“Will you join me for a little breakfast?”
“Certainly,” he said. He put on his dressing gown and went to the dressing room. By the time he returned, some fresh coffee, hot milk and fresh bread had appeared on a low table by the sofa. She motioned him to the settee. She poured coffee for him. She had pulled up a little chair for herself, from which she now observed him, it seemed with pleasure.
“I could live here forever,” he said, and meant it.
She bowed her head at the compliment. He expected she had heard it many times before, but he didn’t suppose she minded hearing it again.
“You will find yourself a charming wife one day, monsieur, and”—she returned the compliment—“in my opinion she will be a very lucky woman.”
He sipped his coffee. He felt very happy. She continued to observe him.
“Tell me one thing,” she said. “I was a little curious. The appointment was made by a certain captain of your regiment, who informed me that the gentleman would be coming incognito. Normally I might have refused, but the captain’s reputation is of the highest, and I thought perhaps my visitor might be a person whose identity was too significant to be mentioned by name.”
It was true that great men, especially royal personages like England’s Prince of Wales, frequently went about the town under other names. Roland laughed.
“And all you got, madame, was a humble young officer named Roland de Cygne.”
“I assure you that I was entirely delighted with what I received, monsieur. But I did not know your identity until your card arrived with your flowers. I was just curious as to why.”
So then Roland told her the truth.
“You won me in a lottery?”
“Madame, not all the officers in the regiment are so rich. But we are loyal. All for one, and one for all.”
She put back her head and laughed. It was a charming laugh.
“That is the funniest thing I ever heard. And you say there were twenty of you?”
“Oui, madame.”
She got up and went to the window, and looked out. The sun caught the silhouette of her body through her silk robe. He discovered that he suddenly wanted her again. He rose and went toward her. “I suppose …,” he asked, “you would not consider …”
She turned and smiled, and put her arms around his neck.
“Avec plaisir, monsieur,” she said.
It was about three quarters of an hour before he finally left the house. She came down into the hall with him herself. Just before they reached the door, she put her hand on his arm.
“One moment,” she said. “I have a present for you.” Disappearing for a moment she returned with an envelope. “Now, my dear de Cygne, I want you to do something for me. You are to take this. It contains one twentieth of what you brought with you last evening. And you are to tell your brother officers that you, and you alone, are the man who received the favors of La Belle Hélène as a gift, for free.”
He gazed at her in amazement. Then, before putting on his hat, he bowed.
“If I live to be a hundred, I shall never feel more honored.”
“Don’t say that. You might even get the Légion d’honneur.”
He grinned.
“Not even the Légion d’honneur, madame,” he said gallantly, and left.
As he put on his top hat and strode up the street, Roland de Cygne felt happier and more proud of himself than ever before in his life. For just a moment, he considered the possibility that some other man might be in La Belle Hélène’s house that very night, but he put the thought from him. Across the street he noticed a small black-and-white cat. Probably the one that fellow was looking for last night.
After he had gone, she smiled. He was a nice boy. Too preoccupied to be entirely sensuous, but nice. As for the gift, she was amused. And for five percent of one night’s work, she had purchased a story that would travel all around Paris to her credit. It was always a good thing to be liked.
It took Luc only a day to find out about Le Sourd. A couple of the regular women at the Moulin Rouge had danced with him. One had slept with him.
“You want to know what he’s like, dear?” she asked.
“No. Just his name.”
She knew that. And that he was a printer who wrote articles for the radical press. That was all Luc needed. But he thought carefully before he made his next move.
The captain was most surprised at the barracks to receive word that a Monsieur Gascon from the Moulin Rouge wished to speak to him in private. He came out of his office to make sure it was Luc, then called him in.
Luc told him quickly and concisely what he knew.
“I don’t know what it means, mon capitaine, but I thought I should be discreet. I haven’t told Monsieur de Cygne. I thought it better to tell you.”
“My God.” The captain stared at him. “And you’ve already saved his life, by the sound of it. You think this is some affair of the heart? A jealous husband?”
“He’s not married. He likes to dance with girls and sometimes …”
“Why on earth would he want to shoot de Cygne then?”
“I don’t know. But he’s political. Radical.” Luc made a face.
“You don’t like the socialists?”
“There are not many people in the restaurant and entertainment trades who do, mon capitaine. They think we’re decadent and want to close us down.”
“A little decadence does you good, eh? Well, I entirely agree.” He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. “The de Cygne family is old, monarchist, Catholic, of course. But so are half the officers in the French army. There’s got to be more to it than that. I’m interested that you didn’t just tell de Cygne himself all the same. He could show his gratitude to you for saving his life, at least.”
“I don’t know him, mon capitaine, nor what this means, nor what he might do. So I came to you.”
“You’re a clever fellow, Luc, and we’re in your debt. I shan’t forget that,” said the officer. “I want to think about this. But in the meantime, I need to protect de Cygne.”
