White tablecloths, deep red carpet and banquettes along the walls: rich, discreet—all the plush comfort he might have expected for the enjoyment of haute cuisine. The genius however came from the decoration. Carved woodwork, painted panels, lamps, even the great painted glass ceiling—all Art Nouveau. It was softly lit, yet stunning; it was the latest thing, yet from the moment of its creation it seemed as if it had always been there. Like all great hotels and restaurants, Maxim’s was not just a place to eat, it was a theater. And a work of art.

He had only a light lunch of a fillet of sole with a single glass of Chablis. He allowed himself a small chocolate pastry and a sharp coffee. He wanted to keep his wits about him.

He hadn’t seen anyone he knew, which perhaps was a sign that he had been away too long. And he was about to leave when a passing gentleman stopped, and then addressed him.

“Monsieur de Cygne?”

It was Jules Blanchard, a little more portly than when they’d last met, but quite unmistakable. Roland rose at once and greeted him.

They had a pleasant chat. Roland learned that Marie and Fox had married and gone to London, where James was to take over from his father. Marie’s English, her father proudly informed him, was already perfect.

But all the same, her parents hoped her absence would not be too long—especially since she now had a daughter, Claire. “My granddaughter will speak English perfectly,” her grandfather predicted. “But she’ll always be French, of course.”

“I missed my opportunity to marry her myself,” said Roland politely. “Alas, it was the time of my father’s death …”

Meanwhile, he made Jules promise that he and his wife would come to his house to dine with him.

“I shall open up the house for that, at least,” he said.

Assuming, of course, that he was alive.

Apart from one or two visits to Père Lachaise, Roland had never been anywhere near Belleville. The printer’s was in a small industrial space between a builder’s yard and a dingy office building.

He put his hand in his coat pocket as soon as he had stepped down from the cab, and kept it there resting gently on the pistol.

Entering the printer’s, he found an outer office with piles of recently printed materials—posters, broadsheets and business advertisements—on the floor, and a stained wooden counter manned by a small, bald-headed man in shirtsleeves. The smell of paper and printer’s ink was so sharp it almost made his eyes water.

“I am here to see Monsieur Le Sourd.”

The bald man looked surprised.

“He’s working. Is he expecting you?”

“Kindly tell him that an old friend from the past has arrived in Paris and is anxious to see him again.”