Paris: The Novel

by Edward Rutherfurd

  How appropriate that the aristocrat, the new representative of the old monarchist order, should die while visiting a whore.

  He waited patiently for Roland to appear.

  During the first hour, only half a dozen people entered the street. A manservant went into one of the houses, the rest passed through.

  It was past eight o’clock when the cat appeared. It was a small black-and-white creature, hardly more than a kitten. Where it had come from he wasn’t sure, but the little creature sidled up to him and started rubbing itself against his feet. It was so light and dainty that he could scarcely feel it. But he didn’t want it there, and gave it a gentle shove with his foot. This seemed to make the tiny cat even more interested. Perhaps it thought this was some kind of game. This time it got a good grip on his right foot with its sharp little claws, and started attacking the laces with its teeth. Starting to get irritated, he made a kicking motion with his foot that was strong enough to send the kitten flying out into the roadway. Disgusted, it turned toward him and gave a hiss that was unmistakably an insult.

  And at that moment, a cab came down the street and pulled up outside the house of La Belle Hélène.

  He glanced up and down the street. Not a soul. The door of the cab opened. There was only a single lamp by the door of La Belle Hélène’s house, but it gave enough light to see the face of Roland de Cygne.

  The moment had come. Holding the pistol firmly under his coat, he stepped out of his hiding place just as Roland took the first step up to the mansion door. It took only two paces to reach the street. At his normal stride, he should be directly behind de Cygne just as he had reached the door. He took the first step.

  “Here, kitty kitty kitty. Where are you, little cat?”

  Jacques stared in stupefaction. The servant he’d seen earlier had suddenly appeared from the house below, directly in his path. He couldn’t see the fellow’s face, but judging from the way he was bent, it was an old man.

  “Kitty kitty kitty.” The old fellow was moving straight toward him. Jacques was so surprised that he missed taking a step. At this rate he and the old man would meet exactly at the foot of the steps where he had intended to fire. Worse, de Cygne was turning to look. He had counted on him presenting an easy target, outlined in the doorway with his back to him.

  “Kind sir, you have not seen a little cat?” The old servant hadn’t looked up, but the question was addressed to him. De Cygne was turning toward him now. At least he couldn’t see his face in the darkness. The coachman was turning to look at him too.

  It was no good. The business was getting out of hand. With a muttered curse he turned around, crossed the street and strode rapidly away.

  A female servant let Roland in. For apart from her visitors, La Belle Hélène had no men in the house. The coachman, whose son acted as groom, lived in the coach house at the end of the garden.

  If his father’s masculine mansion evoked the grand, baroque spirit of Louis XIV, the house of La Belle Hélène was full of the lighter spirit of Louis XV, the Sun King’s successor. On the left side of the hall, an elegant marble staircase curled up to a gallery above. Against the opposite wall, under a gilded rococo looking glass, a turquoise marble side table, on sinuous gilded legs, supported a vase of creamy Paris porcelain, decorated with blue and pink flowers and a charming shepherd playing a pipe. The vase was full of flowers. Beside it he noticed a small silver salver.

  As the maid took his top hat and coat, she softly suggested that if he wished to leave an envelope, he might place it on the salver.

  This done, she ushered him into the salon, saying that her mistress would be with him shortly. Then she disappeared with the salver.

  The salon was furnished with rococo gilt furniture. He noticed a beautiful little writing table with a marquetry top and polished curves. Sèvres porcelain graced the chimney mantel. On the walls were charming paintings by artists like Boucher and Watteau of gods and goddesses, or frivolous ladies and gentlemen of the court, in pastoral landscapes, enjoying themselves in various states of dress or undress. On one wall, however, was a large painting belonging to the present century, of a handsome lady, as clearly drawn as a portrait by Ingres, wearing a wonderful pink silk dress, and walking in a garden that contained a sumptuous peacock.

  Everywhere he saw pinks and soft blues, delicacy and charm: it was the most feminine house he’d ever been in. He’d been waiting there only a minute or two when the lady appeared.

  La Belle Hélène was wearing a long, light silk gown, cut low over her lovely breasts—a little simpler than she would have worn if she were dining out—which darted to a fashionably narrow waist and laced, or unlaced, at the back.

  She looked radiant.

  She was in her early thirties, he supposed. Like his, her hair was fair and wavy, and her eyes were blue. But beyond these superficialities, they might have come from different planets. For though the aristocrat was perfectly tailored, shaved and barbered, it was the lady who was sophisticated, in ways of which he was only dimly aware.

  Her hair, her skin, her teeth were flawless, and kept that way at great expense. She was waxed and powdered, manicured and scented, until she was a work of art. Her eyes were wide apart and took in everything without seeming to do so. Her face was turned slightly upward, her mouth smiling pleasantly. She was available to him—that was already established—yet she remained perfectly poised.

  “Thank you for the beautiful flowers, monsieur,” she said, “which I hope you noticed in the hall. It seems you know exactly what I like.” She smiled. “I see that you understand that flowers are to be smelled as well as looked at.” She paused just an instant. “I collect pollen like a bee. But just a little. Never too much.”

