Notes: FenellaG - Thanks for your review! Yes, the push and pull between those two are always so delicious, but pretty soon something's gonna haveta give, so watch this space! ;) Guest - Yes, Rogue wouldn't willingly give Remy away - 8 years and her heart has still really always been with him. His feelings, of course, are definitely more conflicted! ;)
Please read, review and enjoy! x
CITY OF LIGHTS
Chapter 8
Millicent Collins had always enjoyed a good game of billiards in the evening, and this evening was no exception. Her first husband had been quite the player, and had bucked most social niceties by teaching her how to play. He'd also passed on the bad habit of smoking cigars, a pleasure she indulged in only when in the company of her most intimate friends.
Tonight Madame Confait, a celebrated Bohemian beauty in her day, was that friend.
"I've heard," Madame Confait was saying over her glass of brandy as she waited for Millicent to make her shot, "that there was some sort of break-in at General Wagner's apartments."
"Oh?" Millicent replied innocently, aiming for the pink.
"Yes. The servants are gossiping wildly about it. Apparently my butler heard from the general's butler; and my cook heard it from his parlour-maid. The gendarmerie are buzzing around like flies!"
"Ah." Millicent took the shot and easily potted it. "I believe my chauffeur also heard it from his parlour-maid. What an unfortunate circumstance!" She lent on her cue and picked up her cigar. "Your turn, my dear."
"My dear Millicent," Madame Confait rejoined, "I know how close you are with the general. Perhaps you should go and talk to him yourself about the matter. I'm dying to know what happened."
"Hm." She watched on as her friend scanned the table for the best prospect. "That isn't such a bad idea, Sabine. I may do just that."
The sound of footsteps marching in the corridor brought both their eyes to the door, footsteps Millicent recognised as Remy's. As he passed the door, Millicent called out to him.
"Monsieur Marceaux, we have almost finished this frame. Perhaps you'd like to join us for the next?"
He paused in the doorway, looking distracted, and just a little bit worse for wear.
"Non, merci, Madame," he replied. "Not tonight."
And away he marched.
"It seems your handsome young protégé has had an interesting night," Madame Confait smirked slyly at her friend; and though Millicent was feeling a little alarmed at the state of him, she made light of it.
"Been fighting over some winsome lady with her lover, no doubt," she returned airily. "Excuse me a moment."
She went out into the corridor, catching up to him just as he was about to round the corner and head down towards the kitchens.
"Remy!"
He stopped, turned. His coat was almost in tatters on one side, and his hair was a mess. At the sight of him her alarm grew.
"What happened?" she demanded in a low yet urgent tone.
He still looked dazed… troubled.
"Millicent," he said quietly. "There ain't no parts on those trains. No weapons, no munitions, no secret lab equipment. There're only people. People, Millicent."
She said nothing for a moment. She was quite astonished.
"People? But I don't understand…"
"I ain't sure I do neither." He looked uncomfortable.
"Test subjects?"
He shrugged.
"What did you do with them?"
He shrugged again agitatedly, looked away.
"Nothin'. Before Jeanne and I could make up our minds what to do, guards started closin' in. We high tailed it outta there." He paused, added: "We were attacked. Seems someone on the other side was waitin' for us, leastways. Jeanne took out a whole bunch of guards out there. And there was a whole bunch more waitin'. How many guards it take to ferry round a single consignment? There's somethin' goin' on out there, and I'm thinkin' it's worse than we originally thought."
Millicent considered this. No doubt he was right.
"We should talk on this tomorrow," she said decidedly. "For now, I should head back to my guest. And you look like you need some sleep."
"Heh. Yeah. Just gonna go and find some painkillers and get m'self a bath."
"Good. Rest for now. Tomorrow we'll making an afternoon trip to see the general."
He looked surprised at that – and a little wary.
"Why?"
"The gendarmerie have been called in to investigate a break in. Of course the general couldn't help but notice that some of his top secret papers had gone missing, but I had hoped that he would have kept the local police out of things. I thought we might go along and see what they've managed to glean so far."
His expression lifted.
"Ha. O'course. But I tell you now issa wasted journey, Millicent. Dat general ain't gonna tell ya a thing. Now if you'll excuse me…"
And he walked off towards the kitchen, leaving Millicent to stare curiously after him. It hadn't escaped her notice that he had become more secretive than usual; and while that wasn't exactly strange for the sort of man he was, he had seemed a lot more troubled since the general's arrival.
But for now, she would turn back to her game of billiards. This was a conundrum to be solved at a later date.
-oOo-
Anna Darkhölme paced the tiny ante-room that was her bed chamber, through which anyone who wanted access to the general's bedroom had to pass.
