on the Savonnerie carpet, where his head had lain. An ironic glint in his periwinkle-blue eyes (the same as Saint-Georges'). Or rather contempt. People have been known to die for their beliefs. The Khedive hit him three times. His eyes never moved. Violette Morris threw a glass of champagne in his face. "My dear fellow," whispered Ivanoff the Oracle, "won't you show me your left hand?" People die for their beliefs. The Lieutenant would keep saying to me: "All of us are ready to die for our beliefs. Are you, Lamballe?" I didn't dare tell him that my death could only result from disease, fear, or despair. "Catch!" shouted Zieff, and the cognac bottle hit him squarely in the face. "Your hand, your left hand," Ivanoff the Oracle implored. "He'll talk," sighed Frau Sultana, "he'll talk, I know he will," and she bared her shoulders with an inveigling smile. "All this blood …" mumbled Baroness Lydia Stahl. His head rested once more on the Savonnerie carpet. Danos lifted him up and dragged him out of the living room. Moments later, Tony Breton announced in a hollow voice: "He's dead, he died without talking." Frau Sultana turned her back with a shrug. I van off was off in space, his eyes searching the ceiling. "You have to admit there are still a few gutsy guys around," commented Pols de Helder.
"Obstinate, you mean," retorted "Count" Baruzzi. "I almost admire him," declared Mr. Philibert. "He's the first I've seen put up such resistance." The Khedive: "Fellows like that one, Pierre, are SABOTAGING our work." Midnight. A kind of torpor gripped them. They settled themselves on the sofas, on the hassocks, in the armchairs. Simone Bouquereau touched up her make-up in the large Venetian mirror. Ivanoff was intently studying Baroness Lydia Stahl's left hand. The others launched into trivial chatter. About that time the Khedive took me over to the window to talk of his appointment as "police commissioner," which he felt certain was imminent. He thought about it constantly. Childhood in the prison colony of Eysses. Then the penal battalion in Africa and Fresnes prison. Pointing to the portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro, he named every single decoration on the man's chest. "Just substitute my head for his. Find me a good painter. As of now, my name is Henri de Bel-Respiro." He repeated, marveling: "Commissioner Henri de Bel-Respiro." Such a thirst for respectability astounded me, for I had recognized it once before in my father, Alexander Stavisky. I always keep with me the letter he wrote my mother before taking his own life: "What I ask above all is that you bring up our son to value honor and integrity; and, when he has reached the awkward age of fifteen, that you supervise his activities and associations so he may get a healthy start in life and become an honest man." I believe he would have chosen to end his days in some small provincial city. In peace and tranquility after years of tumult, agitation, mirages and bewildering turmoil. My poor father! "You'll see, when I'm police commissioner everything will be fine." The others were chatting in low voices. One of the Chapochnikoff brothers brought in a tray of orangeades. Were it not for the bloodstain in the middle of the living room and the array of gaudy clothes, the scene might have passed for a highly respectable gathering. Mr. Philibert was straightening his files and sat down at the piano. He dusted off the keyboard with his handkerchief and opened a piece of music. He played the Adagio from the Moonlight Sonata . 'Melomaniac," whispered the Khedive. "An artist to the fingertips. I sometimes wonder why he spends any time with us. Such a talented fellow! Listen to him!" I felt my eyes swelling uncontrollably because of an intense despair that had drained every tear, a weariness so overwhelming that it sparked my senses. I felt I had always walked in darkness to the rhythm of that throbbing and persistent music. Shadows gripped the lapels of my jacket, pulling me in opposite
"Obstinate, you mean," retorted "Count" Baruzzi. "I almost admire him," declared Mr. Philibert. "He's the first I've seen put up such resistance." The Khedive: "Fellows like that one, Pierre, are SABOTAGING our work." Midnight. A kind of torpor gripped them. They settled themselves on the sofas, on the hassocks, in the armchairs. Simone Bouquereau touched up her make-up in the large Venetian mirror. Ivanoff was intently studying Baroness Lydia Stahl's left hand. The others launched into trivial chatter. About that time the Khedive took me over to the window to talk of his appointment as "police commissioner," which he felt certain was imminent. He thought about it constantly. Childhood in the prison colony of Eysses. Then the penal battalion in Africa and Fresnes prison. Pointing to the portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro, he named every single decoration on the man's chest. "Just substitute my head for his. Find me a good painter. As of now, my name is Henri de Bel-Respiro." He repeated, marveling: "Commissioner Henri de Bel-Respiro." Such a thirst for respectability astounded me, for I had recognized it once before in my father, Alexander Stavisky. I always keep with me the letter he wrote my mother before taking his own life: "What I ask above all is that you bring up our son to value honor and integrity; and, when he has reached the awkward age of fifteen, that you supervise his activities and associations so he may get a healthy start in life and become an honest man." I believe he would have chosen to end his days in some small provincial city. In peace and tranquility after years of tumult, agitation, mirages and bewildering turmoil. My poor father! "You'll see, when I'm police commissioner everything will be fine." The others were chatting in low voices. One of the Chapochnikoff brothers brought in a tray of orangeades. Were it not for the bloodstain in the middle of the living room and the array of gaudy clothes, the scene might have passed for a highly respectable gathering. Mr. Philibert was straightening his files and sat down at the piano. He dusted off the keyboard with his handkerchief and opened a piece of music. He played the Adagio from the Moonlight Sonata . 'Melomaniac," whispered the Khedive. "An artist to the fingertips. I sometimes wonder why he spends any time with us. Such a talented fellow! Listen to him!" I felt my eyes swelling uncontrollably because of an intense despair that had drained every tear, a weariness so overwhelming that it sparked my senses. I felt I had always walked in darkness to the rhythm of that throbbing and persistent music. Shadows gripped the lapels of my jacket, pulling me in opposite
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