Paris: The Novel (52 page)

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.”

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.

La Belle Hélène was already up, wearing a loose silk robe. A faint fragrance suggested she had already performed some part of her toilette. Her hair was lightly brushed, but that was all. She looked wonderfully fresh.

“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.