Bitter Draughts: The Paris Trilogy, #2

By Yves Fey

Paris 1989—the fin de siècle, a turbulent era when passions run as high as prejudice. In the midst of the infamous Dreyfus Affair, as anti-Semitic riots erupt all over Paris, Inspecteur Michel Devaux has a baffling murder to solve. Is it a crime of politics or a crime of passion? As death follows death, Devaux traces their tangled threads from the privileged classes to the seamy Paris underworld. Help comes from unlikely sources: a crime lord, a clairvoyant, a crazy woman who feeds the cemetery cats, and an old friend from the Foreign Legion. Devaux's calm harbor amid chaos is his friendship with the talented, beautiful American artist, Theodora Faraday. But as he struggles with his own horrific past, Devaux is reluctant to accept her help—because he's falling in love with her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yves Fey
• Release date: Sep 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9780985942106

Book preview

Praise for Bitter Draughts

"The author’s profound knowledge of Paris quais and cafés and French literature and history imbues this sexy mystery set in late-1800s France with a sense of otherworldliness, even as the protagonist Michel Devaux, a brilliant detective at the Paris Sûreté, wrestles with a question that could be relevant to countries in our world today: Why must France be forever at war with herself? Set against the vicious turmoil surrounding the Dreyfus affair, this twisty mystery resonates with themes such as the power of the public press, racial intolerance, and the quest for justice and truth." – Karen Odden, author of A Trace of Deceit and Down a Dark River.

Fey ... renders a reader utterly gobsmacked at the sheer brilliance of the prose, which is reminiscent of classic literary writers like Mary Shelley, Victor Hugo, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This book's violence and intimate moments are toned down from the first book, and she handles the political arena with finesse, weaving the emotional impact this festering climate had upon the upper class, as well as the degenerative criminals. Her characters, Devaux and Faraday, are so well-developed and their world so well-built, the reader is led to complete satisfaction with the story, and eager for the next installment of this trilogy.— D.K. Marley

"Lush and atmospheric, Bitter Draughts transports you into the complex lives of Fin de Siècle Paris's most fascinating characters, real and imagined." — Ana Brazil, author of Fanny Newcomb & the Irish Channel Ripper.

Fey’s prose is luscious, sensual and detailed; her characters are complex and sympathetic. Get lost in the Bohemian alleys of Montmartre, carouse in the cafés till the wee hours, and luxuriate in the lush descriptions of art, love, food, friendship and even Tarot card readings that uncover secrets and foretell doom.  –  Mary F. Burns, author of the John Singer Sargent/Violet Paget Mysteries

With diverse characters and an intricate storyline, this book delves into the political climate of France...giving an enjoyable history lesson with many turns and twists...Every unique point of view allowed the reader to see so many unexpected story details from a completely different angle. The plot, including mystery, history, art, and romance, was incredibly well balanced. — The Literary Titan

Floats the Dark Shadow

Yves Fey writes with the eye of an artist, the nose of a perfumer, and the nerves of a hardened gendarme in this chilling tale of love and love’s perversion. Not for the faint of heart! – Culyer Overholt, award-winning author of A Deadly Affection and A Promise of Ruin.

"Floats the Dark Shadow is, first and foremost, a splendid work of literature ranking with the classic writers like Hugo, Shelley, Poe, and Doyle. . .This is a book of light and darkness, of riches and poverty, of innocence and debauchery, of poetic decadence and maggot-festering depravity all splayed in words and passages reminiscent of those aforementioned literary geniuses. Fey eviscerates the reader's soul, and reveals the realities of Belle Époque Paris, the theatrical and artistic brilliance against the grimy and seedy underbelly. . . But be warned, this is not a fluffy feel-good historical, this is pain in prose adorned with moments of fiery eloquence. . . DK Marley of The Historical Fiction Company.

Fey recreates the haunting world of absinthe, of the Symbolist poets, of Salomé, of the Golden Dawn, and of darker, more unfathomable forces that was Paris in 1897. This well-researched thriller offers satisfyingly complex characters.  Powerful, violent, elegant.  –  Beth Tashery Shannon, Pushcart Prize Winner, author of Dark Wine and the Windland series.