She'd barely slept a wink the previous night. Months and months of carefully laid plans were slowly being unravelled and… for the first time in a long time she felt afraid. Because of him. And everything his presence entailed.
Kurt was counting on her… so much was counting on her, yet all she could think about was that ring. Why was he wearing it, and why did he even have it in the first place?
A symbol of lies, betrayal, and unattainable control, she had left it in Clan Akkaba's stronghold, left it in his room, given it up to him… because all it had ever really done was drive a wedge between them, when she had always thought it had brought them together. She should never have worn it; should never have touched him, something that could never be hers. She'd always assumed it had been crushed under the ruins of that ancient temple, but… …
"Perhaps he took it when I left it," she murmured to herself.
She didn't believe it. Not really. Not when she remembered how furious he had been with her, how disgusted and betrayed and… …
Her belly roiled with the memory of his weight against hers, of his legs twisted in hers… The things he had taught her, of both pleasure and pain.
The unsettling thought was curtailed by a soft rap at the door.
"Come in!" she called out, glad for the distraction. A mousy-looking maid put her head round the door.
"Excuse me, Fraulein, but the general would like you to see him in his study. He has a visitor."
She agreed to go, of course, though her anxiety was heightened when she thought of what had happened last night – how disastrously things had turned out at Verrière, how she had returned during the dead of night in her torn jacket and muddy boots hoping against hope that the general was still sleeping soundly and would not have noticed her absence.
Of course he hadn't. She'd made sure of that.
But perhaps he had merely pretended to be asleep.
Resigned to whatever fate had in store for her, she hurried over to the study, and when she entered it was to see Inspector Beaubier there with the general. Her heart skipped a beat – although as was her habit, she showed not a thing.
"You wanted to see me, general?" she asked.
"Yes, my dear," he nodded. "Please, shut the door behind you."
She did so, joining the two at the desk.
"Is this about the robbery, Inspector Beaubier?" she asked.
"Yes, Fraulein Darkhölme. I am very sorry to have to question you again, but there are some points in the investigation that I must unfortunately return to."
"Yes?"
The inspector paused, looking a little sheepish.
"I have some questions that may be of a… ahhh… delicate character. I hope it will not trouble the general too greatly to allow me to question you alone."
As she had anticipated, the suggestion was immediately offensive to the old man.
"I will certainly not allow it! Do you dare to suggest that you do not find her testimony trustworthy?!"
"Ah – certainly not, general." The inspector was pink-faced, eager to allay his superior's outrage. "There are merely some… very small details that the Fraulein may not feel comfortable discussing in the company of others."
"If she cannot feel comfortable relaying them to me, then I doubt she would feel comfortable doing so with you," the general scoffed; but Anna quickly laid a hand on his arm, silencing him.
"It's all right, general. I don't mind assisting the inspector. If I can help in getting your papers returned, then it is all to the good."
"My dear," the general looked harried. "We will not see those papers again. But if you insist, then it shall be so." He threw the inspector a warning glance. "You are allowed no more than 10 minutes with her."
The inspector lowered his head deferentially.
"Of course, general. My thanks."
The general left, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Inspector Beaubier indicated to the chair at the desk.
"Will you sit, Fraulein Darkhölme?"
She shook her head.
"I would rather not."
He was struck by her change in tone. With the general she was polite, meek, almost; but now, here, alone… there was grit to her, something he had sensed before but had been unable to name. He saw it now, clear as day.
"As you wish, Fraulein."
"Please." She looked pained. "Inspector Beaubier, let's not bother with formalities. You have questions for me. Please, ask."
He inclined his head. He had an inkling she knew what he was about to ask, and he respected her for making no effort to stave off the inevitable.
"Very well then. Fraulein, I'm sure you must realise that the story you told me of what happened in this room the other night is not quite accurate."
"Really?" She raised a perfectly-arched eyebrow. "How so?"
Perhaps she would not be so forthcoming after all. He cleared his throat.
"Fraulein, you spoke of this man, this mutant, setting fire to the paperweight, and he threw it at you."
Rogue was silent a moment, considering his words. She was on tenterhooks as to what his line of questioning could mean, as to what he suspected. But until she could glean what exactly those suspicions were, she would not attempt to mislead, unless it could somehow lead back to Remy's identity.
"No, inspector," she said at last. "Perhaps I didn't express myself correctly. He did not set fire to the paperweight. There was no flame. The paperweight… it glowed, rather than burned. It is rather hard to explain," she finished apologetically.
The inspector nodded.
"And I thank you for the correction. Nevertheless, I believe there is something you missed."
She stared at him, mind racing.
"I don't think—" she began to say; but the inspector retrieved a small brown paper envelope from his briefcase and showed it to her.