“I do have one suggestion,” said Luc. “With your permission.”
It was two days later when the errand boy at the printers came back to where Jacques Le Sourd was working and told him that there was a policeman at the door who wanted to see him.
The boy noticed Le Sourd go very pale, but he followed the boy to the front door, where the policeman was waiting for him. The policeman was a tall, severe-looking man who looked at him coldly.
“You are Jacques Le Sourd?”
“Yes.”
“This is for you.” The policeman handed him an envelope. Then, to Jacques’s astonishment, he walked swiftly away.
Jacques opened the envelope, frowning. Was this some kind of legal summons? To what did it refer?
The envelope contained a single sheet of paper. On it were written just two short lines in capital letters:
RUE DES BELLES-FEUILLES
YOU ARE BEING WATCHED
For the rest of that day, Jacques wondered what to do. The message was clear enough. Someone had seen him waiting for Roland de Cygne. That person, or whoever had informed him, appeared to be a policeman. But how much did he know, and what did he want?
Was it a policeman who had given him the envelope? Here his own fear had let him down, and he cursed himself for it. He’d been so afraid at the moment when the tall man arrived that he had just assumed it was a real policeman. But a real policeman arrests you. He doesn’t give you a cryptic message and walk away. Does he?
What was the meaning of the cryptic message, anyway? Was it a warning, telling him to be careful? Or was it a threat to expose him?
And how much did this person—or persons—know? If someone recognized him loitering in the rue des Belles-Feuilles, they might suppose that he was planning to burgle one of the houses. If so, they certainly didn’t know him. If somehow they had an inkling of his true intent, that would be another matter.
His work ended without his being any the wiser. He started to walk home. It was already after dusk. Once or twice he had the feeling that he was being followed. But though he glanced behind him, he saw nothing suspicious, and told himself that he was imagining things.
He was nearing his home when a young street urchin approached with his hand held out for money. Jacques shook his head. And before he knew it, the boy had thrust something into his hand and run away.
It was another envelope. This time, the message told him more. It began with just two words in capitals, like the message before:
DE CYGNE
And below it, in smaller letters, a message that told him, without fail, to leave the sum of 250 francs in an envelope in the Bois de Boulogne’s long allée de Longchamp, at the foot of the twentieth tree on the left, at six o’clock the following evening.
So they knew. And it was blackmail.
But who knew? The only link he could think of was the waiter at the Moulin Rouge. Even assuming it was him, however, it seemed likely that he had accomplices, which included the tall fellow dressed as a policeman. The threat was clear. Pay up or the police would be informed. Indeed, it might be that the tall messenger really was a policeman—a corrupt one, but no less dangerous for that.
Should he bluff it out? Perhaps. No crime had been committed. Nothing could be proved. Whereas if he paid, he was virtually admitting that he’d intended harm to an officer of the French army. On the other hand, if the sender of the messages chose to accuse him, he’d have to explain to the police why he was hiding in a doorway watching for de Cygne. Investigations would be made. He’d probably be under police suspicion for the rest of his life. He was still thinking about this conundrum when he reached his lodgings.
The building where he lived was one of a pair of tenements in Belleville, between the cemetery of Père Lachaise and the park of Buttes-Chaumont. It was six stories high, and he occupied a single, good-sized room on the fifth floor, with a small washroom and kitchen attached. His mother lived in a similar apartment on the raised ground floor of the building next door. It wasn’t a bad arrangement. The rents were low. He could lead his own life but keep an eye on his mother as well.
He made himself a little food, and drank a glass of wine. He went to the bookshelf and pulled out a book. Between its pages were concealed a number of banknotes. Not a huge sum, but enough to hide from any casual intruder. He had 150 francs.
And that was all he had. He’d never saved. He supposed he might one day, but so far he had preferred to work just enough to live, and to devote his spare time to study and political work. With a shrug he went down the stairs and into the building next door. He usually looked in on his mother each day.
The widow Le Sourd was sitting by her window, as she usually did when she wasn’t working, watching the street. Her hair was no longer gray, but white these days, and she had grown a little thinner in the last few years, but she was still the same stern, gaunt figure that he remembered from his boyhood. He leaned over and kissed her.
“I saw you come in. Have you eaten?”
“Yes, Maman. And you?”
“Of course. But there is some cake in the kitchen if you want it.”
“No. Maman, have you any cash?”
“Perhaps. How much?”
“A hundred francs.”
“A hundred? That’s quite a lot.”
“Can I borrow it?”
She stared at him silently.
“What would your father say? That his son should have to borrow from his mother?”
“I have given you money before.”
“That is true.” She sighed. “I work, Jacques, but I save. A little.”
“I know.”
“You work, but you do not save.”
“I know that too.”
“What is it for? Some woman? You should marry. It is time you married.”
“It’s not for a woman.”
“What then?”
“I cannot tell you. I may not need it, but if I do, I will pay it back.” He paused. “It is for a good cause.”
