The poisoned chalice

criminals, each with a halter round his neck, as they made their way down to the city gaol.
    All the time I kept one eye on Master Millet's colourful jerkin as he wound through the fetid streets, sauntering daintily around piles of refuse and ducking carefully to avoid the painted signs which hung outside the houses, at times so clustered together they blocked out the sun. We crossed the Petit Pont on to the He de la Cite. For a while my quarry sauntered under the towering mass of Notre Dame where stone gargoyles snarled above us. He stopped at a wine shop. I waited outside, realising that Master Millet was killing time. When he came out he walked straight into the nearby cemetery of Holy Innocents Church.
    The graveyard was massive, like a huge paddock, surrounded by a high, brick wall. It was a favourite meeting place for Parisians; lovers lounged in the long grass whilst hucksters laid their wares out on the tops of weather-beaten tombstones. A strange place, this cemetery! The mud there was so foul some claimed it was mixed with sulphur, and it had become a favourite burial place because the corpses interred there decomposed quickly. One wag said it took only nine days. The bodies were buried just a few inches beneath the soil and I saw two dogs fighting over some deceased person's thigh bone. Most of the weather-worn tombstones had collapsed and the few wooden crosses leaned drunkenly to one side. In the centre was a huge watch light, a thick tallow candle placed on a high stone plinth, protected by a metal hood, which was lit every night to fend off evil spirits. Little arches had been built into the cemetery wall where the more wealthy had their remains interred in the pious hope that their bones would not become the meal of some scavenging dog. Above these arches was a huge open loft or garret. Every so often the cemetery would be cleared of all its remains to make way for fresh corpses. The bones collected would be tossed into this garret and, when I saw it, the pile was at least two yards deep. In fact, the French had a joke: for a Christian, Paradise was heaven, but for a dog Paradise was a charnel house at Holy Innocents!
    Millet sauntered round this macabre place. I watched him carefully. So far he had met no one. I was confident he had not seen me but, at the same time, I was uneasy. I felt sure I was being watched but, when I turned sharply or hid behind corners, I noticed nothing untoward. At last Millet went into Holy Innocents Church. I followed and stood admiring the Dance of Death carved in the stone work. (Believe me, if you are full of the joys of spring, that carving will soon remind you that in the midst of life we are in death. The sculptor must have had a genius all of his own, for Death and his squadron of devils danced in a drunken stone frenzy along the frieze, collecting kings, emperors, popes, bishops, and I suppose, when the time is right, even old Shallot.) A bell sounded, its hollow boom sounding out above the graveyard, and I glimpsed Millet coming out of the church, so I hid in the shadows and let him go by. I noticed others in the cemetery had begun to stir and wondered if the bell was the curfew when the graveyard must be locked.
    Millet, however, followed by other fops and dandies, left the cemetery by a small postern door and made his way up an alleyway to a dingy-looking tavern with the sign of a golden sickle above it. Inside, the taproom was large, spacious, clean and well swept. Each table was hidden in a shadowy alcove and the wine was served by young boys dressed in tight hose and short jerkins who had the looks, hair style and walk of saucy young wenches. Their lips were carmine-painted and the one who served me wore more face powder than any self-respecting whore in London would have used. I ordered wine and carefully watched the other side of the room where Millet was sitting.
    Now, in my youth I may have been inexperienced but I had no illusions about the Golden Sickle or Millet's presence there. It was a molly-shop, or so the denizens of Southwark would have termed it: a drinking house where young men, or old, who liked other men could meet kindred spirits in a warm, intimate and secure spot. Believe me, they had to be careful! The laws against sodomy and buggery were as cruel in Paris as they were in London. If caught, the culprit could face hanging, disembowelling and castration – though I suppose, by the time you reach the last, you'd really be past caring. Now