“A relic of the Society’s founder,” she said without introducing herself, looking down at the model ship with a frown. “A bit of an eyesore, really. I’m of a mind to donate it to some provincial museum somewhere and be rid of it.” She set off in the direction of a liquor cabinet camouflaged among the bookshelves. “Something to drink?”

“Bisquit Dubouché. You have a fine library. Who’s your binder—Meunier? Lortic?”

Chanel shook her head with a smile as she poured. “Guess again.”

I approached the nearest shelf, taking a book at random, examining the leather, the embossing, the filigree. “This is very fine work, reminiscent of Marius Michel, though more modern. There’s an artist’s temperament at play here.” I opened the book and held one of the pages open against the light of the windows. “My guess is…” And there it was, a spectral fingerprint: the binder’s watermark. “No, it can’t be. The expense alone…” But the quality of the work was beyond question. “Can it be that this entire library was bound by Legrain?”

Chanel approached me holding two glasses, one of which she handed to me, holding my eye as she did so. It was unsettling, locking gazes with this woman. She was no longer young, but an awesome power emanated from her, elegant and flinty at once, animated by a restless energy that could easily be mistaken for youth, and was even, perhaps, preferable to it. “Using lacquers by Jean Dunand,” she confirmed with a half-smile, sitting on the edge of the writing table. “Now you understand the value of the full collection. When I took the reins of the Society, I had it entirely rebound, to give it an aesthetic unity Baudelaire himself would have been proud of. It’s the finest collection of its type in the world. These volumes are for the sole and exclusive use of the Society’s members. There are books here of which there exists only one copy.” Her eyes sparkled proudly.

“Don’t you think outsiders also ought to be able to read them?”

“Not at all.” She smiled. “Now, to the matter at hand. Do you have the manuscript?”

So I’d gambled well: she had not managed to retrieve the manuscript from Vennet. It was still out there, somewhere, hidden by the old man before he was killed. And now my purpose was clear: I had to get out of here alive and find it.

“I don’t.”

Chanel blinked. “Then why are you wasting my time?” she said, almost growling.