Now standing outside the window dressed in black, complete to his gloves, he admitted he was afraid and the fear was part of the thrill.
He raised the window without any trouble and stepped over the sill. The room was completely dark, but he could see perfectly well from the light outside. Switching on a flashlight, he walked softly down the hallway, opening doors randomly. It was true. No one was home.
He went into the master bedroom and looked through several drawers before he found what he was looking for. Madame had not taken all her jewelry to the Cote d'Azur. He put a diamond-studded watch and several brooches in the bottom of the shopping bag he carried, first removing several layers of old clothes. There were some nice rings and he added them to the collection, hesitating over her engagement ring, her bague de fiancailles, the traditional sapphire surrounded by diamonds. No doubt it had a great deal of sentimental value. Though, reflecting on his own parents' marriage, perhaps it was in the drawer because the owner no longer valued it much. And, he reminded himself, others had a greater need.
He wandered about the bedroom, found a nice Rolex and some old coins in a small leather box on monsieur's commode. On impulse, he threw the box in, as well.
In the salon, there were some ornate snuffboxes in a glass case. The key was in the lock. Too simple. They deserved to be taken. He wrapped them in an old shirt and added them to the bag. He tested the weight. It wasn't too heavy. They had been warned to stick to light things. In one of the other bedrooms, he found some more jewelry—a gold necklace and bracelets. Totally at ease, he lay down on the bed. It was a girl's room, an older girl who 'dplastered the walls with posters of Serge Gainsbourg, R.E.M., and In Excess. Gains-bourg's picture had a black ribbon pinned to it. Not bad taste, except for the one of Madonna. Perhaps it was a joke.
The bed linens smetted faintly of her perfume. He closed his eyes and undid the buttons on his fly. He slipped his hand into his pants. Soon pulsating rhythms beat steadily across his consciousness and silent lyrics came to his lips. He exploded and sank back. Maybe he did think too much about sex, but in any case, this was the best sex he'd ever had. He bid his phantom lover goodnight and crept back down the fire escape with her jewels.
Benjamin had wandered into the closet after Faith, and his 'What are you doing, Mommy?' startled her into action. If she left the strands of hair, they might be removed. If she took them all, the flics, as she was now calling those known to her on the force, would no doubt imagine she had dyed some of her own locks or plucked them from a hairpiece on display at the wig shop around the corner from the apartment. She had to assume that she could get back here with Chief Inspector Ravier before anyone else tampered with them, but she carefully placed two of them in the envelope from her mother's recent letter, which she had been carrying around, trying to find a moment to answer. The door to the tunnel was still locked, but it looked to be one of those antique safeguards similar to the one on the door to her hallway that could be opened with any number of keys.
“Come on, let's go get our cakes,' she told Ben, who had been watching the whole operation in utter fascination. She hustled him down the stairs and into the information bureau, where she displayed her dark glasses triumphantly and thanked the exceptionally nice fonctionnaire for his help. Then it was out the door before he could wonder why madame would have been wearing dark lunettes on such a rainy, gray day as yesterday and before Ben could start to tell him about the hide-and-seek game Mommy had been playing in the closet upstairs, both risks being about equal: Exhausted, she sank into a delicate chair at La Minau-diere and ordered cakes, coffee, and milk. They arrived and the sight of the assortment of bite-sized cakes—miniature eclairs, cream puffs, fruit tarts, and dark chocolate truffles—momentarily distracted her from the envelope burning a hole in her purse. Ben was reciting 'eeny, meeny, mini, mo' over the cake plate, getting mixed up and starting from the beginning again—and again.
“Just take one,' Faith snapped, quickly adding an apologetic 'sweetheart.' She decided they'd better eat their cakes and go back to the apartment for some quality time before the recent events in her life turned her into the mother from hell.
On the way up the stairs—was this only the third etage—they met Madame Vincent tripping effortlessly down the flights in her Chanel pumps, with Pippo eagerly following along. Faith suddenly remembered the invitation to tea and started to try to make some sort of excuse for not calling.
“Don't worry, cherie, you have much on your mind these days. I think I will have a little party on Friday instead with Mesdames d'Ambert and Joliet. Would you care to meet them again, say at four o'clock, and we can have tea or whatever the ladies prefer?'
“That would be lovely,' Faith replied. 'I always enjoy seeing all of you and our time here is going so quickly.'
“See you Friday then, if not before,' and Madame Vincent was off in a puff of Shalimar.
Faith would have to ask Solange if one of her brood could play with Ben. The problem was that children in France had such a long school day. There might not be anyone around at four and it would be no fun to have Ben there, a constant menace to the bibelots no matter how many Legos Faith brought to distract him.
As she got her elaborate dinner ready, which was making her feel better, Faith kept trying Michel Ravier's home number. She had called the work number immediately and left a message. Then she had tried his home. No one answered, not even his mother, and Faith was forced to assume he was still in Marseille.
Tom was thrilled with the dinner and in between delightedly crunching the little quail bones to extract every last morsel, he told her he was further ahead in his research than he thought and they could take a long weekend.
“Where would you like to go? Paris? Provence? Beaujolais? Except we'll be going there soon for the Veaux's niece's wedding. How about leaving France? We could easily make it to Switzerland,' he said.
“I'd like to go somewhere we've never been before, either of us. Is there anyplace the Albigensians used to hang out that you'd like to see?' Faith felt it was important for a wife to occasionally take an interest in her husband's work. The problem was that having had a grandfather and father in the trade, it was hard to drum up much enthusiasm for prayerbook battles or the rewording of certain hymns. The Albigensians were something new to her, though, and she could listen intelligently without resorting to internal list making or dreaming up yet another creative use for phyllo dough.
Tom's face shone. 'Well, I'd love to go to Carcassonne. It was one of the centers of Albigensianism and, while I wouldn't say this to Paul, we can thank Viollet-le-Duc for saving it. Maybe he did restore it a bit too neatly, but it's supposed to be wonderful. Very romantic, too. The citadel and walls are illuminated at night. We could stay in the old city—and it's in the Southwest, so that means great food.”
His enthusiasm was catching and the idea of getting out of Lyon very appealing.
“When do we leave?'
“We could get an early start on Saturday and I wouldn't have to be back until Tuesday morning, so it gives us almost three full days.'
“Great, and you can tell me all about who lived there on the way.'
“More like who died there. Poor, noble Raymond-Roger Trencavel—what chance did he have against all those Northerners? And believe me, it was no religious crusade; they wanted his land, pure and simple.”
Once he got going, Tom could talk about the wrongs done to the Albigensians for hours, and Faith was getting sleepy. She stifled a yawn and got up from the table.
“You're quite a lovely nobleman yourself. Now why don't we clean this up and go to bed.'
“The sooner the better, milady.”
Absorbed in hearkening back to the strife of the Middle Ages, Faith had ahnost forgotten the present turmoil, but on the way to the garderie the next morning she was still startled by innocent events: a dog racing across her path as she walked down the street, a sudden squeal of brakes, or raised voices from a doorway. She was definitely getting too schizy, she told herself, and longed for Michel Ravier's return or their trip to Carcassonne—whichever came first. Ben was going to his beloved friend Leonard's house for lunch and an afternoon of blissful play. Leonard, at four, was a year older and Ben worshipped him. Leonard's mother, Chantal, lovingly referred to the young amis as the 'two naughty boys' of the garderie