She looked at him sharply.
“Tell me.”
“No. It is better you do not know.”
She shook her head sadly.
“You are speaking of politics?” Seeing him indicate that he was, she pursed her lips. “Whatever you do, be careful. I have always told you to be careful.”
“I am careful.”
“There is a leather wallet in the top drawer of the desk. Bring it to me.”
“You should hide your money better, Maman,” he remarked as he did so.
She shrugged, took the wallet and counted out the notes.
“There are not many more,” she said.
Soon after this, Jacques Le Sourd went back to his own apartment. He worked on the anarchist article for a little while, then turned in to sleep. He still hadn’t decided what to do.
The following evening, he went to the Bois de Boulogne. It was certainly a good place to make a drop of this kind. Anyone could be hiding in the trees, slip forward to pick up the envelope and vanish into the trees again.
He left the money by the tree. Inside the envelope with the money was a note. It was written in capital letters and unsigned. It said: “THERE IS NO MORE.”
As he left the park, he reflected that to escape further trouble, he’d better stay away from Roland de Cygne for a time, perhaps a long time.
It had not occurred to him that this was exactly what Luc Gascon and the captain had intended.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son …” The voice of Roland de Cygne came through the screen of the confessional. Old Father Xavier listened attentively.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Roland’s voice continued. “It has been a month since I last confessed.”
Father Xavier knew that. The last confession had been quite boring. Indeed, as a friend rather than a confessor, he sometimes felt his young protégé needed to get out and sin a little more.
So he was rather pleased when, a couple of minutes later, Roland confessed to the sin of fornication.
“With one woman or several?” he quietly inquired.
“One.”
“How many times?”
“I slept with her one night. And again in the morning.”
“With what sort of person was this?”
“A courtesan.”
“When you say a courtesan, my son, you mean a prostitute?”
There was a momentary pause.
“She was not what you’d call a prostitute. She is known as La Belle Hélène.”
“La Belle Hélène?” Father Xavier shifted on his seat. This was getting interesting. Could the Vicomte de Cygne really be giving Roland such a huge allowance? “Very well. You paid for her services, in any case.”
Another hesitation.
“Well, yes and no.”
“My son, either you paid her or you didn’t. The sins of fornication and prostitution are slightly different.”
So then Roland explained.
For a few moments after he had finished, no clear sound came from the priest on the other side of the screen. Then, in a slightly strangulated voice, Father Xavier spoke: “The sin of prostitution is greater than that of ordinary fornication, because each person treats the other heartlessly, as an object rather than a child of God. In this case, given the circumstances, I think we may say that the sin does not quite—I say quite—constitute prostitution, and your penance may therefore be somewhat less. Have you other sins to confess?”
Roland listed a few minor transgressions.
“And do you repent of your sins?” asked the priest.
Again a hesitation. The young man was really too honest for his own good.
“I am trying to, Father,” he said.
“That will do, as a start.” Father Xavier pronounced a penance that would take Roland a couple of hours and gave him absolution, before dismissing him.
After Roland ha
d departed, and no other penitent had come, Father Xavier sat quietly contemplating the tale he’d heard, and practically hugging himself with amusement and with pleasure.
Of course he knew, theologically, that it could not be so; yet it was hard for Father Xavier not to believe, loving the aristocracy as he did, that La Belle Hélène’s rebate was a divine dispensation for the family of de Cygne, which had served Him so faithfully and for so long.
It was a month later that the three men met for lunch at the Café de la Paix. They met for a purpose, and the purpose was a worthy one. But each of them, also, had a secret agenda of his own.
Jules Blanchard had chosen the Café de la Paix for two reasons. It was large and fashionable. Being almost opposite the Opéra, it was convenient for him, in that he could walk over from his office in the department store on boulevard Haussmann. Convenient also for the Vicomte de Cygne, whose coachman only had to cross the river to reach it, and then take the vicomte to certain shops he liked to visit afterward. As for the lawyer they were going to meet, no doubt he’d be pleased to be there anyway, convenient or not.
He wondered what this legal fellow was going to be like. Neither he nor the vicomte had ever heard of him.
Whatever the man was like, it was a noble object that brought them together. It concerned the honor of Paris, and indeed of France.
The magnificent statue of the mounted emperor Charlemagne on the parvis of Notre Dame was a national treasure. It might not be ancient, but it was heroic, a latter-day Gothic masterpiece. It was also falling apart—or, to be precise, it needed a new and suitably handsome plinth to stand upon. The old one had been small and temporary and unless something was done soon, the emperor of the Franks would have to be carted away.
Yet was the city of Paris prepared to spend a sou on it? No it wasn’t. An informal committee of citizens had got together to raise money. He’d joined it because he admired the statue, and as the owner of the Joséphine department store, it was the sort of thing he ought to be seen supporting. The Vicomte de Cygne had joined because he descended from the emperor’s legendary companion Roland.
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