Paris: The Novel

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 fora 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