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section7mfuNapoleon’s insouciant gaze moved from Depardieu to the revolver. He tilted his head toward Illya. “Did you know this house was once owned by Roman Bartelli?”
Illya raised his brows. “The silent film star?”
“Uh-huh. He drank himself to death at this very chateau. It was five days before they found the body.” Napoleon twisted his lips. “By that time it had been, ah, partially consumed by his poodles.”
Depardieu frowned. “Let us not waste any more time.”
Napoleon’s grin flashed. “Try not to think of the poodles when we’re in there.”
The rear doors swung open. The chauffeur and another man, grim-faced and bulky, stood outside, guns pointed at the agents.
“Hand over your weapons,” Depardieu said.
Napoleon and Illya looked at each other and shrugged. They passed their Specials to the men outside, then exited the Citroen.
The house looked less shabby in the darkness. Light shone from each window.
“Seen anything?” Depardieu asked the grim-faced man.
“No one’s come or gone since I got here.”
They walked through the front garden, Depardieu in the lead, his men flanking the agents. A movement in an upper window drew their attention. The curtain shifted, and a woman’s face peered out. The lamp light shone obliquely on Hapsburg features. In a moment, she was gone.
Depardieu stopped abruptly. “It can’t be,” he breathed. He whirled around and waved the revolver at the agents. “Is this another of your tricks?”
“No trick. It appears my contact has been entertaining. Perhaps you should put that gun away before you trigger his security. You wouldn’t want the gendarmes called in, would you?”
Depardieu stared at Napoleon, then holstered his weapon and signaled for his henchmen to do the same. With a final glance at the empty window, he resumed their walk to the door.
Depardieu rang the bell. Seconds passed. Napoleon lifted his hand and listened. He shook his head. “Sorry. Thought I heard a poodle.”
Depardieu growled and raised his own hand as if to strike. The door swung inward. An old man stood in the hall. His smoking jacket and the silk scarf around his neck had both seen better days. His eyes roamed over the group and rested on Napoleon.
“Does he have the money?” he asked with the voice of one who had smoked too many Gauloises.
Depardieu held up a small briefcase.
“Then come in.” He waved a hand to indicate Depardieu’s men. “Not them. Just you three.”
Depardieu’s face reflected an internal struggle. “Wait here,” he said to his men between clenched teeth.
The old man led the way down the corridor to the library. He stopped beside a small desk and tapped its surface. “Let me see it.”
Depardieu set the briefcase on the desk and opened it. The old man’s nicotine-stained fingers quickly fanned through the bundled notes. He grunted in satisfaction.
“Where are my pages?” Depardieu demanded.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”
“So will we,” Napoleon said quietly from the side of his mouth.
“Must you be morbid,” Illya replied.
The old man unlocked a desk drawer and removed a folder. He handed it to Depardieu.
With trembling hands, Depardieu unwound the string from the buttons. He breathed deeply as he opened the folder, filling his lungs with the musty vanilla fragrance of the aging paper. His eyes caressed the top sheet. His face turned white, then purple. He flipped roughly through the other pages, then crushed them in his fist. “What is this?” he snarled.
“Retribution.”
Regina stood in the doorway. Depardieu growled in frustration. He dropped the folder and flung himself toward the display case. Inside, instead of browned pages, there was a large framed photograph, a black and white portrait exquisitely hand-tinted. Two sisters stared up at him. The older was green-eyed, her strawberry blonde hair a mass of curls. The younger shared the same oval face and shade of hair, but there the similarities ended. Hers were prominent blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and pouting lips.
Regina crouched over the discarded folder. “I kept her diary. She lives on in its words.” She smoothed a crushed page, another handiwork of Miss Gagne. “‘I think I am more frightened of Justin,’” she read, “‘than I ever was of Colonel Hoffman.’”
Regina stood, her eyes on Depardieu, her sister’s words spilling from her lips. “‘The strange reverent adoration he had for me now descends into hatred. Regina has tried to explain. So have I. Nothing we say matters. How could he think I would help the Nazis? He has me watched night and day. Regina has contacted Alexander Waverly. I hope he’s not too late.’”
