Nothing would suffice but that she immediately leave and go next door to tell Pierre-Alexandre that she couldn’t marry him. ‘Mademoiselle, that boy has to stop pestering me. I can’t have him coming here at all hours begging to know if you’ve returned. I’ve told him nothing, you understand. Absolument rien!’ ‘I’ll just go up to my room, then I’ll go to see him.’ St-Cyr was still in the building! ‘Don’t! Go now and quickly.’ For emphasis, he glanced at the ceiling, instantly letting her know there was a far greater reason. ‘Should I take my bike?’ Grâce à Dieu, she had understood. ‘That would, I think, be a good idea, but hurry.’ She couldn’t leave her suitcase, couldn’t leave the diamonds, yet could take neither at present. ‘If I can, I’ll duck in to let you know how things go.’ ‘In ten minutes I’ll be waiting at the artists’ entrance.’ Ten and not a moment longer. A black, four-door Citroën, its engine at idle, was parked outside Chez Kornilov, the two leaning against it wearing the broad-lapelled suits and snap brims of gestapistes français and smoking cigarettes while waiting for their boss.
