then . . . Will I be able to live with the guilt? Pernety and his black leather shoes. Picpus and his fiancée’s letters. The periwinkle-blue eyes of Saint-Georges. Their dreams, all their wonderful fantasies would come to an end on the blood-spattered walls of the cellar at No. 3
bis
. And it will be all my fault. That said, don’t think I casually use the terms ‘shock treatment’, ‘blackout’, ‘informant’, ‘hired killer’. I am reporting what I’ve seen, what I’ve lived. With no embellishments. I have invented nothing. All the people I have mentioned really existed. I have gone so far as to use their real names. As for my own tastes, they tend towards hollyhocks, a garden in the moonlight and the tango of happier days. The heart of a star-struck girl . . . I’ve been unlucky. You could hear their groans rising from the basement, stifled at last by the music. Johnny Hess:
Puisque je suis là
le rythme
est là
Sur son aile il vous
emportera . . .
Frau Sultana was goading them on with high-pitched squeals. Ivanoff was waving his ‘lighter-than-iron rod’. They jostled, gasped for breath, their dancing grew spasmodic, upended a vase of dahlias and went back to their wild gesticulating.
La musique
c’est
le philtre magique . . .
The double-doors were flung open. Codébo and Danos propped the man up. He was still in handcuff s. His face was dripping blood. He stumbled and collapsed in the middle of the living room. Everyone froze, waiting. Only the Chapochnikoff brothers moved about, as if nothing was happening, picking up the shards of the broken vase, straightening the flowers. One of them crept towards Baroness Lydia proffering an orchid.
‘If we ran into this type of wise guy every day it would be pretty rough for us,’ declared Monsieur Philibert. ‘Take it easy, Pierre. He’ll end up talking.’ ‘I don’t think so, Henri.’ ‘Then we’ll make a martyr of him. Martyrs, it would appear, are necessary.’ ‘Martyrs are sheer nonsense,’ declared Lionel de Zieff in a thick voice. ‘You refuse to talk?’ Monsieur Philibert asked him. ‘We won’t trouble you for very long,’ whispered the Khedive. ‘If you don’t answer it means you don’t know anything.’ ‘ But if you know something,’ said Monsieur Philibert, ‘you had better tell us now.’
He raised his head. A bloodstain on the Savonnerie carpet, where his head had rested. An ironic twinkle in his periwinkle-blue eyes (the same colour as Saint-Georges’). Or perhaps contempt. People have been known to die for their beliefs. The Khedive hit him three times. He never looked away. Violette Morris threw a glass of champagne in his face. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur,’ murmured Ivanoff the Oracle, ‘could you hold out your left hand?’ People die for their beliefs. The Lieutenant often said: ‘All of us are ready to die for our beliefs. Are you, Lamballe?’ I didn’t dare confess that if I were to die it could only be from disease, fear, or despair. ‘Catch!’ roared 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, ‘I know he will,’ and she bared her shoulders with a wheedling smile. ‘All that blood . . .’ muttered Baroness Lydia Stahl. The man’s head rested on the Savonnerie carpet once more. Danos lifted him up and dragged him from the living room. Moments later, Tony Breton reappeared and in a toneless voice, announced: ‘He’s dead, he died without talking.’ Frau Sultana turned her back with a shrug. Ivanoff stared off into space, his eyes scanning the ceiling. ‘You have to admit there are still a few fearless guys around,’ commented Pols de Helder.
‘Stubborn, you mean,’ retorted ‘Count’ Baruzzi. ‘I almost admire him,’ declared Monsieur Philibert. ‘He’s the first I’ve seen put up such resistance.’ The Khedive: ‘People like that, Pierre, they SABOTAGE our work.’
bis
. And it will be all my fault. That said, don’t think I casually use the terms ‘shock treatment’, ‘blackout’, ‘informant’, ‘hired killer’. I am reporting what I’ve seen, what I’ve lived. With no embellishments. I have invented nothing. All the people I have mentioned really existed. I have gone so far as to use their real names. As for my own tastes, they tend towards hollyhocks, a garden in the moonlight and the tango of happier days. The heart of a star-struck girl . . . I’ve been unlucky. You could hear their groans rising from the basement, stifled at last by the music. Johnny Hess:
Puisque je suis là
le rythme
est là
Sur son aile il vous
emportera . . .
Frau Sultana was goading them on with high-pitched squeals. Ivanoff was waving his ‘lighter-than-iron rod’. They jostled, gasped for breath, their dancing grew spasmodic, upended a vase of dahlias and went back to their wild gesticulating.
La musique
c’est
le philtre magique . . .
The double-doors were flung open. Codébo and Danos propped the man up. He was still in handcuff s. His face was dripping blood. He stumbled and collapsed in the middle of the living room. Everyone froze, waiting. Only the Chapochnikoff brothers moved about, as if nothing was happening, picking up the shards of the broken vase, straightening the flowers. One of them crept towards Baroness Lydia proffering an orchid.
‘If we ran into this type of wise guy every day it would be pretty rough for us,’ declared Monsieur Philibert. ‘Take it easy, Pierre. He’ll end up talking.’ ‘I don’t think so, Henri.’ ‘Then we’ll make a martyr of him. Martyrs, it would appear, are necessary.’ ‘Martyrs are sheer nonsense,’ declared Lionel de Zieff in a thick voice. ‘You refuse to talk?’ Monsieur Philibert asked him. ‘We won’t trouble you for very long,’ whispered the Khedive. ‘If you don’t answer it means you don’t know anything.’ ‘ But if you know something,’ said Monsieur Philibert, ‘you had better tell us now.’
He raised his head. A bloodstain on the Savonnerie carpet, where his head had rested. An ironic twinkle in his periwinkle-blue eyes (the same colour as Saint-Georges’). Or perhaps contempt. People have been known to die for their beliefs. The Khedive hit him three times. He never looked away. Violette Morris threw a glass of champagne in his face. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur,’ murmured Ivanoff the Oracle, ‘could you hold out your left hand?’ People die for their beliefs. The Lieutenant often said: ‘All of us are ready to die for our beliefs. Are you, Lamballe?’ I didn’t dare confess that if I were to die it could only be from disease, fear, or despair. ‘Catch!’ roared 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, ‘I know he will,’ and she bared her shoulders with a wheedling smile. ‘All that blood . . .’ muttered Baroness Lydia Stahl. The man’s head rested on the Savonnerie carpet once more. Danos lifted him up and dragged him from the living room. Moments later, Tony Breton reappeared and in a toneless voice, announced: ‘He’s dead, he died without talking.’ Frau Sultana turned her back with a shrug. Ivanoff stared off into space, his eyes scanning the ceiling. ‘You have to admit there are still a few fearless guys around,’ commented Pols de Helder.
‘Stubborn, you mean,’ retorted ‘Count’ Baruzzi. ‘I almost admire him,’ declared Monsieur Philibert. ‘He’s the first I’ve seen put up such resistance.’ The Khedive: ‘People like that, Pierre, they SABOTAGE our work.’
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