eldred, blushing, patted his chest and assured her: “Don’t worry, I checked everywhere. This is the most secluded box on the second floor. We’ll just enjoy the amazing performance by the masters while we discuss literary matters. Maybe you don’t like literature, but that’s okay, we can talk about natural history.
I have a friend who’s a naturalist, and he told me that humans might not be created by God. Darling, what are your thoughts on this? I think we might be able to verify it tonight.”
Coconut Tree’s eyes narrowed into a smile, her fake eyelashes fluttering: “I think we should go into the room first.”
Eldred, his whole body rigid, his fists clenched, could only nod: “Okay, okay, darling, I’ll do whatever you say.”
He eagerly took the keys, and despite the fact that it was just opening a door, Eldred, perhaps too eager, practically slammed it open.
With a bang, Eldred stumbled into the room. But before he could cry out in pain, he scanned the room.
“I knew Arthur wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be able to sleep during such an important event tonight.”
Coconut Tree also gracefully swayed into the room, her long skirt trailing behind her. She surveyed the furnishings, then languidly lay down on the large bed, waving her arm lazily at Eldred: “Darling, don’t forget to lock the door. Don’t let your friend spoil our fun.”
Eldred’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he rubbed his arms. The gesture made Agareus, perched on the windowsill, frown: “Damn it, copying me?”
Eldred tiptoed and touched the door, then turned his back to it and, seemingly with supernatural powers, locked the door without looking at the keyhole.
With a click, the door locked, and Eldred, like a monkey that had just descended from the Great Rift Valley, lunged forward: “Darling, I’m coming!”
But before he could land on the bed, he was caught by Coconut Tree, who stood on the bed.
“Oh! Darling, you’re so strong.”
“Of course, I’m not your average lady.”
The weight of Coconut Tree and Eldred pressed down on the bed, causing it to sag visibly. The action forced Dumas, lying beneath them, to perform a forced abdominal exercise.
Dumas glared at Tom, lying beside him. Although he couldn’t speak, Tom understood his lip movements: “You’re a damn policeman! What are you doing lying here? Get out and get rid of those two!”
Tom, with a pained expression, mimicked Dumas’ encrypted communication: “This is my first time doing this, I have no experience! Besides, wouldn’t I be spoiling Mr. Carter’s good time if I went out now?”
Dumas, though he sounded tough, still remained where he was.
After all, humans always have a little bit of curiosity, whether it’s about their own kind or their close relatives.
Coconut Tree, with Eldred in her arms, smiled slyly: “Darling, would you like to try something new?”
“New?” Eldred was ecstatic: “Of course, the Royal Navy loves new things, only the spoiled ones are out of necessity.”
“Okay. Darling, just lie there.”
Coconut Tree gently placed Eldred on the bed, then, out of sight of Eldred, pulled a rope from her layers of skirts.
“How does it feel?”
“Oh! Darling, are you going to tie me up?”
“Hmm!”
“Cover my eyes too?”
“Hmm!”
“Darling, you know, you’re quite professional at this. What did you do before?”
“Guess.”
Dumas, lying under the bed, couldn’t help but mutter: “They’re playing pretty kinky. Are all you Brits like this?”
Tom covered his face with both hands and rubbed them, then took a deep breath and gritted his teeth: “Mr. Dumas, should I go out and get him?”
Dumas, grabbing his sleeve, hurriedly said: “Don’t rush, don’t rush, listen a little longer.”
A snap, like a whip against an ass, followed by a roar of anger that seemed to border on madness.
“Fuck you, you stupid piece of shit! Idiot, I ask you, are you still arrogant now? Are you still crazy? Next time, if you don’t clean up your act, I’ll skin you alive!”
“Oh! Darling, this is indeed a new and exciting game.”
“Who the hell is playing with you! You’re getting addicted, aren’t you!”
Just as the box was filled with passionate sounds, Arthur, perched on a chair behind the stage curtain, peered through the gap in the curtain and looked at the Red Devil watching the show from the box windowsill.
He stroked his chin, lost in thought, before finally, and quite unusually, praising the dutiful Agareus: “Although I paid for his help in watching Alexander with a soul, he’s so dedicated, never leaving his post, even sacrificing his beloved musical. As expected, devils are quite respectful of contracts.”
(End of Chapter)