"There is something in here I would like you to see."
Out of envelope he removed a small, charred ball of gum, watching her closely as she did so.
"Ah! Yes!" She gave the appropriate response of sudden recollection. "I remember! The man was chewing gum! He did the same thing that he did with the paperweight – turned it into some sort of an explosive. He spat it at me."
"From his mouth?" Inspector Beaubier mused, surprised.
"Yes."
"A reckless man, then, it seems. Either brave, or a fool."
Fraulein Darkhölme made no comment on that.
"And when exactly did this happen? Before or after he threw the paperweight at you?"
"Before," she replied, without hesitation. It was the answer he had been expecting. From his own examination of the scene, he had concluded as much. "Everything happened so quickly, I had quite forgotten about it," she added.
He put away the gum and looked at her appraisingly.
"I am afraid that is not all I came here to ask you, Fraulein Darkhölme."
She looked confused.
"I don't think there is anything else I could have forgotten…"
"Au contraire, you have forgotten something very important, I believe."
He paused, still watching her intently. Her expression was still one of confusion, but time and experience had taught him never to trust until all suspicions could reasonably be allayed.
"You see, Fraulein, you say to me that you were hit, not once, but twice, by these 'explosives'. Yet you were quite unharmed."
Her eyes went hard.
"I did not say that they hit me," she countered quickly.
"No," he smiled. "But they did. They could not have impacted with anything else in the room. I have scoured the entire study for evidence of an explosion, however small, and there is none. Which can only lead to one conclusion."
He stopped. He watched her. He waited.
Fraulein Darkhölme dropped her gaze, and for a moment he fancied she looked defeated; then she drew herself to her full height and said:
"Monsieur Inspecteur, I'm sure you have guessed the truth, so I will tell it to you now. You are right – I was hit. My nightgown was damaged; my skin was not." She paused, her eyes going harder still. "I too am a mutant."
If the inspector felt any triumph at all at wheedling out her confession, he was too polite to show it. He merely stared at her with that implacably keen glance, saying:
"So you are invulnerable."
"Yes, inspector. I could demonstrate for you, should you require proof."
He shook his head.
"That will not be necessary, Fraulein."
She stared as he began to close his briefcase.
"I think you have satisfied all outstanding questions I have, Fraulein Darkhölme," he said. "My sincere apologies for intruding upon your time."
She hesitated, feeling vulnerable in a way she had not done in a long time.
"I hope I can trust you to be discreet about my… condition, Inspector Beaubier," she ventured to say at last.
His look was one of surprise.
"My dear Fraulein Darkhölme. I am a servant of justice. So far as I can see you have done nothing wrong. Your secret is safe with me. The general will never know."
So saying he moved to the door. Rogue went to open it for him, mulling on his words. If only he knew the crimes she had committed, she felt sure he would not be so forgiving.
"Please," he assured her. "I will see myself out. Send my regards to the general."
As it turned out, the general was already at the door seeing in visitors – a handsome-looking woman in her sixties and an equally handsome-looking young man on her arm. The inspector, who made it his business to know everyone's business, instantly recognised Madame Millicent Collins and her young protégé. He bid them all a pleasant afternoon before taking his leave.
"I do hope," the general addressed him pointedly, "that all is in order?"
"Quite so, general," the inspector replied.
"Then perhaps" came the dry retort, "we shall not see you again till our little matter is resolved."
"I have no doubt of that, General Wagner." The inspector lifted his hat. "Good day."
Remy, who was still firmly in work mode and thus closely observing everything, watched with interest as the inspector passed them in the hall. His black hair, his elven features… they were tantalisingly familiar to him.
"My apologies," the general spoke as he led both him and Millicent to the drawing room. "We had a little… mishap here the other night. The inspector is doing what he does best."
"Oh!" Millicent showed appropriately polite interest, although Remy knew she was as curious as to the gendarmeries' progress on the case as he was. "Nothing serious, I hope."
"It is well in hand," the general said.
It was only as Remy was walking into the drawing room that he noticed a movement on the stairway, and saw Rogue standing there, looking as fresh and unmarked as if nothing had happened the night before. Their eyes locked for one, two seconds… before she turned away quickly and disappeared.
Feeling slightly discomposed, and not exactly knowing why, he followed the general into the drawing room.
"I'm afraid I've been too distracted today to expect visitors," the general began apologetically. "Forgive me for my lack of hospitality. I will have the maids bring tea."
"My dear general!" Millicent replied exuberantly. "Please, don't trouble yourself! To be quite honest, I had not intended to engage in any social niceties. I had heard of your predicament from my staff. I merely wanted to be assured that all is well with my neighbour."
