‘I can smell it. That fickle mistress fame will be mine! I’ll spare no expense, gilt chairs and electric lighting in the auditorium if you please! Who would dare question my luck? I shan’t be playing baccarat tonight, I’ll be playing the players, and it will be the performance of a lifetime!’
He took a bundle of shares from a drawer, and studied one of them. An elegantly crossed pipe and cigar holder framed in wreaths of smoke a text, which he read out pompously:
‘Public Company AMBREX Statutes registered with Maître Piard, Notary of Paris, 14 February 1893 ISSUED CAPITAL 1,000,000 francs Divided into 2,000 shares of 500 francs each HEAD OFFICE: PARIS The holder is beneficiary of the share Paris, 30 April 1893 Director Director
‘Perfect,’ he concluded, with a smile. ‘The artist has surpassed himself.’
He kissed the shares in the manner of a bashful lover.
‘You are ravishing, my beauties, decked out in all your finery. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar! Nothing reassures an investor more than seeing with his own eyes, in finely engraved copperplate, the gold mine that promises to make his nest egg grow. The gold mine in this case being these smoking accessories, which look every bit as authentic as a picture in a magazine – and people will believe anything they see in print.’
He counted out twenty-five share certificates, stored the remainder in a safe from which he took an equal number of cigar holders, and placed the whole lot in a briefcase. Then, standing before a cheval glass, he knotted his tie and declaimed in a quavering voice worthy of a member of the Comédie-Française, ‘Never will a better use be found for paper than converting it into hard cash or potential dividends from shares in variform enterprises.’
The adjective so pleased him that he rolled the ‘r’s in an exaggerated fashion, and continued, ‘… Variform enterprises such as the intensive farming of knobbly trees in an as yet unexplored region of our colonies or the transformation of fossilised resin into pipes! Prepare for your entrance, Leglantier my friend, the performance is about to begin!’
The wide pavements of Boulevard de Bonne-Nouvelle were thronging with people running errands or idling at tables outside cafés. Edmond Leglantier checked that the sandwich men lugging the advertisements for Théâtre de l’Échiquier, which was tucked away down a quiet street, were doing their job properly.
He saw one of them parading back and forth in front of a building housing a general store. Another one was pacing up and down the esplanade outside the Théâtre du Gymnase, proud to be the focus of attention of the onlookers lolling on the benches. Satisfied, Leglantier continued on his way towards Boulevard Poissonnière.
It was when he reached Boulevard Montmartre that he noticed the fair-haired fellow in the light-coloured suit. He ducked into a urinal, his mind racing like quicksilver, and tried to gather his thoughts by softly chanting:
‘And slyly when the world is sleeping yet
He smooths out collars for the Easter daisies
And fashions golden buttercups to set
In woodland mazes.’ 10
He had seen the man before. First when he was leaving the theatre and then at the bar in Muller’s brasserie, not far from the table where the fat man had handed over the cigar holders and share certificates. He’d suspected nothing at the time, but now …
If he follows me, I’ll know for sure, he thought.
He walked out of the urinal and made straight for a barber’s shop where the window served as a convenient mirror. The man in the light-coloured suit had disappeared into the crowd.
A frantic wave of anglomania was transforming the neighbourhood into a little corner of London. Every shop was British, from opticians to hatters, not forgetting the tailors and bootmakers who all boasted the words ‘modern’ or ‘select’ in their signs. In contrast, the street vendors who pestered passers-by were unmistakably French.
‘Cool off with a refreshing coconut ice, ladies and gentlemen!’ shouted a trader, clanging his bell and stooping under the weight of his tinplate barrel.
‘In the Russian style, ladies, in the Russian style,’ shrieked the flower seller, pushing her cartload of variegated blooms, the violets the star of the show.
Edmond Leglantier bought a red carnation, which he put in his buttonhole, brushing aside a man peddling risqué photographs entitled Pauline’s Bath. Sluggish from the sweltering heat of late afternoon, he paused to consider whether to catch the Madeleine–Bastille omnibus or take a glass of quinquina at one of the tables outside the taverns.
He felt the weight of his briefcase and decided to continue on foot. He needed a clear head for the matter in hand.
He was greeted at the entrance to the club by a woman of gargantuan proportions nicknamed ‘La belle Circassienne’ although she came from Romorantin. She served the triple function of moneylender, fortune teller and purveyor of young flesh. As was the custom, Edmond Leglantier gave her a one-franc piece in exchange for a meaningful wink and the name of a young soprano singer in need of a benefactor.
‘Her name’s Rosalba, a dear plump little thing,’ the ogress whispered.
Edmond Leglantier declined with a smile.
The Méridien was an open club and thus allowed entry to both members and non-members alike. Its clientele consisted of artists, men and women of letters, socialites and captains of industry. They went there to lunch, to dine, to write their correspondence, but above all to gamble.
The main room, with its monumental fireplace, its walls covered in enamel plates – would-be reproductions of Bernard Palissy – and its gilded tables, was lit by five-branched chandeliers. Standing to attention near the hearth, a melancholy-looking fellow responsible for handing out the chips greeted Edmond Leglantier, who replied absent-mindedly, ‘Hello, Monsieur Max.’ He surveyed the crowd gathered in one of the side rooms. It was the hour of the green fairy. The absinthe drinkers poured their magic potion drop by drop into a glass, filtering their poison through a sugar cube held in a slotted spoon. Card games were well under way. Excited by the activity around them, punters jostled eagerly for position around the banker. For some people, gambling was a true panacea. They expected the cards to provide enough money to live on. They played safe, weighing up the probabilities and placing bets only when they felt comfortable. They earned their living from gambling. But many others succumbed to the demon that could make or break them in a single hand, although their faces betrayed none of their dreadful anxiety. Only outside did they let their disappointment show.
This perennial drama was drowned out by snatches of trivial chat or profound observations. A neglected poet vented his spleen.
‘Novels and plays are churned out as if by machine. Today’s literary manufacturers cater to all tastes! I despise such publishers!’
‘What can I say, my friend, money is more important than art.’
‘Guess what he had the cheek to say to the author!’ bawled a gossip columnist. ‘“Monsieur, I’ve read your manuscript; choose your weapon.” Have you seen his new play? It doesn’t stand up at all; it’s completely overblown and then it just fizzles out! Ah! At last! Leglantier!’
A general murmur greeted the arrival of the man whom fellow club patrons considered as something of a mentor. A score of men in black tailcoats, most of them sporting monocles, immediately gathered round the manager of l’Échiquier. A heterogeneous bunch, they included military men, aristocrats and members of the middle classes, like the gossip columnist and the thwarted poet. Edmond Leglantier was good at smoothing away tensions. His inside knowledge of the latest Paris gossip, the favours he received from a few well-known actresses and the subtle way he had of denigrating his peers made him a leading