This dark, Gothic tale will delight fans of decadent, sensuous, fin-de-Siècle Paris. – Kenneth Wishnia, author of 23 Shades of Black and The Fifth Witness.

Paris is painted with uncanny realism using masterful splashes of descriptive color against a somber backdrop ... Dark and emotionally wrenching, this novel isn’t for those looking for a restful night’s sleep, but readers who crave edgy murder mysteries will be enthralled. – Kirkus Review

Fey delves into the dark well of the occult, violence and eroticism lying beneath the surface of fin-de-Siècle Paris. The valiant heroine, American artist Theo Faraday, confronts the ultimate evils of child torture and murder as the serpentine page-turning plot unfolds. – Barbara Corrado Pope, author of Cezanne’s Quarry and The Blood of Lorraine.

Floats the Dark Shadow, Yves Fey's daringly corrupt historical novel, has a lot on its mind. Part mystery, part grand guignol, part travelogue, part theosophical debate of good vs. evil, part love story, it opens with a shocker and slows down only occasionally to let the reader catch his breath. Set in fin de siècle Paris, it follows American expat painter Theo Faraday and French detective Michel Devaux through a netherworld of depravity and decadence as heinous as it is skillfully rendered ... Fey's prose, research and deft recreation of time and place are nothing short of dazzling as she creates a mystery unlike any I've ever read.  – Michael Llewellyn, author of Creole Son and The Goat Castle Murder.

The mystery is gripping, the crimes loathsome, and the suspense intense...Fey’s writing is gorgeous: she evokes the sights and smells of Paris and poetically presents the darkness and horror that plague tormented souls. –  The Historical Novel Society

Floats the Dark Shadow is a chilling, dark, richly complex, and thoroughly engrossing historical mystery - with a shiver of horror to it. – The Indie Reader

To Mary E

for shared adventures in Paris

Paris 1898

Who pours out vengeance

runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.

Alexandre Dumas

Chapter One

Moral wounds have this peculiarity—

they may be hidden, but they never close...

always ready to bleed when touched,

they remain fresh and open in the heart.

Alexandre Dumas

Michel Devaux woke at the soft click of the door opening and lay silent and unmoving. He knew at once he was safe, lying in Lilias’ bed, but he wouldn’t have survived long as a legionnaire or a detective if he’d been oblivious to faint sounds. The soft scuffles were the maid, come to revive the waning fire. Allowing himself to drowse, he inhaled the aroma of applewood smoke that drifted toward him. He always left Lilias before sunrise—easy enough in January. For a courtesan of her stature to have an affair with a police detective, a common flic, was déclassé and might diminish her appeal to her wealthy clientele. Still, she’d granted him her favors for over a year now.

Turning onto his side, he watched Lilias sleep. The flames gave a soft glow to the room and gilded her auburn hair as it spread across the pillows. In the rosy light she looked so innocent. Michel guessed her a little older than his thirty-two, but she would defy age for a long time, her high cheekbones accenting the fine structure of her face. Brighter light would reveal fine lines at the corners of her eyes, but he admired the added character they gave her expression. Even her youthful face would have shown her clever and urbane, her gaze mocking, her feline smile provocative.

He never knew what to expect at their assignations. Lilias was inventive, dexterous, passionate, and demanded the same from him. She often treated him to the erotic temptations he imagined her affluent patrons enjoyed, but also to the unpretentious warmth of a lover who was a friend. Her enticing games piqued his arousal but her tenderness was even more welcome. And her intelligence was the most stimulating facet of all.

When the maid withdrew, Michel rose and padded naked down the hall to Lilias’ modern chambre de bain, an elegant play of pale marble, sinuous wrought iron, and wallpaper of cool celadon green. Running hot water into the basin, he sponged off the scents of his night. The dark rose fragrance of her perfume lingered on his skin, mingled with sweat and the musk of sex. He drizzled soapy water across his shoulders, winced, and laughed a little. There were scratches, souvenirs of their fervor.

Lilias knew when he wanted tenderness and when he needed ferocity, a bright heat to escape the ugly murkiness settling over Paris.

Escape cannot last.