"Ah." The general was faintly embarrassed. "Word, of course, spreads fast amongst neighbours."
"Indeed." Madame Collins nodded sympathetically. "I intended to come to satisfy myself that you had not been too adversely affected. But if all is in hand, then perhaps I need not have come at all."
The general's smile was wry.
"Madame, you are too diplomatic. No doubt you also came here to satisfy your curiosity, and that of your neighbours."
Millicent laughed, unable to be anything other than frank when caught out.
"What a wicked suggestion, General! But I cannot scoff at it. Neighbours will make sport of their neighbours, that is the way of things. But I hope you don't think I would make sport of you over anything serious. That would not be very neighbourly."
"No," the general replied with a faint smile. "It would not. And I believe you are too gracious a lady than to gossip about serious matters."
Whatever else Millicent would have replied was interrupted by the door opening up behind them and Anna Darkhölme entering, wearing a simple day dress of morello cherry red.
"My apologies," she breathed in her very correct French. "I wasn't aware we had guests."
"Oh, it is nothing, my dear," Millicent replied merrily. "I was just stopping by to check on the general's wellbeing. But seeing as he is quite well, I will be off."
She seemed relieved at that; and Remy couldn't help but notice that she studiously kept her eyes from his.
"I hope I did not intrude too much, General," Millicent was saying, as he was busy trying to catch Fraulein Darkhölme's eye. She refused to indulge him.
"Not at all. I shall see you to the door."
"Oh no, please don't bother yourself. We'll see ourselves out. Good afternoon, general."
Goodbyes were said; and as they moved past Rogue to get to the door, Remy felt her hand lightly brush his pocket; and he knew she had deposited something in there. He turned back to glance at her, but once again she refused to meet his gaze, and so he led Millicent to the front door and left.
The couple now gone, the general turned his attention back to Anna.
"It is just as well they left," he noted. "I'm sure you could not have borne to entertain, after being interrogated by that wretched inspector."
Anna, as usual, was taciturn.
"It was nothing. The inspector is not a bad man."
"Perhaps not. But I cannot see why he insisted on speaking to you alone."
Anna's mouth was pursed. She looked grim.
"General, he guessed I was a mutant. Now, he knows I am a mutant. It's not ideal that anyone should know, of course, but… he promised he would keep my secret. And I believe him."
Indeed, it was far from ideal, the general thought! But as Anna explained her conversation with Inspector Beaubier, he saw that it could not be helped.
"As long as he keeps his promise," he mused. "It should matter little."
"There are already rumours," Anna replied dourly. "Perhaps it doesn't matter at all."
She looked so downcast that the general was moved to comfort her.
"Let them say what they will. There is no mistaking what you are, Anna. You are not a mutant. You are Übermensch."
Even after all this time, she felt an involuntarily inward shudder to hear herself described in such terms, even if it was, to all intents and purposes, true. She had heard others in the Nazi upper echelons murmur the word amongst themselves when discussing others like her. Übermensch was one name. Homo superior was another. Mutants were a problem; but they were also a solution.
"Most would not make that distinction, general," she reminded him dourly.
"The Fuhrer does. And that is all that matters."
She nodded; although not for the first time she hoped she would never have to meet this Fuhrer, otherwise she might be tempted to renege on her eight-year-old promise not to kill.
"General," she began, swiftly changing the topic, "would it be too much to ask if I request one or two hours to myself this afternoon?"
He glanced at her curiously.
"But of course, my dear. I do not have any particular engagements scheduled for today. What are your plans?"
"I was planning to visit the Louvre," she tried not to sound too eager to already be away. "It's been a long time since I was last there; and the place is so large that I barely got through half the exhibits. Since we're in Paris, I thought I should finish what I started."
"A noble endeavour," the general smiled. "Of course – enjoy yourself. I plan merely to work in my study today, so you shan't be needed. And I do appreciate how little time you have had to yourself these past few days. I should have let you have some time off sooner."
"Thank you, general. If you don't mind, I'll take my leave now."
He nodded.
"But of course."
And she hurriedly left for her hat and coat before he could change his mind.
-oOo-
Madame Collins' chauffeur was navigating his way past a horse and cart carrying chickens, a sight all too common since gasoline had now become a precious commodity to be stockpiled for the war effort. Some days there were more carriages on the road than there were automobiles at all.
"Well, that was a wasted effort," Millicent sighed in the back seat.
"Of course it was," Remy replied. "You ain't gonna get nothin' useful from the general hisself – he's too savvy. Let the servants talk."
"Yes, you may be right," she mused, turning her attention to the view outside.
Remy took the opportunity to slip his hand into his pocket. His palm slid against a small, square of paper, and he took it out, looked at it.