  He bowed and smiled, though he had still not comprehended that when Luc had delivered the flowers, neatly tied to the stem of one of the roses was a little packet of cocaine. Not that he need have been shocked if he had known; for cordials containing cocaine were even then being enjoyed, and publicly recommended, by such worthy persons as Thomas Edison in America and Queen Victoria in Britain.

  The maid appeared with two glasses of champagne. The glasses were the broad coupes then in fashion. La Belle Hélène used a golden swizzle stick, with a tiny flail at the end to reduce the bubbles in her glass.

  “I prefer less bubbles,” she remarked, “though my friends tell me I should not.” Then, as they sipped their champagne, they began to talk.

  La Belle Hélène was a beautiful woman. But the reasons she was a great courtesan began with her conversation.

  It took her only moments to put him at his ease. Within five minutes, he was having the most delightful conversation he had ever had in his life. She told him a little about herself or, like as not, made reference to something some friend of hers had experienced or told her about, but she seemed chiefly interested in learning about him. And soon she knew far more about him than he guessed.

  For her success, her mansion, the works of art on the wall and her friendships, which were genuine, all derived from this one fact: that she studied men. She discovered their strengths and weaknesses, what they felt and what they wanted, and then she set her entire intelligence and imagination to making them happier than they had ever been in their lives. She fulfilled their every desire, and even desires they did not know they had. And they showed their gratitude as only very rich men can. The house and much of the art came from an elderly industrialist, who would have married her if he could have.

  In the course of this career, she had amassed not only a little fortune, but a large stock of knowledge about many subjects, from finance and art to wines and the racetrack.

  By the time they moved into the little room which she used for intimate dining, she already knew about his regiment, his family and the fact that he liked the Folies-Bergère.

  They started with caviar, then a delicious oyster bisque, some hors d’oeuvres and a light, poached turbot, served with an asparagus gelatin. The main course was sliced
pheasant breasts cooked with Normandy apple, a speciality of her cook.

  Though she served excellent wines, including a wonderful Hermitage with the pheasant, Roland noticed that La Belle Hélène drank almost nothing, and he took care to drink only moderately himself. The food was carefully calculated to be delicious but not too filling, with sorbets to keep the palate clean. They finished with some cheeses and a little fruit.

  And all the while, they talked. She wanted to know about his childhood, his likes and dislikes, his views on politics, his travels—which were few. He had never had any woman take such an interest in him, let alone such a woman as this. Though there were some rich aristocrats who could, neither he nor even his father could afford to keep such a lady, and for the first time in his life, Roland experienced a moment of envy for the rich bankers and industrialists who were able to.

  At one moment, after they had been discussing his favorite light opera, she gazed at him thoughtfully and asked, “Tell me, my friend, have you ever heard any of the music of Debussy?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “The other day I went with friends to a concert in which a recent piece of his was played. ‘Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune.’ It’s one of the most sensuous things I ever heard. Quite short. Ten minutes or so.” She paused. “You need to close your eyes and just let it waft over you. Don’t think at all. Like listening to some of Baudelaire’s poems. ‘L’Invitation au Voyage,’ for instance.”

  “My father likes that poem. He told me so years ago.”

  “One should always listen to one’s father.” She smiled. “I have the impression that you should learn to surrender yourself sometimes.”

  Roland frowned. “Surrender” wasn’t a word he used if he could help it.

  “Well,” La Belle Hélène continued gently, “perhaps you may surrender to me. If you like.”

  By the end of the meal he noticed that her gown had discreetly shifted down to reveal more of her breasts, in a most enticing way. She rose.

  “If you would like to come upstairs in a few minutes,” she said, “you will find a dressing room on the right. You will see where to go after that.”

  The dressing room was paneled, with a washbasin, water jug and all the things that a man might require for his toilette, including a pair of ivory-backed hairbrushes so miraculously clean that one might have supposed they had never been used before. A nightshirt and an embroidered silk dressing gown of just his size were hanging ready for his use. When he had changed, he went through the small door he saw in front of him, and found himself in the bedroom of La Belle Hélène.

  If her salon had been charmingly in the style of Louis XV, La Belle Hélène’s bedroom evoked a more recent style, and was designed entirely for comfort. By the window was a nice little Second Empire sofa, well upholstered and just big enough for two. By the fire was a broad bench, similarly upholstered, where two people might sit very companionably and gaze at the flames. The walls of the room were covered in pink silk. There was a hidden closet in one corner, containing various items that the lady did not think would be needed tonight. Also, strategically placed, but hidden behind curtains for now, two large looking glasses. And then there was the bed itself. It was quite a large four-poster, elegantly draped, but very solidly constructed. And in the middle of it, her hair now loose, and wearing only a satin nightdress, was La Belle Hélène.

  Roland de Cygne had made love to some beautiful women, but what he experienced in the next hour and a half was beyond anything he had imagined. La Belle Hélène was not only skillful, she was full of surprises. At one moment he could not believe she could seem so light. At another, he would be amazed by her suppleness and strength. She coaxed him, challenged him; but above all, she was so delicious that he could not stop exploring, could not get enough of her. It was a play without an intermission.