Michel pushed the thought away. He dried his face and regarded himself in the mirror. Lilias called him her handsome flic, but he thought his visage austere. Grey eyes, brown hair, straight nose. He touched lips less severe after a night of bites and kisses. He was glad his countenance pleased her, as hers did him, but it was mutual passion and an answering intelligence that kept their affair alight.

As Michel finished shaving, he heard Lilias stir. After a moment, she sauntered into the bath clothed in a sheer peignoir of chiffon and lace, her ruddy nipples and russet mons tempting beneath the delicate fabric. She slid her arms around him, laying her cheek against his back and purring nonsense syllables. He closed his eyes and savored the warmth of her slender body through the tantalizing abrasion of the lace against his skin.

Stay, her soft murmur became articulate.

If I do, the neighbors will see me leave.

I don’t care. Her fingers teased over his ribs, hovering briefly on the scar from last year’s gunshot wound, then glided down to stroke the muscles of his thighs. His cock stirred and she peered around his shoulder. Brown eyes met his in the mirror, her gaze both lazy and defiant. Stay.

He had the time. What better way to spend it?

Michel lifted her in his arms and carried her back to bed.

The snow-muffled streets gleamed white under the arc lamps as Michel walked from this exclusive enclave near the Opéra Garnier toward the Palais de Justice. Despite the cold, a peaceful blanket of white protected his warm mood, and he savored his contentment along with the soft crunch of snow under his boots. Rare in Paris, its beauty would melt away all too soon.

It ruffles Wrists of Posts

As Ankles of a Queen

Michel mused on the two lines of the curious poem Theodora Faraday had shown him. That was all he could remember of it now and that a woman, Emily Dickinson, wrote it. Delighted with the recent snowfalls, Theo had him read several poems about winter and had him practice one for their lesson. He smiled, a warm flush of pleasure stealing through him at the memory. She was creative, his beautiful American friend, and not only with her paintings. He’d been most amused the time she helped him dismantle and clean his gun in English. She couldn’t help lamenting the Colt the Sûreté had confiscated from her.

You are a dangerous woman, he’d improvised in English.

Very much so, she’d affirmed.

Michel gave a short laugh, his exasperation at her recklessness mingling with admiration for her courage. That courage had saved more than one life.

With the new trouble brewing in Paris, he wished she still had her weapon.

Michel practiced some of that practical English lesson as he walked. The streets grew ever busier as he approached the Seine, workers rolling vegetable and milk carts toward the great market of Les Halles, the belly of Paris. Reaching the river, he paused for a moment to watch the barges moving beneath the bridges of the city, and then crossed to the Île de la Cité.

Before making his way to the detectives’ offices, he stopped for breakfast at a nearby brasserie. He enjoyed this ritual as a way to keep on amiable terms with his neighborhood shopkeepers and restauranteurs. They wished each other Bonne Année although they were five days into 1898. He ordered his usual fare of café au lait, eggs, some crusty bread and ham. He couldn’t think without a hearty breakfast, and the owners were happy to indulge his eccentricity. Especially hungry this morning, he devoured it all and asked for a second coffee.

Usually Michel took any leftover ham to the feral cats lurking behind the Palais de Justice. Since the frigid weather had set in, he’d switched to buying a large packet of scraps from the butcher, his unofficial supplement to their official ration. They did not know it, but they were working cats, expected to control the rodent population scurrying about the courthouses. Michel thought the cats seemed thinner this winter. Their ration had never been generous, and he supposed their main meal of rat was leaner as well.

Shouts broke into his musings. Two men sitting in the corner of the brasserie scraped back their chairs, slammed their fists on the table.

Émile Zola is a traitor! As much as this vile Jew!

You are a fool! A dupe! Dreyfus is innocent!

Michel tensed as the argument escalated. He’d hoped to be spared the vicious invective of the Dreyfus Affair over breakfast at least, but escape proved impossible. Yesterday dozens of Zola’s latest pamphlet had been waved aloft in triumph or trampled in the street. France’s premier novelist had been bombarding the journals with articles for weeks. Last month’s Letter to Youth had set the city rumbling. Yesterday’s Letter to France had it bellowing. There had already been riots and there would be more.

