And then I smiled, and ordered another glass of red wine and called for paper and an envelope.
'Dear Drennan,' I wrote
I put it in an envelope, then travelled down to the Ile Saint-Louis and left it, addressed to M. Lefevre, at the bar. He would get it soon enough.
From there, I went back to Elizabeth; it was past nine when I arrived, but it felt like three in the morning – there had been so much going on. I was giddy with tiredness, and I think that my judgement was not what it should have been. I ought to have gone to bed for some rest, but I remembered that stricken look on her face as she held my arm, so lightly, and asked me to come back. Nothing would have kept me away. I even wondered what Stone would have thought, had he known . . .
Elizabeth roused her cook to get me some food, and was restrained about talking before I had eaten something. I was grateful for that, and made her wait, as I ate quail's eggs, a little pâté, and drank a glass of wine with great speed and little ceremony.
'Who do you go to for comfort?' she asked as I finished. 'Do you have brothers, parents?'
'My father is alive, but we are not close. I have a sort of half-brother. I can tell him most things, and he relies on me similarly.'
'Then you are lucky. What is he like? Is he like you?'
'No. He is hard-working and serious, and much attached to warm fires and armchairs. And you?'
'No one. Just you, at the moment.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Why?'
'That I'm the best you have. Listen, I don't have good news.'
She composed herself, face set, a little pale.
'Simon is dead,' I said. 'It doesn't matter how. But he didn't have the diaries. He sold them. He told me as much.'
'Who to?'
'A man called Arnsley Drennan. Otherwise known as Jules Lefevre. You met him with me in Nancy.'
She nodded faintly.
'A much more dangerous character. Much smarter, and not interested in money. The trouble is, I don't know where he is. I have begun to tackle the problem, and that might work. But for the next few days, at least, I cannot say what will happen. I very much doubt he is involved for gain. This will not end simply by you handing over some cash.'
She cupped her hands against her face and closed her eyes. And I felt bad, sorry to disappoint her.
'I see. What might he want?'
'Me. That's my main concern. He may see your diaries as a way of getting to me. They would destroy your reputation, but they would also expose me and wreck everything I've been doing here. It would cause severe embarrassment to the British Government, and at a time when Britain can least afford it. The French, no doubt, know that there are spies here. Having it plastered all over the newspapers at the moment could be very difficult.'
'I'm sorry.'
'It's not your fault. But it would help if I knew how powerful a weapon these diaries are,' I said. 'Tell me about Dr Stauffer.'
'Is it important?'
'I think it is.'
'Why?'
'I need to know everything in advance. I don't want unpleasant surprises when I pick up the newspaper one morning.'
'Come and sit down,' she said, and led me back into the little sitting room, lit now only by a couple of candles and the fire in the grate. It was warm and I was worried I might fall asleep. At least I was until she started talking, which she did in a soft voice, face turned to the fireplace, as if I wasn't there.
'Listen,' she said. 'I was put into an orphanage shortly after my mother died.'
There was a long, long silence, which I did not break into. She was thinking, and she looked inexpressibly lovely, as though no cares could possibly touch her.
'So how did you become you?'
She looked puzzled by the question and thought. 'Because somebody, once, was kind to me,' she said simply. 'So I know it is possible, however cruel the world can be.'
I didn't feel able to respond to this, so I stayed silent.