Meet me in the Louvre, it read. The Sully wing. I'll be there 1-3pm.
Within a second or two, he'd read the note. He nonchalantly slipped it back into his pocket and checked his watch.
It was a quarter to one already.
Leaning forward he tapped on the window that separated them from the chauffer.
"Remy," Millicent was staring at him in confusion as he indicated the car be stopped. "What on earth are you doing?"
"There's an errand I need to run," he answered as the car came to a halt. "Somethin' I completely forgot. I'll be back in an hour, maybe two."
He threw open the door and scrambled out.
"My dear young man, you are being quite mysterious!" Millicent observed, eyebrow raised. He picked up his hat from the back seat and grinned at her.
"And you, ma chere Madame, are far too suspicious for your own good!"
He slammed the door shut and rapped on the driver's window. The car sped off, and he planted the hat on his hand. It was beginning to rain.
"Merde," he muttered to himself.
A bus passed by, full to the brim already with passengers; a carriage clattered past with its cargo of two very fashionable young ladies. Before he could charm his way between the two of them, their driver had already whisked them past, eager to beat the rain.
There was nothing for it but to walk.
"Merde."
It wasn't too far a journey to the Louvre, and after managing to cajole his way onto an overcrowded bus stuck in traffic (caused by an overturned cart, no less), he managed to arrive at his destination almost perfectly dry.
Remy hopped off the bus and almost immediately he was standing before the Louvre, this imposing monument to former kings.
The sight never failed to amaze him, an American who knew no kings nor erstwhile palaces, but who nevertheless admired riches and beauty very much – perhaps too much.
A lull in the rain woke him from his reverie, and Remy hurried over the courtyard to the always elegantly imposing entrance, flagstones slick with rain, the staid, grey silhouettes of men and women tap-tapping with their heels under the canopies of their wet umbrellas, paying him not a single nod nor glance.
He reached the entrance, shook the water droplets from his coat, removed his hat, and stepped inside.
How many times had he been here over the course of his life, he wondered? Too many times to tell. Each time he had arrived as a lover of art, though rarely in a strictly passive sense. A hundred heists had been planned in these rooms, of varying degrees of risk and intricacy; a few he'd actually carried out.
All but one, he'd pulled alone.
He skipped up the steps to the second floor of the Sully Wing, marched his way through near-empty galleries to the eighteenth-century painting rooms, barely a body there to distract him. Few had the wherewithal to enjoy art on a damp, wintery day such as this. At the threshold of room 48, a single old woman, dressed in a simple red headscarf, shuffled past him. When he looked inside, only she was there.
A lone statue in a dark navy coat, hands carefully gloved, a tiny hat perched atop her neatly rolled and pinned hair. A simple, black umbrella was clutched in her right hand.
He walked inside slowly, feigning interest in a few art pieces as he covered the ground between them. So many years he'd spent running in the opposite direction that this, the here, the now… it felt odd. Unreal. Frightening, almost.
His footsteps clapped against the polished wooden floor, echoed in such a way that she could be in no doubt as to his approach. Yet even as he drew near, she did not acknowledge him, her gaze drawn immovably to a large painting on the wall. He stopped beside her, turned to look at it.
Two lovers, caught in a passionate embrace, the man reaching back to lock the bolt on a bedroom door. From the man's state of undress, and the suggestively rumpled sweep of the bed's white silk sheets and scarlet bed-curtains, Remy was certain that this would've been a risqué, even borderline erotic, painting in its day. Yet beneath the overt sensuality ran an undercurrent of something more equivocal. While the man's intent was clear, the woman's was less so. Was she returning his embrace, or resisting it? Even after closer consideration, Remy couldn't say for sure.
"A beautiful painting, neh?" he remarked, when she gave no greeting.
"Nothing but a commission for a rich, dirty old man," she retorted cynically, to which he gave a wry smile.
"And yet somethin' about it captivates you," he noted.
She stirred, briefly.
"Merely memories," she finally replied, in an undertone, and moved away abruptly.
He wasn't stupid enough to miss the barb to her words, and he mulled on them as he absently watched her leave, the natural sway of her gait, tempered now into something not nearly so sensual as he remembered. She walked right past a guard – sitting on a stool and engrossed in his newspaper – and into a small, adjoining room. When he finally followed her inside, he saw her sitting on a small bench, waiting for him. He didn't wait to join her.
This room was darker, more secluded and intimate. Gloomy portraits stared at them with sharp, prying eyes.
"Do you find yourself chased by mem'ries, Monsieur Marceaux?" she asked him obliquely, slipping the glove off her left hand, finger by finger. He watched her movements, considering the question, the implication behind it.