At first, Michel had believed the Army’s declaration that there was incontrovertible proof that Dreyfus had sold military secrets to the Germans. Three years ago to the day, Captain Dreyfus had been publicly degraded, stripped of his rank and honors, and sent to rot on Devil’s Island. Hell on earth. Michel knew such places from his time in the Foreign Legion. Three years was a lifetime—and the Army wished Dreyfus would die as soon as possible.

If Zola was right, the Army had presumed Captain Dreyfus guilty because he was a Jew and devised evidence to fit the charges. The more suspicion was roused that the conviction was wrongful, the more evidence they’d fabricated to protect the officers at fault.

Brûle en enfer! one man cried, echoing Michel’s thoughts of hell.

"Ferme ta gueule!" the other yelled.

Michel wished they’d both shut their mouths, but they ranted on. One proclaimed all Jews traitors to the core, the other labeled the Army a coterie of corruption. He tried to swallow his anger with the coffee but tasted only his own bitterness. Unasked, the elderly owner came to Michel’s table and brought him more hot milk, casting a worried eye at the continuing tirade.

Traître!

Imbécile!

Yelling, they jumped up, throwing back their chairs. The owner of the brasserie bleated at them to leave even as he took a step behind Michel. Assuming his official mien, Michel rose swiftly and moved between them. Time to go, he said. They glared at him belligerently, irate but not drunk. You are welcome to kill each other outside.

One became sheepish and quickly departed. The other man fumed for a moment, then spat, Jew lovers, and fled.

Michel shrugged off the owner’s thanks and set the chairs back in place. Nothing broken. Told his breakfast was free, he refused with a polite smile, paid, and left.

Once outside, he backtracked toward Notre Dame. Across from the cathedral, a vast pit yawned where the city had commenced mending the sewers. The workers had yet to arrive and quiet reigned. Michel was agnostic, but the age and beauty of the cathedral, the sense of devotion, offered comfort. He stood beneath the portals, letting the cold form a shell to encase the heat of his anger.

Why must France be forever at war with herself? The wounds of the Revolution, of the Commune, had never healed. The loss of empire, the shame of defeat at the hands of the Prussians rankled for two decades. The French could not admit they’d fought a stupid war against soldiers better trained and better equipped. It must have been betrayal. It must have been a Jew.

The Church and the Army had closed ranks against the intellectuals and the liberal politics of the Republicans. France was ready to eviscerate herself again over this Dreyfus affair. An innocent man would be the scapegoat for every injury France had suffered.

Bellows would become blows. Blows would draw blood.

Chaos and death would once again rule Paris.

Michel’s ire cooled, but the ache in his gut told him that grief gnawed at him still. He felt trapped in the horrors of his childhood and the disaster of his own rebellion.

He’d been six in 1871, when his parents and sister had died. His mother starved to death in the siege of the Franco-Prussian war. In the aftermath of that debacle, his father joined the Commune, hoping to find justice for the working class, only to be slaughtered in the streets with thousands of his fellow Communards. A rebel orphan, Michel might have been shot like his father and tossed in a mass grave or raped and gutted by the Royalist guards like his sister.

But Guillame Devaux, Brigadier of the Sûreté, had found him. Instead of death Michel was given a new home, a new name, a new father.

A home he’d scorned. A name he’d betrayed. A father he’d all but murdered.

A shudder swept through him. Fool. Why stand in the cold, battering himself with hellish memories? Turning up his collar, Michel set off for the offices of the Sûreté, stopping briefly at the butcher’s shop for the cats’ scraps. Concentrating on his errand, he walked past the medieval clock tower of the Conciergerie and crossed the street so he could overlook the Seine. Despite his own warning, guilt ripped through him as he neared the exact place on the pavement where his adopted father had died, blown to bits by the bomb he’d carried outside the walls of the Palais de Justice. Michel halted, his heart knotting tight in his chest.

It should have been me.

Michel had to pass this point almost every day, but the pain he believed he’d mastered had attacked with renewed savagery as the hatred roused by the Dreyfus Affair devoured Paris. He understood all too well the cost of such hatred.

Hatred, rage, had driven him to hunt down the bomber, his anarchist cousin Luc, and kill him on the sands of Algeria.