The old man sighed. “To my everlasting regret, I was too late.” His voice was no longer rough. He reached beneath the silk scarf and pulled off his mask.
Alexander Waverly looked at Depardieu, the hint of triumph in his eyes quickly replaced by a smoldering anger. “By the time I arrived, you had arrested Cecily. Justice had succumbed to mob rule.”
Depardieu‘s gaze swung wildly from Waverly to his agents in dawning comprehension. “She was a traitor.”
“No,” Regina cried, “Cecily was a hero.”
“She was his mistress!” Depardieu spat. “I read the transcripts of Hoffman’s interrogation. She gave herself to him.”
He tore at the latch on the display case. When it refused to give way, he punched his fist through the glass. Regina gave a small shriek.
Depardieu pulled out the portrait. “I worshipped her. I would rather have died than see her bloom rubbed off. But she gave herself to that Nazi bastard.”
He ran his fingers over the picture, leaving a trail of blood across the glass. Regina turned her head away.
“Whatever Cecily did,” Waverly said, “she did for France and the Allies.”
“She betrayed France.” Depardieu lifted eyes that burned with bitter resentment. “And you are responsible. I begged the S.O.E. to get Cecily and Regina out. But you refused. You left them in that chateau with Colonel Hoffman and his men.”
“At their request. Cecily and your former wife risked their lives to gather intelligence for us.”
A harsh laugh burst from Depardieu’s lips. “Share intelligence, you mean. She gave information to Hoffman. He said as much.”
“False information that we provided.”
Depardieu looked from Waverly’s implacable features to Regina’s tear-ravaged face. “She told you,” Regina sobbed. “We begged you to believe us.”
“But you didn’t,” Waverly said. “Instead you listened to the poisonous whispers in the village.”
“Collaborator,” Regina said, choking on the word.
“And you believed them.”
Depardieu clutched at his hair with his bloody hand. “No.”
“You joined them in their madness. You led their ranks as they became judge, jury and executioner.”
“I had to do it.” Depardieu gazed down at the smiling face in the portrait. “You left me no choice.”
“With courage and dignity, Cecily met her end before a jeering mob,” Waverly said, “like another vilified woman a century and a half earlier.”
Depardieu moaned like wounded animal. He collapsed onto his knees, still clutching the portrait.
Waverly stood over him. “You see yourself, do you, as the Queen’s loyal courtier, an aristocrat who would have gone to the guillotine with her name on your lips? No. You are Robespierre. You are Sanson. That is her blood on your hands.”
“Stop!”
Denise stood in the doorway. “Stop torturing him.”
Regina stepped toward her daughter. “Denise, go back home. This is no place for you. I’ll try to explain later.”
Denise shook her head. “You hate him. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve always hated him.”
“But I love you. I stayed for you.”
Denise brushed past Regina and knelt beside her father. “Get up, dearest, it’s time to go.”
“You don’t know what kind of man he is.”
“She is right, young lady,” Waverly said. “We’re taking him into custody. Your father is a dangerous criminal.”
Denise pointed Depardieu’s revolver at Waverly. “He’s not going anywhere with you.”
She pulled the trigger. Regina screamed as the gun fired. Waverly collapsed against the display case.
Napoleon and Illya ran to their chief. Waverly grasped his upper arm. Blood seeped through his fingers. “I’ve had worse,” he said. “Tie my scarf around it, if you would.”
The gunshot woke Depardieu from his stupor. He stumbled to his feet. “Get the briefcase,” he commanded.
“Yes, Father dearest.” Denise, revolver still at the ready, went to the desk and picked up the case.
Depardieu took a final, agonized look at the portrait, then threw it to the floor. His two henchman and his courier appeared in the doorway, guns drawn. “We heard a shot,” the grim-faced man said. “You OK, boss?”
“I will be.” He followed Denise from the room, pausing to say, “Kill them. Kill them all.”
The bit about Roman Bartelli is borrowed from the musical The Drowsy Chaperone. If you haven’t seen it, you should. It’s delightful.
Illya raised his brows. “The silent film star?”
