Read Online In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) by Claude Izner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Claude Izner
Ads: Link
By the time he reached Rue des Saints-Pères, he had come to the conclusion that his love for Tasha was what compelled him to engage in battle with this chaos of cruelty, greed and beauty.
Man believes he is able to commune with the divine powers by building places of worship, he thought. Can he not achieve that communion by considering a blade of grass or a bird on the wing, by marvelling at a work of art, or listening to the wind or contemplating the stars at night…
Upon entering the bookshop, Victor was horrified to discover that the three Fates had been replaced by two of the battle-axes. Blanche de Cambrésis, her sharp chin wagging in the direction of the Maltese lapdog Raphaëlle de Gouveline was clasping to her bosom, was as oblivious to his entrance as she was to her companion greeting him with a nod. She was too busy venting her virulent opinions.
‘These excesses are an utter disgrace! The authorities must show these degenerate students no mercy. My husband is quite right. Our Catholic youth is being manipulated by hidden forces that threaten to destroy the very fabric of society. The flood of immigrants from the East is encouraging the spread of socialism! What is this country coming to!…What is it, dear? Do you have a crick in your neck?’
Raphaëlle de Gouveline cleared her throat. The lapdog yapped, and she set it down on the floor next to a schipperke, which growled and bared its teeth.
‘Come now, Blanche dear, you’re letting yourself be influenced by a lot of nonsense. Christian charity teaches us to be tolerant, isn’t that so, Monsieur Legris? What a naughty man you are keeping us waiting like this!’
Blanche de Cambrésis quickly changed the subject when she saw Victor.
‘Did you know that divorce is on the increase worldwide? In Japan one in every three marriages ends in it. Good afternoon, Monsieur Legris. I’m back. This time I’m looking for The Blue Ibis by Jean Aicard.’
Victor doffed his hat, taking care to hide his displeasure: he found Blanche de Cambrésis’s aggressive voice as insufferable as her diatribes.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. Joseph will take care of you.’
‘I’m still waiting for him to come back from the stockroom. A charming reception, I’m sure!’
Victor curbed his irritation.
‘I shall return in five minutes. I must speak to Monsieur Mori.’
He left them, and hurried upstairs to the first floor.
Blanche de Cambrésis straightened her pince-nez.
‘What manners! Although it should come as no surprise from a man living in sin with a Russian émigrée who exhibits her unspeakable paintings at Boussod et Valadon! Decent women aspire to live within the holy sacraments of marriage, to make a home and bring up children!’
‘Not all of them, my dear, not all of them. Polly Thomson, the oldest living British subject, has just celebrated her one hundred and seventh birthday. She never married, she says, because men enslave women. She preferred having only herself to feed.’
‘Well, all I can say is this: I hope that she’s still got enough teeth to eat stale bread!’ exclaimed Blanche de Cambrésis.
Kenji was studying a Kitagawa Utamaro print, which he had purchased in London and had just hung above his Louis XIII chest.
‘What do you think of Woman Powdering Her Neck, Victor? Isn’t she life-like? Why the long face? Is something the matter?’
‘There’s been a terrible tragedy. Pierre Andrésy has died in a fire at his shop.’
Kenji turned deathly pale. He felt a pang in his chest, as if he’d been run through with a sabre.
‘Kenji, are you all right? I have to go downstairs, there are some customers waiting.’
Kenji nodded distractedly.
‘Yes. Go…Death is vaster than a mountain yet more insignificant than a grain of sand,’ he said, as Victor left the room.
He sat limply on the corner of the futon, his glasses resting on his forehead, and stared into space.
‘There is a purpose in every event. People die; a
Man believes he is able to commune with the divine powers by building places of worship, he thought. Can he not achieve that communion by considering a blade of grass or a bird on the wing, by marvelling at a work of art, or listening to the wind or contemplating the stars at night…
Upon entering the bookshop, Victor was horrified to discover that the three Fates had been replaced by two of the battle-axes. Blanche de Cambrésis, her sharp chin wagging in the direction of the Maltese lapdog Raphaëlle de Gouveline was clasping to her bosom, was as oblivious to his entrance as she was to her companion greeting him with a nod. She was too busy venting her virulent opinions.
‘These excesses are an utter disgrace! The authorities must show these degenerate students no mercy. My husband is quite right. Our Catholic youth is being manipulated by hidden forces that threaten to destroy the very fabric of society. The flood of immigrants from the East is encouraging the spread of socialism! What is this country coming to!…What is it, dear? Do you have a crick in your neck?’
Raphaëlle de Gouveline cleared her throat. The lapdog yapped, and she set it down on the floor next to a schipperke, which growled and bared its teeth.
‘Come now, Blanche dear, you’re letting yourself be influenced by a lot of nonsense. Christian charity teaches us to be tolerant, isn’t that so, Monsieur Legris? What a naughty man you are keeping us waiting like this!’
Blanche de Cambrésis quickly changed the subject when she saw Victor.
‘Did you know that divorce is on the increase worldwide? In Japan one in every three marriages ends in it. Good afternoon, Monsieur Legris. I’m back. This time I’m looking for The Blue Ibis by Jean Aicard.’
Victor doffed his hat, taking care to hide his displeasure: he found Blanche de Cambrésis’s aggressive voice as insufferable as her diatribes.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. Joseph will take care of you.’
‘I’m still waiting for him to come back from the stockroom. A charming reception, I’m sure!’
Victor curbed his irritation.
‘I shall return in five minutes. I must speak to Monsieur Mori.’
He left them, and hurried upstairs to the first floor.
Blanche de Cambrésis straightened her pince-nez.
‘What manners! Although it should come as no surprise from a man living in sin with a Russian émigrée who exhibits her unspeakable paintings at Boussod et Valadon! Decent women aspire to live within the holy sacraments of marriage, to make a home and bring up children!’
‘Not all of them, my dear, not all of them. Polly Thomson, the oldest living British subject, has just celebrated her one hundred and seventh birthday. She never married, she says, because men enslave women. She preferred having only herself to feed.’
‘Well, all I can say is this: I hope that she’s still got enough teeth to eat stale bread!’ exclaimed Blanche de Cambrésis.
Kenji was studying a Kitagawa Utamaro print, which he had purchased in London and had just hung above his Louis XIII chest.
‘What do you think of Woman Powdering Her Neck, Victor? Isn’t she life-like? Why the long face? Is something the matter?’
‘There’s been a terrible tragedy. Pierre Andrésy has died in a fire at his shop.’
Kenji turned deathly pale. He felt a pang in his chest, as if he’d been run through with a sabre.
‘Kenji, are you all right? I have to go downstairs, there are some customers waiting.’
Kenji nodded distractedly.
‘Yes. Go…Death is vaster than a mountain yet more insignificant than a grain of sand,’ he said, as Victor left the room.
He sat limply on the corner of the futon, his glasses resting on his forehead, and stared into space.
‘There is a purpose in every event. People die; a
Similar Books