Movement across the street dragged Michel back to the present. Hugh Rambert was lounging outside the detectives’ bureau. Michel’s malaise eased at the sight of his partner, and he managed a smile. Rambert’s husky boyish looks and soft-spoken manner made him a good interrogator, easily coaxing testimony from hesitant witnesses. The good nature his face promised was no illusion, though he had a righteous temper that he struggled to control.

Rambert hurried across the street, a smug smile tugging the corners of his lips. You’re late, Inspecteur Devaux.

I am leisurely, Inspecteur Rambert, having wisely completed all my paperwork. Michel knew the only reason Hugh had come this early was because he hadn’t finished his own much detested forms. I have nothing to attend to this morning.

So you thought, Rambert countered. His smile faded and concern surfaced in his eyes. When I arrived, I found a man stamping around outside, trying to stay warm. He wanted to talk to you, only you, and I had to persuade him to wait inside. Then the chief came and recognized him. He took him into the office and sent me to keep watch for you.

Does the man have a name?

Monsieur Balsam. Jewish, I think?

Yes. Michel frowned. The hateful scene in the brasserie returned to worry him.

You look troubled. Do you suppose someone’s threatened him?

It would not surprise me, Michel said. Saul Balsam’s a reporter—one I respect. He might have discovered some crime.

Or some political scandal? Rambert suggested. He did not want to talk to Cochefert.

A political—or police—scandal could make Balsam prefer to stamp around outside rather than face the chief. I’d best find out.

Rambert pointed to the packet in Michel’s hand and grinned. I can feed the cats for you.

With a reluctance that surprised him, Michel handed over the meat trimmings. Rambert gave him a quick salute and headed off toward the far end of the Palais de Justice. Watching, Michel wondered if his confession about feeding the cats had sealed their friendship. It wasn’t just the horrors of the case they’d worked last spring that had strengthened their working relationship, giving it depth and ease. Even now, they seldom talked of anything but work. Or Michel seldom did. He’d learned a good deal about Hugh’s life. The rescue of his beloved spaniel as an abandoned pup. Returning to live with his parents because his mother was ill. Saving money to marry, though he did not have a special girl, only the longing for a wife and family. Used to guarding his solitude, Michel was grateful that Rambert never pressed for his history.

Wondering what Saul Balsam might have uncovered, Michel entered the ancient stone building. He walked past the detectives’ desks, the air thick with the smell of ink and tobacco, made his way to the office of Armand Cochefert, Chef de la Sûreté, and knocked.

Come in.

Entering, Michel’s senses prickled at the tension radiating from the two men waiting there.

Balsam gave him a terse, "Bonjour, Inspecteur." Relief flickered behind the wire-rimmed spectacles. They perched crookedly on a nose askew from an old injury. Behind them, dark circles smudged the skin beneath expressive brown eyes. Usually Balsam’s demeanor was calm, his humor easy, but today he looked angry and disheveled. His posture was rigid but his hands flexed in nervous agitation.

Michel waited for Cochefert to speak. The chief was seldom at a loss for words but he did not babble. Seated at his desk, Cochefert appeared more morose than usual, like a grumpy walrus, his shoulders hunched, his bristly mustache drooping. When the silence continued, Michel prompted him. There’s been a murder?

We don’t know. Not yet, Cochefert said.

But we fear so. Balsam glared at Cochefert, then spoke to Michel directly. Etienne Lauzier is missing.

Michel knew Lauzier was an owner and editor of the liberal journal La Voix de la Republique, and its most fervent voice. How long has he been gone?

Not even a day. Cochefert crossed his arms atop his thick belly, adding a barrier.

Balsam turned to Michel. He told his partner of an anonymous note summoning him to a secret meeting.

A subterfuge to conceal a romantic assignation. Cochefert shrugged. He may yet return.

I was to meet with him and his partner last night, Balsam argued. We were to plan our strategy with Monsieur Zola. It is not the sort of appointment one disregards.

At the mention of Emile Zola, the pieces snapped into place so sharply that Michel winced. Dreyfus.

The chief nodded glumly, sinking further into himself.