"Don't we all?" he replied quietly; and she gave a small, humourless laugh, began to strip away her right glove.
"Some of us more than others. I find them in every corner, Monsieur. In every room I walk in, in every bed I take my rest."
The gloves were off, and she laid them neatly into her lap. They'd been in one another's company for 2, 3, maybe 4 minutes now, and she still hadn't even looked at him.
"I s'ppose there are some places," he began slowly, thoughtfully, "that you walk away from, but that never really leave ya."
He thought of that valley in Mesopotamia, of those digs under the sweltering sun, the local men in their caftans and their turbans picking through the rubble, the veiled women with their baskets laden with bread and fruit, staring at him with beautiful eyes just like hers… … the mosquito-ridden loneliness of his tent.
He shook away the sudden feeling, this involuntary betrayal of the heart. He rubbed the knuckles of his right fist, thinking of how satisfying it had been to smash it into her face the night before – and yet with that sense of satisfaction, he felt shame.
"But," he continued in a brusquer tone, "a man has t' learn t' move on, neh?"
She turned then, fixing his eyes with her beautiful green gaze, asked earnestly: "And a woman?"
He said nothing, unable to under the sudden force of her gaze; and her eyes moved to his chest, where she knew the ring lay next to his breast. The ring that gave the lie to his words. He expected her to ask him how he had retrieved it, why he had sought it out, what made him wear it still… but she didn't. Instead she turned away, her fingers pulling unconsciously at her kid gloves.
"Time moves us on," she murmured, "doesn't it? It's impossible not to change. However much we may hold onto the past." She raised her head again and gave him a mournful smile. "You'll be glad to know I've paid my penance, Monsieur. It's up to you whether the price is higher, and I'm still in arrears."
He considered that a moment; but before he could answer, she looked back at the gloves in her hand, said:
"I'm well aware I've taken a mighty risk in coming here. And you could make me suffer for it. But I... with the way things stand..." She paused, struggling with the words, finally finishing: "What I once told you hasn't changed. I'm in your power. It's what I owe you."
The admission left him with mixed emotions. He knew what he was capable of wielding with the power she ceded to him; she knew too. It left a sour taste in his mouth. Sometimes he'd wake from the intoxicating nightmare of it, slick and shaking with the memory of how they'd parted. And yet she trusted him enough to put her life in his hands, after all he'd done to hurt her.
"How do you know you can trust me?" he asked her, and she looked up at him again, said:
"I've never had a reason not to. You always kept your word."
Unlike you, he'd wanted to add; but he realised that it was never trust that had been an issue between them. It was her hiding of the truth. Her manipulations, her seductions. The way she'd toyed so mercilessly with his heart. For the first time he'd played this game with a woman and lost. The violence of his passion for her had twisted into hate, and then bitterness. And then into a cold, dead yearning that had no name, that had led him back into ancient valleys that had once cradled the beginning of civilisation, and the end of whatever it was that had been between them.
And now?
And now he didn't know how he felt.
"Much as I appreciate de fine mem'ries I have of de last time we were here," he began dryly, opening up his cigarette case, "I'm guessin' you didn't call me here to reminisce. So how's about we talk bus'ness?"
He offered her a smoke, which she declined distractedly; and the resentment inside him was satisfied to see that his words had disconcerted her.
"All right," she responded stiffly. "Whatever it is you're here to do, I'm asking that you stop. Please."
"Hm." He considered it, twisting the cigarette between his fingers. "And why should I do dat?"
"Because there's more at stake than you can possibly imagine," she murmured.
He laughed at that. Coldly, mirthlessly. Disbelieving.
"Oh, Fraulein Darkhölme! I understand. You have a little plan formulated, perhaps with that general you've so snared, and I've come along and put a spanner in your so-called works." He took a puff of his cigarette, blowing smoke out of his nose on a humorous snort. "Besides… when it comes to you and the kinda games you play… I can imagine quite a lot."
He shot a look, full of needful resentment, one that she did not deign to return.
"Monsieur Marceaux," she responded with quiet restraint, "whatever games you think I'm playing, I can assure you, they're not the kind that I played when I first knew you."
He guffawed, clearly dubious and not making any bones about hiding it.
"First off – seems you're helping Nazis set up some kinda labour camp on the border – I don't wanna know why. Second – you're fuckin' some old guy for I also don't wanna know why. Thirdly – you're still here, talkin' lies and horseshit t'me. You tell me you don't go round murderin' people no more, although I ain't sure I entirely believe dat, if'n I'm honest."
Her hands pulled at her gloves agitatedly, and he was pleased to know he was needling her.
"Monsieur," she rejoined, her voice projecting a forced kind of calm. "I'm begging you. Whatever you have planned, don't go through with it. Your actions put so many things in danger."
