stood next to her husband, Roland, on the Savonerrie carpet in her office. The caw of crows and the scent of crisp, cold air drifted in from the tall window overlooking the Palais Royal. “I thought all this was past. Over.”
“Why didn’t you tell me at once, Gabrielle?” Roland, all six feet of him in a navy pinstripe suit, held the blackmail note, his brow furrowed.
“You were in Versailles at meetings,” she said. “By the time I arrived, the bookseller’s was closed.”
“Closed? You mean you intended to pay?”
“Nothing must jeopardize your posting, Roland. Or hurt Olivier,” she said fiercely. This wasn’t putting out fires in the Ministry; this was her family.
Concern washed over Roland’s face; he took her in his arms and held her tightly, protectively. “Always a fighter, my Gabrielle. But blackmail never ends. It’s a stranglehold that will be pulled tighter and tighter.”
He tore the note and newspaper article into little pieces, letting them drop like confetti into the trash. “I can’t let you do this. Not for me.”
She watched Roland. A dreamer, a poet and brooding rebel when they’d met; but now seeing his graying temples, the upright posture, that controlled expression, she thought of him, these days, as a stoic. There was something unfamiliar in his expression. Like many of the 1968 generation protesters, he’d joined the government they’d vowed to tear down. The burden of the secrets he carried, ones they all carried in this milieu, had altered him.
“What’s the matter, Roland?”
He shrugged. Where had the lean aristo rebel she’d fallen for in ’68 gone? She still searched for a glimpse underneath the politico façade; every so often it appeared. More and more rarely these days.
“Everything’s changed now,” he said. “Nicolas Evry committed suicide in La Santé.”
“Suicide?” She stepped back, horrified. Nicolas had been so young, so pathetic. But willing to keep quiet over Olivier’s involvement. “How do you know?”
Roland rubbed his forehead. “Not a nice story. My thoughts are with his family, if he had any.”
“Terrible. I’m so sorry.” Her thoughts sped through the implications. “But who wrote this note, and what proof do they have? It can only mean that Nicolas revealed Olivier’s involvement.”
“There’s no proof. Nothing specific in the blackmailer’s note. Just an old newspaper article.”
“What is the worst-case scenario?” she asked.
As she always did; it was her training. A gurgling sound came from the fountain in the center of the Palais Royal garden. Sun glinted off the sundial, a small beacon amid the rose bushes.
“It’s over, Gabrielle.”
“You can’t think this will simply go away,” she argued.
Roland gripped his briefcase. His mind was elsewhere now as he gave her a small smile. “I’m due to present a report in thirteen minutes next door in the Ministry.”
He paused. “It’s terrible about that boy, Gabrielle, but that finishes it.”
“A ‘boy’? Face it, Roland, they’re men. Our son Olivier’s a man.”
A long sigh escaped Gabrielle. No use arguing with Roland now.
He reached for her hand. “I’m worried that Oliver will feel responsible for this suicide,” Roland said. “It could haunt him, scar his psyche.”
Roland’s insight amazed her sometimes. Still. She stood in her stockinged feet, pulled Roland close, inhaled the traces of his citrus shampoo. Of course she would take care of this, and much more. She’d alerted her contacts. Roland would never know. She’d already taken the money out of the bank. Then, once and for all, it would be behind them. But first she’d wring the truth out of Olivier.
“I’ll talk to Olivier,” she assured Roland. Somehow she’d manage it, along with defusing a major scandal, before the 8 P.M. news show.
* * *
G ABRIELLE PRESSED THE carved woodwork panel in the wall which was a camouflaged door opening to the next office, deserted now
“Why didn’t you tell me at once, Gabrielle?” Roland, all six feet of him in a navy pinstripe suit, held the blackmail note, his brow furrowed.
“You were in Versailles at meetings,” she said. “By the time I arrived, the bookseller’s was closed.”
“Closed? You mean you intended to pay?”
“Nothing must jeopardize your posting, Roland. Or hurt Olivier,” she said fiercely. This wasn’t putting out fires in the Ministry; this was her family.
Concern washed over Roland’s face; he took her in his arms and held her tightly, protectively. “Always a fighter, my Gabrielle. But blackmail never ends. It’s a stranglehold that will be pulled tighter and tighter.”
He tore the note and newspaper article into little pieces, letting them drop like confetti into the trash. “I can’t let you do this. Not for me.”
She watched Roland. A dreamer, a poet and brooding rebel when they’d met; but now seeing his graying temples, the upright posture, that controlled expression, she thought of him, these days, as a stoic. There was something unfamiliar in his expression. Like many of the 1968 generation protesters, he’d joined the government they’d vowed to tear down. The burden of the secrets he carried, ones they all carried in this milieu, had altered him.
“What’s the matter, Roland?”
He shrugged. Where had the lean aristo rebel she’d fallen for in ’68 gone? She still searched for a glimpse underneath the politico façade; every so often it appeared. More and more rarely these days.
“Everything’s changed now,” he said. “Nicolas Evry committed suicide in La Santé.”
“Suicide?” She stepped back, horrified. Nicolas had been so young, so pathetic. But willing to keep quiet over Olivier’s involvement. “How do you know?”
Roland rubbed his forehead. “Not a nice story. My thoughts are with his family, if he had any.”
“Terrible. I’m so sorry.” Her thoughts sped through the implications. “But who wrote this note, and what proof do they have? It can only mean that Nicolas revealed Olivier’s involvement.”
“There’s no proof. Nothing specific in the blackmailer’s note. Just an old newspaper article.”
“What is the worst-case scenario?” she asked.
As she always did; it was her training. A gurgling sound came from the fountain in the center of the Palais Royal garden. Sun glinted off the sundial, a small beacon amid the rose bushes.
“It’s over, Gabrielle.”
“You can’t think this will simply go away,” she argued.
Roland gripped his briefcase. His mind was elsewhere now as he gave her a small smile. “I’m due to present a report in thirteen minutes next door in the Ministry.”
He paused. “It’s terrible about that boy, Gabrielle, but that finishes it.”
“A ‘boy’? Face it, Roland, they’re men. Our son Olivier’s a man.”
A long sigh escaped Gabrielle. No use arguing with Roland now.
He reached for her hand. “I’m worried that Oliver will feel responsible for this suicide,” Roland said. “It could haunt him, scar his psyche.”
Roland’s insight amazed her sometimes. Still. She stood in her stockinged feet, pulled Roland close, inhaled the traces of his citrus shampoo. Of course she would take care of this, and much more. She’d alerted her contacts. Roland would never know. She’d already taken the money out of the bank. Then, once and for all, it would be behind them. But first she’d wring the truth out of Olivier.
“I’ll talk to Olivier,” she assured Roland. Somehow she’d manage it, along with defusing a major scandal, before the 8 P.M. news show.
* * *
G ABRIELLE PRESSED THE carved woodwork panel in the wall which was a camouflaged door opening to the next office, deserted now
Similar Books