Michel understood his malaise. Zola declared evidence of treason had been fabricated to bolster a weak case against Captain Dreyfus. If so, the Police would be implicated in the scandal along with the Army. Cochefert had been involved in the arrest. The chief had only done his duty, but that would matter little if Dreyfus were proved innocent. Even worse was the involvement of Alphonse Bertillon, the head of the Department of Judicial Identity, who’d been a witness at Dreyfus’ trial. Although Bertillon had studied handwriting analysis, he was not an expert. Michel had heard him mock the technique as inadequate. Nonetheless, Bertillon examined the suspect document, the now infamous bordereau, and claimed it must be an auto-forgery. The Jew must have deliberately created a bad approximation of his own writing while passing along military secrets. Dreyfus was convicted, but over time evidence of corruption emerged. The Army closed ranks, piling lie upon lie. And half the country was eager to believe every lie they told.

Michel turned to Balsam. How is Monsieur Lauzier involved?

He promised to publish Zola’s next letter—it will be far stronger than the others.

Stronger? Alarm and curiosity warred within Michel. A great deal had been revealed already, but in piecemeal fashion.

Balsam continued. His accusations will be explicit. Zola names high-ranking officials in the Army and the government who conspired against Captain Dreyfus.

He’ll be sued for libel, Michel said.

That is his intent. It will be a public trial in open court, not a sham trial by the Army. This is a chance for justice.

C’est un cauchemar, Cochefert grumbled.

Dreyfus has been living that nightmare far longer, Balsam reminded him.

Cochefert glowered. There will be more riots. The Army will bring in troops.

Michel guided Balsam toward the practicalities. Where have you searched for Lauzier? The hospitals?

We telephoned where we could and visited the rest. All assured us that no one of his description had been admitted. Monsieur Eymard is trying again this morning. Balsam paused. He did not approve of my coming here.

He believes his partner is murdered but shuns our help? Cochefert scoffed.

He fears the Army is involved, and that the police will cover up the evidence and lie to protect them, Balsam challenged.

Michel exchanged a glance with Cochefert. The Army might well try to protect its tottering reputation by pressuring the Sûreté. It’s not too soon to begin investigating.

Cochefert exhaled sonorously. Monsieur Balsam has suggested you lead the investigation. He trusts you. I trust you. We are agreed you are the best person to handle the case.

If Cochefert handled the investigation himself, the Dreyfusards would presume it corrupt from the start, but every action held a trap. Michel shook his head. They will be suspicious of us all. Whichever way we misstep, half of Paris will be howling for our heads.

It will be difficult enough for you and Rambert, Cochefert allowed. But I can say I’ve got two of my best men on it—and neither of you hates Jews.

Typical of the chief to have gathered knowledge of the political leanings of his men. Cochefert was liberal himself, at least in some areas. To Balsam, Michel said, Inspecteur Rambert is young but both clever and steadfast.

I will take your word on it. Balsam replied, if not whole-heartedly.

Cochefert’s voice hardened. "However, your supposed crime may be no more than a drunken binge or a petulant mistress. Monsieur Lauzier may have absconded with the funds of La Voix de la Republique."

That’s preposterous, Balsam said. Monsieur Lauzier was excited to be in the center of the case of the century. Word leaked out about his decision to print Zola’s next letter. Already there were threats.

Threats? Cochefert snapped. Such a man inevitably has threats.

They never daunted him, Balsam retorted.

Michel needed to defuse the growing antagonism. Monsieur Balsam, have you seen this mysterious note?

No. Lauzier could be quite secretive. He told his partner only that it promised information about the conspiracy. When he did not return from this mysterious rendezvous, we feared the worst.

So, Monsieur Lauzier went alone? Cochefert prodded. Why did no one accompany him when he undertook this obvious risk?

Monsieur Lauzier refused, Balsam said. He only worried that there might be an attempt to offer false or corrupt evidence. The clearer Dreyfus’ innocence becomes, the angrier those who need him to be guilty become. They are capable of anything.

Or of nothing, in this case, Cochefert countered. There is no evidence of a crime.

He’s vanished. Balsam’s voice rose with anxiety, He is out there—dead or dying!

Inspecteur Devaux, explain to our reporter what your course of action would be if you knew someone had been murdered. He seems to have forgotten police procedure.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Michel stated, First, we’d investigate the crime scene. Search the surrounding area or assign officers to do it.