"Includin' you?" he asked softly.
Her hands stopped picking at her gloves.
"It's like I said," she murmured. "You have me in your power. A word from you to anyone about what you know about me, who I am and what I do… it could end me."
An old feeling flared in him, the icy cold flame of vengeance. And he had the power to enact it, wreak it upon her in a way he knew would make her suffer unimaginable torture. But there were other things he could do with this power. More pleasurable things.
Again his memories meandered unbidden to the illicit things they had shared, moments that were still so viscerally intimate that again… he dreamt about them sometimes. Not often, but they were like a madness when he did. He'd dreamt them more and more over the last few days. They were demanding a resolution he didn't like to consider, but that he was increasingly powerless to fend off, with every moment he spent near her.
"I'm afraid we're workin' at cross purposes, chere," he responded at least, tapping ash aside. "You have your business – I have mine. Ain't inclined drop it, 'specially not for you."
"And what is your price?" she asked, again, so quietly.
"Not anythin' that concerns you," he replied, but it should, he thought inwardly, grimly. He was piqued by the implication of her words, that she thought he could be bought.
"Tell me, Monsieur – is it the Resistance you fight for?" she asked in a low voice, mindful of the guard just a few metres and wall away. He knew the question burned at her – but he knew well enough not to respond.
"Tell me about the people on the train," he said instead conversationally, knowing that with the power he held over her, he could venture questions such as these.
She lowered her head, resigned to whatever games he was going to play with her.
"They're … people like us."
That surprised him.
"Mutants?" he queried aloud.
She nodded, too scared of being heard to even utter an answer.
"And what's bein' done t'them in that new lab they got built up there, hmm? They bein' experimented on?"
She raised her eyes to his, lips parted as if to answer… And were promptly interrupted by the sound of marching across the great forecourt below.
In a second she was up out of her seat and out into the grand corridor, looking out the window to the square below. He followed her slowly, knowing what was down there without having to look.
SS soldiers in their impeccably starched black uniforms were crossing the rain-soaked flagstones up to the museum's entrance. The guard, who'd abandoned his rickety seat and his newspaper to join them, muttered a choice oath under his breath.
"Merde." His lips pursed as a couple of harried visitors scuttled off towards the back exit. "Best be leaving," he muttered to Remy and Rogue. "Especially if you don't have your papers on you."
And he too scuttled off, no doubt to avoid any trouble from their venerable occupiers.
"It would be dangerous for me to be seen with you," she spoke up; he saw her drawing her gloves back on quickly. "We should go."
She moved quickly towards the exit, but he caught her hand before she could do so.
"Don't imagine dis here conversation is finished, chere," he warned her meaningfully, almost, but not quite, too warm to be a threat. "You'll be hearin' from me again."
Her eyes flashed – defiance and mettle, yet again.
"I am in your power," she echoed once more, a helpless reminder, reiterated with an unmistakeable strain of bitter self-loathing. She snatched her hand back, and hurried away, leaving him breathless and inwardly grasping at this thing that had no name, yet was suddenly all-consuming.
-oOo-
When Remy had left earlier that day, Millicent Collins had not expected him to return until the following morning, as was his usual habit.
When he had returned only a couple of hours later, wet and bedraggled from the rain, she had been surprised not merely by his appearance, but the fact that he seemed pensive, withdrawn.
He'd headed up to his room, no doubt to freshen up, without nary a greeting.
Of course, it hadn't escaped her notice either that her protégé had been spending less and less time with Jeanne. No doubt he was out, working his charm on some other suitable target – perhaps Frau Gruber, who so far had proved to be a rather useful asset.
When he came back down to the drawing room 45 minutes later, his look was still preoccupied.
"I sense there is something on your mind, my dear," Millicent called out to him soothingly from over the top of latest issue of Life magazine, watching as he went straight for the drinks bar and his usual glass of Bourbon. For a few moments it was as if he hadn't heard her, until he turned, knocking back most of his drink in one go.
"I think I might have an in," he stated simply.
He seemed almost troubled by this – but she couldn't think why.
"Oh? I thought you already had one. With Lotte Gruber."
"No," he answered quickly – perhaps too quickly. "With Fraulein Darkhölme."
He downed the rest of his drink, and turned to pour another. She was surprised.
"I thought you had decided she wasn't worth the effort."
"Hmph." His back was to her, as he popped open the crystal decanter. "She may be now."
Millicent mulled on this. Obviously he had been working his charms, in unexpected places… although she had no idea why he was sounding so pessimistic about it, when usually he'd be congratulating himself in some suitably rakish manner.
