Only two or three of the Marriage Club were drowned, and they weren't among those who'd be most missed. The hero of the hour, feted as such in the popular press, was the aged Étienne Gérard. Shocked to his senses by cold water, the one-time Brigadier laboured fearlessly at great risk to his own life to aid his fellow guests in their escapes from the fast-sinking barge. Some wondered why such a noted gallant managed only to rescue wealthy, famous, male members of the party from the depths, leaving scores of poor, obscure, young wives to the Seine. No corpses were ever recovered, though broken mannequin parts washed up on the mudbanks for months. It was another of the mysteries of Paris, and soon everyone had other scandals, sensations and strangenesses to cluck over.
The Persian reported that he had been fished out of the river by his old friend, Erik – who effected emergency medical assistance, before taking the unusual step of venturing himself onto the field of battle.
Back at the Opéra, quantities of brandy were consumed, and repairs were made to the persons of the lovely ladies who had done so much for a world which would never know services had been rendered. As dawn broke, baskets of fruit and pastries were delivered, with a note of thanks from Madame Sabatier, who also enclosed a satisfactory banker's draft.
After hauling cardinals and bankers out of the cold water, the newly-widowed Grand Marshal Gérard – if one could be widowed after marriage not to a human woman but a long-case clock with a prettily painted face – repaired to the Salon Sabatier, paid in advance for the exclusive company of three of la Présidente's most alluring filles de joie, and promptly fell into a deep sleep that might last for days. That certainly counted as a happy outcome.
The only pall cast over celebrations came when Irene announced that she felt it was time she quit the Opera Ghost Agency to venture out on her own. Christine and Trilby wept to hear the news, and bestowed many embraces on their friend, not noticing that she was unable to control a shudder when they touched her. Irene could not look at their active, lovely, characterful faces without recalling the expressionless, bloodied masks of skin that took their place when three shrill notes sounded. Not to mention the proficiencies in arts devastating and deadly they exhibited under the influence. Either of them could have had Owney Geoghegan's title away from him with one arm tucked into the back of their skirt.
The Persian understood and conveyed Monsieur Erik's good wishes.
'He suggests, however, that you limit your field of operations.'
'I should stay out of Paris?'
'He thinks… France.'
'Very well. There's Ruritania, and Poland, and London. All a-swim with opportunities.'
Irene left the building.
Behind his mirror, Erik knew regret. But he understood the American was not like his other girls. There was steel in her core, which made her unsuitable for 'music lessons', the specialised training he deemed necessary for his most useful Agents. That steel would never be bent entirely to his purpose, and might eventually bring them into conflict… as he had been brought into conflict with Joséphine Balsamo.
The Countess Cagliostro was, of course, still at large, and liable to be unforgiving now her carefully contrived plan of world domination was sunk at the bottom of the Seine. She would probably be suffering from a splitting headache, too, and be unhappy at the loss of her marvellous barge and so many toys. This was no time for the Agency to be under-strength.
The feuilleton was not over.
For Days, Christine and Trilby moped and were inconsolable. Every little thing was a reminder of something sweet or amusing Irene had said or done, and would set them off in further floods of tears. Other ladies of the chorus assumed their hearts had been ordinarily broken, and dispensed wisdoms about the untrustworthiness of the perfidious male sex.
Then, the bell sounded. Not for 'music lessons', not for an exploit, but a simple summons.
As they walked down the corridor to Dressing Room 313, they came upon a familiar, shambling, bent-over figure. Christine, acting on instinct, took him by the throat and shoved him rudely against the wall.
'No more, please,' said Cochenille, squirming.
Temporary repairs had been made to the mannequin, but he was still not in peak condition. As Christine pinned him, Trilby rolled up her sleeves, intent on smashing his face to bits again.
'Ladies, let him be,' said the Persian, looking out of the dressing room. He had been in a conference with Spallanzani and Coppélius. 'These gentlemen have made a break from their former employer.'
Christine dropped the gasping Cochenille. His hand came off, and he picked it up and stuck it into his pocket. Trilby gave him a kick and he scurried away, followed by the doll-makers, who gave the girls a wide berth as they passed out of sight. Trilby gave their backs the Evil Eye Stare.
'We have come to an arrangement,' said the Persian. 'Advantageous for our Agency.'
Trilby and Christine entered the dressing room.
On the divan sat a small blonde girl, dressed all in white, posed like a ballerina in a tableau.
'She's not a doll,' said Christine. 'She can't be.'
The girl's head moved and she blinked. There was no clicking or whirring.
'She must be the original, from which the mannequin-makers copied,' said Trilby.
The girl's chest swelled and contracted with breath. She gestured, showing the suppleness of her fingers. She picked up an apple from la Présidente's basket, flicked out her nails and rolled the fruit in her hand, letting the peel slither away from the flesh in an unbroken ribbon, then crushed it to juice with a sudden, powerful squeeze.
Christine and Trilby walked around the divan, observing the newcomer from all angles, wondering at the ingenuity of her manufacture.
'This is Olympia,' said Erik, from behind the mirror. 'She will be joining us for "music lessons", and taking the departed Miss Adler's place in our roster of agents.'
Olympia curtseyed.
'It is a pleasure to meet you,' she said. 'I hope we shall be the best of friends.'