Cochefert spread open his hands. There is no crime scene.

With a suspicious disappearance, I’d begin interviewing those who know him. Family first. Friends. Work colleagues.

Known enemies, Balsam broke in, taut with frustration.

Family first, Cochefert emphasized, still ignoring Balsam.

Colleagues first perhaps, if that was the last place he was seen. But yes, the family as quickly as possible, Michel agreed.

Balsam shook his head. They will resent that you are treating them as suspects instead of searching for the actual killer.

I will be civil. But your investigations, like mine, have revealed that families harbor killers. Personal motives can overwhelm political ones.

You have not suffered the blows of this mindless hatred! Balsam’s hands balled into fists.

Quietly, Michel said, Monsieur Balsam, I have always admired your detachment. Endeavour to maintain it.

Balsam steadied his breathing, relaxed his posture. We must do something.

Michel considered his options. I may have to duplicate your efforts, but not today. I’ll check all the train stations.

Balsam flung up his arms in exasperation. Absurd! I assure you—

It is procedure, Cochefert growled.

You can begin interviewing his staff, Balsam insisted.

Michel looked to Cochefert who signaled agreement. They both dreaded this mysterious disappearance was exactly what Saul Balsam presumed it to be. Murder.

Michel turned to Balsam. I can be at his office by noon. Once I have collected some information, I will talk with the family.

The reporter bit back any further argument. If they believe you are truly willing to help, they’ll be more cooperative.

With luck, his partner will find him in a hospital bed, unconscious after slipping on the ice. Cochefert gestured his dismissal. Good day, Monsieur Balsam.

Balsam cast Michel an anxious glance, no doubt worried Cochefert was about to give him orders to sabotage the case. Then he sighed and bade them au revoir.

As soon as he left, Cochefert said, Having a sympathetic voice in the liberal press may benefit us, but be cautious with what you reveal to Monsieur Balsam.

Michel saw the chief was preparing for the worst. Michel felt the same tension. He has never misused information I’ve given him in the past. But this is not simply a story, it is a cause.

Use your own discretion, Cochefert said. For the moment, only you and Rambert will be involved.

And if Lauzier is found?

Dead? Then you must choose the men on your team with care. You’ll not be able to surround yourself with sympathizers.

No, but I can choose those who will put duty before politics. Michel had on occasion been forced to play politics but never far enough to violate his conscience. Last spring, he’d concealed the truth of Casimir Estarlian’s crimes to protect vulnerable survivors. The boy Matthieu and his mother, Theo’s landlady, would have been hounded by the press. He’d protected Theo Faraday from exposure too. In truth they’d solved the bizarre case and vanquished Estarlian together.

There will be tremendous pressure on all of us. Cochefert’s statement was a warning.

If Dreyfus is innocent, he must be freed, Michel said, making his position clear. The honor of France will only be besmirched by more lies.

Cochefert heaved a final gigantic sigh. I fear we’re soon to receive a very inconvenient corpse.

Chapter Two

Ah!... Paris wrapped in night!

Half nebulous; the moonlight

streams o’er the blue shadowed roofs....

Edmund Rostand

Exhilarated, Theodora Faraday walked out of the theatre and lifted her face to the night sky. Snowflake flurries drifted through the January night, sugaring the rooftops and the street below. A white flake fell onto her cheek and melted into an icy tear. Beside her, a poster presented Cyrano de Bergerac doffing his hat, his face with its great nose framed by its white plume. She stroked the image of the feather—the perfect symbol of his gallantry. Theo laughed aloud, filled to bursting with the joyful sadness of the play and the nobility of its hero.

She turned, searching for her father. He’d brought her here along with the young gallery owners who were to display her art in her first group show. She caught a glimpse of him by the entrance, talking to Gavin Raquet. Walking toward her, gangly as a colt, was Rémy Gerome. Saluting her with his cane, he proclaimed, En garde, mademoiselle!

Theo extended her fan, her first quick thrust knocking off his top hat. ‘Have at you, Falsehood!’

Rémy caught his tumbling hat and laughed. Dark brown eyes aglow, he frisked down the street fencing and tossing out quotes from the play. Ha! Compromise! Prejudice!’

Theo skirted a cluster of departing