Paris: The Novel

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’slong 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