“Uh-huh. He drank himself to death at this very chateau. It was five days before they found the body.” Napoleon twisted his lips. “By that time it had been, ah, partially consumed by his poodles.”
Depardieu frowned. “Let us not waste any more time.”
Napoleon’s grin flashed. “Try not to think of the poodles when we’re in there.”
The rear doors swung open. The chauffeur and another man, grim-faced and bulky, stood outside, guns pointed at the agents.
“Hand over your weapons,” Depardieu said.
Napoleon and Illya looked at each other and shrugged. They passed their Specials to the men outside, then exited the Citroen.
The house looked less shabby in the darkness. Light shone from each window.
“Seen anything?” Depardieu asked the grim-faced man.
“No one’s come or gone since I got here.”
They walked through the front garden, Depardieu in the lead, his men flanking the agents. A movement in an upper window drew their attention. The curtain shifted, and a woman’s face peered out. The lamp light shone obliquely on Hapsburg features. In a moment, she was gone.
Depardieu stopped abruptly. “It can’t be,” he breathed. He whirled around and waved the revolver at the agents. “Is this another of your tricks?”
“No trick. It appears my contact has been entertaining. Perhaps you should put that gun away before you trigger his security. You wouldn’t want the gendarmes called in, would you?”
Depardieu stared at Napoleon, then holstered his weapon and signaled for his henchmen to do the same. With a final glance at the empty window, he resumed their walk to the door.
Depardieu rang the bell. Seconds passed. Napoleon lifted his hand and listened. He shook his head. “Sorry. Thought I heard a poodle.”
Depardieu growled and raised his own hand as if to strike. The door swung inward. An old man stood in the hall. His smoking jacket and the silk scarf around his neck had both seen better days. His eyes roamed over the group and rested on Napoleon.
“Does he have the money?” he asked with the voice of one who had smoked too many Gauloises.
Depardieu held up a small briefcase.
“Then come in.” He waved a hand to indicate Depardieu’s men. “Not them. Just you three.”
Depardieu’s face reflected an internal struggle. “Wait here,” he said to his men between clenched teeth.
The old man led the way down the corridor to the library. He stopped beside a small desk and tapped its surface. “Let me see it.”
Depardieu set the briefcase on the desk and opened it. The old man’s nicotine-stained fingers quickly fanned through the bundled notes. He grunted in satisfaction.
“Where are my pages?” Depardieu demanded.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”
“So will we,” Napoleon said quietly from the side of his mouth.
“Must you be morbid,” Illya replied.
The old man unlocked a desk drawer and removed a folder. He handed it to Depardieu.
With trembling hands, Depardieu unwound the string from the buttons. He breathed deeply as he opened the folder, filling his lungs with the musty vanilla fragrance of the aging paper. His eyes caressed the top sheet. His face turned white, then purple. He flipped roughly through the other pages, then crushed them in his fist. “What is this?” he snarled.
“Retribution.”
Regina stood in the doorway. Depardieu growled in frustration. He dropped the folder and flung himself toward the display case. Inside, instead of browned pages, there was a large framed photograph, a black and white portrait exquisitely hand-tinted. Two sisters stared up at him. The older was green-eyed, her strawberry blonde hair a mass of curls. The younger shared the same oval face and shade of hair, but there the similarities ended. Hers were prominent blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and pouting lips.
Regina crouched over the discarded folder. “I kept her diary. She lives on in its words.” She smoothed a crushed page, another handiwork of Miss Gagne. “‘I think I am more frightened of Justin,’” she read, “‘than I ever was of Colonel Hoffman.’”
Regina stood, her eyes on Depardieu, her sister’s words spilling from her lips. “‘The strange reverent adoration he had for me now descends into hatred. Regina has tried to explain. So have I. Nothing we say matters. How could he think I would help the Nazis? He has me watched night and day. Regina has contacted Alexander Waverly. I hope he’s not too late.’”
The old man sighed. “To my everlasting regret, I was too late.” His voice was no longer rough. He reached beneath the silk scarf and pulled off his mask.
Alexander Waverly looked at Depardieu, the hint of triumph in his eyes quickly replaced by a smoldering anger. “By the time I arrived, you had arrested Cecily. Justice had succumbed to mob rule.”
