Paris: The Novel

right, he would accomplish it.
    He’d continued to keep an eye on Roland. He’d known when Roland went to Saint-Cyr, and the school of equitation, and when he was away with his regiment. But he hadn’t realized that the regiment had been posted to Paris recently. That had been careless of him.
    So when he had suddenly caught up with him in the Moulin Rouge last night, it had seemed to Jacques that this must be destiny. The opportunity was too good to miss. There was nothing to connect him to Roland or La Belle Hélène. If someone shot the young man as he entered her door, the police would probably assume that it was a jealous lover. Paris took some pride in its crimes of passion. All he had to do was to vanish back into the streets, and the thing was done.
    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 towardhim 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