"Well, obviously, her being so close to the general can only be advantageous…"
Again, it was like he wasn't hearing her. Glass filled, he turned and walked over to the couch, drink in one hand, decanter in the other. He sat opposite her and placed the decanter on the table. He had the look of a man whose mind was working rabidly, as she knew his often did… albeit usually less obviously so. She laid aside her magazine.
"Remy, you must decipher for me," she spoke wryly. "What is going on in that pleasantly handsome head of yours?"
He flashed her a brief smile that flickered out almost immediately.
"Tell me," he began, with forced casualness, his fingers rolling the glass in his hand absently. "Honestly. What are your thoughts on her?"
Well, this was an intriguing line of questioning. Somehow, for the first time, she was aware that Fraulein Darkhölme was something that had been percolating in the back of his mind for a long time now.
"Honestly? I think you are being uncommonly reticent in even asking me the question at all. I think we had both agreed, at one point, that she was the likeliest target for gathering all sorts of intelligence from the general, but you seemed more interested in pursuing Frau Gruber, whose knowledge can only come second-hand."
He nodded absently, his eyes still on the glass in his hand.
"That's not exactly what I meant," he said.
"Then what?"
He lifted his uncanny eyes to hers, dropped them, then lifted them again.
"I mean, what are your thoughts on her? As a person?"
Another intriguing question! If her suspicions had been roused before, they were veritably ringing now.
"I think she is a woman who has many secrets," she replied after a moment's honest reflection. "And who has suffered much pain in her life, yet speaks nothing of it, even to those who know her very well. What one might mistake for aloofness, for indifference, is actually… sadness. Deep sadness." She paused, feeling an odd kinship over an emotion she knew only all too well. "But… she is also clever. Watchful. Too watchful. Which perhaps even makes her dangerous."
"Yes," he spoke firmly on the tail end of the word. "She's dangerous."
She stared at him intently as he knocked back the rest of his second drink.
"You like her," she stated what experience told her could only be the truth. "You want her," she added, clarifying the ambiguity of 'like'. He sniffed humorously, pouring himself another drink.
"I don't think there's a man in de whole of Paris who wouldn't," he pointed out, a helpless grin on his face.
"That is very likely true," she rejoined dryly.
For several moments she watched him closely, and he allowed himself to be watched.
"Tell me," she said at last. "What's on your mind that troubles you?"
He heaved out a sigh, clearly reluctant to spill, yet wanting more so to be honest. Again he twirled the glass in his hands, said:
"She has… information."
"No doubt."
"The people on the train… She told me they were mutants."
That perked her up.
"Mutants?"
"Oui."
She frowned.
"The railroad leads to Alsace. They say there are labour camps being set up on the German border…"
"Oui."
Her eyes went hard.
"There is more to this story."
He said nothing. He simply drank a little more, not looking at her.
"I could… convince her to tell me more," he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Get what we need from her."
"But?"
He lifted his eyes to hers again. He seemed almost embarrassed.
"There are… things I want from her. From a woman who tries to hide in shadows, sleeps with a Nazi war hero, and packs heat at a ball." He half-laughed. "I was lyin' when I said all those Nazi femmes do de same. They don't. Dis one does, though. She's all you say. Clever, watchful, dangerous. Like me. I play de game. She plays it too. I seduce her, she'll know I'm doin' it. But…" he dropped his eyes again, "I want her. Somethin' fierce."
He exhaled a heavy, pent-up breath.
"I see," she nodded. "You cannot trust her to give information that is reliable, or accurate."
"Non," he agreed. "I see her, all I see is traps. Is her information worth the risk of exposure?"
Millicent regarded him with something like sympathy.
"I believe, my dear, that you are asking yourself the wrong question."
He glanced up at her sharply.
"I am?"
"Why, yes. Shouldn't you be asking me whether pleasure is worth the risk of exposure?"
He seemed startled by the bluntness of her words.
"My dear," Millicent began in an almost matronly tone, picking up her magazine again, "I believe you've already made up your mind what you intend to do. If you want to ask my permission to take your pleasure from Fraulein Darkhölme while you work your eldritch magic on her, far be it for me to deny you. My only stipulation is that, if she is as dangerous as you seem to think she is, tread lightly. I would prefer our plans not to be jeopardised. And," she added, smiling conspiratorially at him over the top of her magazine, "I would prefer you didn't die on me, Monsieur LeBeau."
Having concluded the matter satisfactorily to her own mind, she engrossed herself once more in her article.
Remy, meanwhile, nodded quietly to himself and stood.
"Mind if I use your letter-headed paper?" he asked.
She said nothing, merely waving her assent with an elegantly withered and jewel-bedecked hand.
He swung over to the study. He had a note to write.
-oOo-