Midnight. A kind of torpor gripped them. They slumped onto sofas, onto pouffes, into armchairs. Simone Bouquereau stood at the venetian mirror perfecting her make-up. Ivanoff stared intently at 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
préfet de police
, which he felt certain was imminent. He thought about it constantly. At fourteen, the reformatory in Eysses . . . penal military unit in Africa and Fresnes prison. Pointing to the portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro, he named every medal on the man’s chest. ‘Just substitute my face for his. Find me a talented artist. From now on, my name is Henri de Bel-Respiro.’ He repeated, marvelling: ‘Henri de Bel-Respiro, Préfet De Police.’ Such a craving for respectability astonished me, for I had seen it once before in my father, Alexander Stavisky. I still keep the letter he wrote my mother before he took his life: ‘What I ask above all is that you bring up our son to value honour 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 liked to end his days in a small provincial town. To find some peace and tranquillity after so many years of turmoil, anxiety, delusions and chaos. My poor father! ‘You’ll see, when I’m
préfet de police
everything will be fine.’ The others were chatting in low voices. One of the Chapochnikoff brothers brought in a tray of orangeade. Were it not for the bloodstain in the middle of the carpet and the gaudy costumes, one might think you were in the company of respectable people. Monsieur Philibert rearranged his files, then sat down at the piano. He dusted the keyboard with his handkerchief and opened a piece of music. He played the Adagio from the Moonlight Sonata. ‘A terpsichorean, a virtuoso,’ whispered the Khedive. ‘An artist to his fingertips. I sometimes wonder why he wastes his time on us. Such a talented boy! Just listen to him!’ I felt my eyes grow wide with a sadness that used up all my tears, a weariness so great it kept me from sleeping. I felt as though I had forever been walking in darkness to the rhythm of this harrowing unending music. Shadowy figures tugged at my lapels, pulling me in opposite directions, now calling me ‘Lamballe’, now ‘Swing Troubadour’, forcing me from Passy to Sèvres-Lecourbe, from Sèvres-Lecourbe to Passy, and still I did not know what it was all about. The world truly was fully of sound and fury. No matter. I strode straight through the chaos, stilted as a sleepwalker. Eyes wide open. Things would calm down eventually. The languorous melody Philibert was playing would gradually pervade everyone and everything. Of that I was certain. Everyone had left the living room. On the console tables was a note from the Khedive: ‘Try to deliver Lamballe as quickly as possible. We need him.’ The sound of the car engines grew faint. Then, standing in front of the Venetian mirror, clearly so distinctly, I said: I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE. I looked myself in the eye, pressed my forehead against the mirror: I am the Princess de Lamballe. Assassins track you in the darkness. They grope about, fumble, bump over the furniture. The seconds seem to last forever. You hold your breath. Will they find the light switch? Let it be over. I can’t hold out much longer against this feverish madness, I’ll walk up to the Khedive, eyes wide open, press my face to his: I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE, leader of the CKS. Or maybe Lieutenant Dominique will suddenly get to his feet and announce in a grave voice: ‘We have an informant in our midst. Some man by the name of ‘Swing Troubadour’. ‘I AM Swing Troubadour, Lieutenant.’ I looked up. A moth circled from one chandelier to the other, so to keep his wings from being singed I
préfet de police
, which he felt certain was imminent. He thought about it constantly. At fourteen, the reformatory in Eysses . . . penal military unit in Africa and Fresnes prison. Pointing to the portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro, he named every medal on the man’s chest. ‘Just substitute my face for his. Find me a talented artist. From now on, my name is Henri de Bel-Respiro.’ He repeated, marvelling: ‘Henri de Bel-Respiro, Préfet De Police.’ Such a craving for respectability astonished me, for I had seen it once before in my father, Alexander Stavisky. I still keep the letter he wrote my mother before he took his life: ‘What I ask above all is that you bring up our son to value honour 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 liked to end his days in a small provincial town. To find some peace and tranquillity after so many years of turmoil, anxiety, delusions and chaos. My poor father! ‘You’ll see, when I’m
préfet de police
everything will be fine.’ The others were chatting in low voices. One of the Chapochnikoff brothers brought in a tray of orangeade. Were it not for the bloodstain in the middle of the carpet and the gaudy costumes, one might think you were in the company of respectable people. Monsieur Philibert rearranged his files, then sat down at the piano. He dusted the keyboard with his handkerchief and opened a piece of music. He played the Adagio from the Moonlight Sonata. ‘A terpsichorean, a virtuoso,’ whispered the Khedive. ‘An artist to his fingertips. I sometimes wonder why he wastes his time on us. Such a talented boy! Just listen to him!’ I felt my eyes grow wide with a sadness that used up all my tears, a weariness so great it kept me from sleeping. I felt as though I had forever been walking in darkness to the rhythm of this harrowing unending music. Shadowy figures tugged at my lapels, pulling me in opposite directions, now calling me ‘Lamballe’, now ‘Swing Troubadour’, forcing me from Passy to Sèvres-Lecourbe, from Sèvres-Lecourbe to Passy, and still I did not know what it was all about. The world truly was fully of sound and fury. No matter. I strode straight through the chaos, stilted as a sleepwalker. Eyes wide open. Things would calm down eventually. The languorous melody Philibert was playing would gradually pervade everyone and everything. Of that I was certain. Everyone had left the living room. On the console tables was a note from the Khedive: ‘Try to deliver Lamballe as quickly as possible. We need him.’ The sound of the car engines grew faint. Then, standing in front of the Venetian mirror, clearly so distinctly, I said: I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE. I looked myself in the eye, pressed my forehead against the mirror: I am the Princess de Lamballe. Assassins track you in the darkness. They grope about, fumble, bump over the furniture. The seconds seem to last forever. You hold your breath. Will they find the light switch? Let it be over. I can’t hold out much longer against this feverish madness, I’ll walk up to the Khedive, eyes wide open, press my face to his: I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE, leader of the CKS. Or maybe Lieutenant Dominique will suddenly get to his feet and announce in a grave voice: ‘We have an informant in our midst. Some man by the name of ‘Swing Troubadour’. ‘I AM Swing Troubadour, Lieutenant.’ I looked up. A moth circled from one chandelier to the other, so to keep his wings from being singed I
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