Depardieu‘s gaze swung wildly from Waverly to his agents in dawning comprehension. “She was a traitor.”
“No,” Regina cried, “Cecily was a hero.”
“She was his mistress!” Depardieu spat. “I read the transcripts of Hoffman’s interrogation. She gave herself to him.”
He tore at the latch on the display case. When it refused to give way, he punched his fist through the glass. Regina gave a small shriek.
Depardieu pulled out the portrait. “I worshipped her. I would rather have died than see her bloom rubbed off. But she gave herself to that Nazi bastard.”
He ran his fingers over the picture, leaving a trail of blood across the glass. Regina turned her head away.
“Whatever Cecily did,” Waverly said, “she did for France and the Allies.”
“She betrayed France.” Depardieu lifted eyes that burned with bitter resentment. “And you are responsible. I begged the S.O.E. to get Cecily and Regina out. But you refused. You left them in that chateau with Colonel Hoffman and his men.”
“At their request. Cecily and your former wife risked their lives to gather intelligence for us.”
A harsh laugh burst from Depardieu’s lips. “Share intelligence, you mean. She gave information to Hoffman. He said as much.”
“False information that we provided.”
Depardieu looked from Waverly’s implacable features to Regina’s tear-ravaged face. “She told you,” Regina sobbed. “We begged you to believe us.”
“But you didn’t,” Waverly said. “Instead you listened to the poisonous whispers in the village.”
“Collaborator,” Regina said, choking on the word.
“And you believed them.”
Depardieu clutched at his hair with his bloody hand. “No.”
“You joined them in their madness. You led their ranks as they became judge, jury and executioner.”
“I had to do it.” Depardieu gazed down at the smiling face in the portrait. “You left me no choice.”
“With courage and dignity, Cecily met her end before a jeering mob,” Waverly said, “like another vilified woman a century and a half earlier.”
Depardieu moaned like wounded animal. He collapsed onto his knees, still clutching the portrait.
Waverly stood over him. “You see yourself, do you, as the Queen’s loyal courtier, an aristocrat who would have gone to the guillotine with her name on your lips? No. You are Robespierre. You are Sanson. That is her blood on your hands.”
“Stop!”
Denise stood in the doorway. “Stop torturing him.”
Regina stepped toward her daughter. “Denise, go back home. This is no place for you. I’ll try to explain later.”
Denise shook her head. “You hate him. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve always hated him.”
“But I love you. I stayed for you.”
Denise brushed past Regina and knelt beside her father. “Get up, dearest, it’s time to go.”
“You don’t know what kind of man he is.”
“She is right, young lady,” Waverly said. “We’re taking him into custody. Your father is a dangerous criminal.”
Denise pointed Depardieu’s revolver at Waverly. “He’s not going anywhere with you.”
She pulled the trigger. Regina screamed as the gun fired. Waverly collapsed against the display case.
Napoleon and Illya ran to their chief. Waverly grasped his upper arm. Blood seeped through his fingers. “I’ve had worse,” he said. “Tie my scarf around it, if you would.”
The gunshot woke Depardieu from his stupor. He stumbled to his feet. “Get the briefcase,” he commanded.
“Yes, Father dearest.” Denise, revolver still at the ready, went to the desk and picked up the case.
Depardieu took a final, agonized look at the portrait, then threw it to the floor. His two henchman and his courier appeared in the doorway, guns drawn. “We heard a shot,” the grim-faced man said. “You OK, boss?”
“I will be.” He followed Denise from the room, pausing to say, “Kill them. Kill them all.”
The bit about Roman Bartelli is borrowed from the musical The Drowsy Chaperone. If you haven’t seen it, you should. It’s delightful.
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Date: 2020-01-01 02:40 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2020-01-01 05:34 am (UTC)Learn more about LiveJournal Ratings in FAQ (https://www.dreamwidth.org/support/faqbrowse?faqid=303).
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Date: 2020-01-01 11:36 am (UTC)Fantastic. I'm more than delighted with how this story is developing. Comme d'habitude, excellent French allusions. And I absolutely loved the poodle references. Pure brilliance.
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