  Finally, they rested awhile.

  “I feel,” he confessed, “like one of those lucky fellows centuries ago in a Persian garden.”

  “Do you remember the start of Omar Khayyám?” she asked.

  “Remind me.”

  Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night

  Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:

  And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught

  The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.

  He nodded. An Englishman had translated the old Persian poem of love, and fate, and nothingness decades ago, and now it was a bestseller all over Europe.

  “But it isn’t morning yet,” he objected.

  “No,” she said. “It certainly isn’t.”

  And then they made love again. And this time, when he was ready to come to a climax, he discovered another of her talents, as she held him in the delicious squeeze for which she was known by her fortunate lovers.

  Afterward, he lay quite still and closed his eyes, and it seemed to him as if he were in some faraway place, a Persian garden perhaps, or an endless, timeless desert, under the stars, and he heard her say that he should sleep awhile.

  Luc Gascon was puzzled, but he didn’t mind. He loved intrigue.

  If Jacques Le Sourd had imagined that he hadn’t been noticed when Luc was delivering the flowers to La Belle Hélène that evening, he didn’t know his man. Luc noticed everything. He’d trained himself to do that ever since he’d worked up at the Moulin de la Galette as a boy, and now, at the Moulin Rouge, a customer only had to blink his eyes for Luc to be at his side in an instant. As for the discreet errands in which he specialized, errands that often required that he not be observed, he’d become a master of that game. If a man needed a message to reach another man’s wife, Luc would find a way to deliver it. If a man wanted to know if his own wife was unfaithful, Luc could probably find that out too.

  Above all, in these and many other encounters, Luc had learned never to show that he had noticed anything.

  When Jacques Le Sourd had asked about de Cygne at the Moulin Rouge the night before, Luc had taken note of his face. So when he caught sight of him loitering in the rue des Belles-Feuilles this evening, he had remembered him at once. And the fact Le Sourd was in such a quiet street, where de Cygne was shortly to arrive, could not possibly be a coincidence.

  He didn’t yet know Jacques’s name. But it was evident that he was not a rich man or an aristocrat. Almost certainly he meant harm of some kind to de Cygne. And de Cygne was now a client, a friend of the captain, moreover. This was really all that Luc needed to know. His clients were his livelihood. Every client for whom he could do a favor was an investment. His clients were to be protected.

  Besides, it was his nature to be curious.

  His cab had gone only halfway up the avenue toward the Arc de Triomphe, therefore, when he paid the coachman and stepped out. Then he’d made his way back to the rue des Belles-Feuilles and kept watch.

  It had been easy to spot Le Sourd returning to take up his hiding place. The way that he briefly touched his stomach with one hand suggested to Luc that he was carrying a weapon of some kind.

  More skill had been needed to enter the street and take up a position out of sight nearby, but Luc had accomplished that without too much difficulty. Now he could observe everything that passed.

  And if this fellow tried to attack de Cygne, what was Luc going to do? Luc hadn’t the slightest doubt. He was going to save the aristocrat. That was where his interests lay. The only question was, how?

  Luc wasn’t afraid for himself. Once he got close, the stranger would have to be very fast indeed to escape the stiletto Luc always carried, and which would have done its work before the stranger even saw it coming. But it would be best if he could intervene without causing any stir at all. No noise. Luc’s world was a private world, and he meant to keep it that way.

  A simple ruse would be to pretend to be a servant whose master next door had long been expecting a guest, and who believed that de Cygne was entering the wrong house. He’d done something like that once before, and it was enough to create
confusion and interpose himself between de Cygne and his attacker. But then the little cat had entered the picture, and this was better still. The fact that the little performance was absurd mattered not in the least. He could be bent, apparently looking for the cat, so that his own face was hard to see. In case of need, the stiletto would be already in his hand, held against his stomach.

  And the business had gone off perfectly. He’d seen the stranger’s pistol, but the stranger had never had the chance to use it, nor had he seen Luc’s face. It had also been clear from the stranger’s actions that he did not want his own face to be seen either. That was useful information.

  In less than half a minute, de Cygne was safely inside, the stranger was gone and the cab was rolling away.

  One possibility remained, that the stranger might come back later, in the hope of accosting de Cygne when he came out. But Luc knew he needn’t worry about that. He knew very well that those fortunate to spend the night with La Belle Hélène remained with her until long after the sun was up; and it was clear that the stranger had no wish to make his attack in broad daylight.

  All that remained now was to find out more. It might well be that he would warn de Cygne of his danger. But he’d rather investigate first.

  An ordinary person might have gone to the police. That never crossed Luc’s mind. What profit to him if he did that? What if de Cygne were involved in something he wanted hidden, and a police intervention brought it to light? None of his clients would think much of that. In general, as far as Luc was concerned, the police were to be avoided. A blunt and destructive weapon, of little purpose to a man who liked creativity and finesse.

  No, his first task was to find out who this would-be assassin was. Then he’d decide what to do.

  The sun was well up when Roland de Cygne awoke. The curtains had been scooped and tied. One window had been opened a fraction to let in a little cool fresh air.