directions, calling me first "Lamballe," then "Swing Troubadour," pushing me from Passy to Sèvres- Lecourbe, from Sèvres-Lecourbe to Passy, and all the while I hadn't the faintest idea what it was all about. The world was filled indeed with sound and fury. No matter. I went straight through the heart of this turbulence, wooden as a sleepwalker. Eyes wide open. Things would quiet down in the end. The slow melody Philibert was playing would gradually invade everyone and everything. Of that I was absolutely certain. They had left the living room. A note from the Khedive on the console table: "Try to deliver Lamballe as quickly as possible. We must have him." The sound of their motors grew fainter. Then, standing in front of the Venetian mirror, I pronounced ever so distinctly: I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE . I looked myself squarely in the eye, pressed my forehead to the mirror: I am the Princess de Lamballe. Killers trail you in the dark. They grope about, brush against you, stumble over the furniture. The seconds seem interminable. You hold your breath. Will they find the light switch? Let's get it over with. I won't be able to hold out much longer against the dizziness. I'll walk up to the Khedive with my eyes wide open and stick my face right under his nose: I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE , head of the R.K.S. Unless Lieutenant Dominique gets up suddenly. In a somber voice: "There's an informer among us. Someone named 'Swing Troubadour.'" "It's I, Lieutenant.'' I looked up. A moth circled from one light bulb to the next, and to keep his wings from being scorched I turned out the chandelier. No one would ever exhibit such thoughtfulness on my behalf. I had to fend for myself. Mama was faraway: Lausanne. A good thing, too. My poor father, Alexander Stavisky, was dead. Lili Marlene had forgotten me. Alone. I didn't belong anywhere. At either the Rue Boisrobert or Cimarosa Square. On the Left Bank, I concealed my job as informer from those brave boys of the R.K.S.; on the Right Bank, the "Princess de Lamballe" title created some serious problems for me. Who was I really? My papers? A Nansen false passport. Universally unwelcome. My precarious situation kept me from sleeping. No matter. In addition to my secondary job of "recouping" valuable objects, I acted as night watchman at No. 3 bis . After Mr. Philibert and the guests had left, I could have enjoyed the privacy of M. de Bel-Respiro's bedroom, but I stayed in the living room. The lamp under its mauve shade cast deep bands of twilight around me. I opened a book: The Mysterious Knight of Eon . After a few minutes it slipped from my hand. A sudden realization struck me: I would never get out of this mess alive. The wistful harmonies of the Adagio echoed in my ears. The flowers in the living room were losing their petals and I was growing old at an alarming rate. Standing for the last time in front of the Venetian mirror, I saw there the face of Philippe Pétain. I found him far too bright-eyed, too rosy-cheeked, and so I changed into King Lear. Perfectly understandable. Here's the reason: ever since childhood I had been storing up vast reservoirs of tears which I had never been able to release from my body. Tears, they say, are a great comfort, and despite daily efforts, I never experienced this pleasure. So the tears ate out my insides, like an acid, which accounts for my rapid aging. The doctor had warned me: At twenty, you'll be able to double for King Lear. An incurable disease. In medical terms it's known as PROGERIA . I should have liked to paint a more dashing picture of myself. Am I to blame? I started out with impeccable health and indestructible morals, but I've known great sorrow. So painful that I couldn't sleep. From staying open so long, my eyes became extraordinarily enlarged. They reach down to my jaw. One other thing: this PROGERIA of mine is contagious. If I so much as glance at or touch an object it crumbles to dust. In the living room the flowers were
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