Holmes and I returned together to the hotel shortly after five, and when we entered the large lobby filled with spacious leather furniture and those big potted ferns, Louis Massier looked up from a newspaper spread out before him. He gave us a slight nod, folded the newspaper and set it aside, then stood up and came forward. He wore his usual dark wool suit, a blue color almost black, with matching waistcoat and a black cravat. With his height, full black beard, and massive chest, his was an imposing presence.
“Here you are at last.”
Holmes stared closely at Massier, a faint hesitance in his eyes. “Do you have a message from the baron?”
Massier shook his head. “I do not.” The corners of his mouth rose ever so slightly into the hairs of his black mustache, and he stroked briefly at his full thick beard. “I have a proposition of my own.”
Holmes gave a faint nod. “Ah, I see.”
“Perhaps we could have an aperitif and discuss the details. There is a bar nearby which serves an excellent absinthe cocktail, Le Dragon Vert.”
“I have already sampled its wares, and I don’t think I would care for something quite so strong as absinthe. We shall be attending the opera this evening, so I want to remain alert.”
Massier’s head gave a slight twist. “Manon?”
“Yes. Are you attending as well?”
“No, I do not much care for grand opera, but the baron will be there.”
“Will he? I shall have to keep an eye out for him. Perhaps we should simply have a drink in the hotel restaurant. Our time is limited, Monsieur Massier.”
“As you wish. I don’t think this matter will take long.”
We were soon seated in a corner table. Holmes mentioned the quality of their Armagnac, and soon the waiter brought us three glasses upon a tray.
Massier took his, held up the bowl and turned it slightly. “Excellent color.” He gave it a sip. “You were not exaggerating, Monsieur Holmes, it is very good indeed.” He had unbuttoned his suit jacket, and the bright golden arc of his watch chain stood out against his waistcoat.
Holmes sipped, set down his glass and settled back in his chair. “What is this proposition of yours, Monsieur Massier?”
Massier turned the glass ever so slightly again, swirling the brownish liquid. “Well, let me be quite direct and to the point. Believe me, the baron cannot be trusted. He is… how can I put this delicately? He is unbalanced. You have not seen him at his worst. At times his insanity becomes quite obvious. And he has certain delusions—such as this obsession about the sacred Bourbon blood flowing in his veins. I propose that we form an alliance, you and I, to seek out the treasure. When we find it, we shall share the proceeds fifty-fifty.”
Holmes’s slight smile was bitter. “And nothing for the baron?”
“No. It certainly doesn’t belong to him, and the French kings are no more. In the end, the treasure is just pilfered loot taken by royal thieves. And besides, the baron is already a rich man.”
“Come now, Monsieur Massier, I think you know better. He has enormous debts.”
Massier gave an appreciative nod. “Ah, you know about that! He can repay them even without the treasure.”
“How?”
“He has certain… tangible assets.”
“His town house and the château, you mean?”
“Not just those.”
Holmes stared very closely at Massier. “Some other… constructions?”
Massier laughed. “Very good, Monsieur Holmes! But I must keep some secrets of my own. Let’s forget about the baron for now. If you share that piece of paper with me, I’m confident we can discern its meaning together. I have certain analytical skills, and I also know Normandy rather well. Let me come with you. Why not join forces?”
Holmes’s smile grew ironic. “I already have young Beautrelet helping me.”
“Young Beautrelet!” Massier’s tone was scornful. “He is overrated, I assure you, and he was not smart enough to leave Angelique alone. Besides, I don’t think he will be in any condition to help you. Not after this afternoon.”
“You must be thinking of the thugs the baron sent to beat him up,” I said. “They were not successful. He will be joining us tomorrow.”
Massier frowned. “Not successful? But how is that possible?”
I smiled. “I must keep some secrets of my own.”
Holmes laughed. “Very good, Henry.”
Massier shook his head. “Why work with a boy when you can work with a man? He is a rank amateur, highly overrated.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Holmes said. “I have found him to be quite clever. Besides, you forget that I gave the baron my word I would not keep the treasure for myself.”
Massier’s great black eyebrows came together. “You actually meant that?”
Holmes laughed. “Yes.”
Massier shrugged. “Well, you will not be keeping it for yourself. You will be splitting it with me.”
Holmes was still smiling. “I see you excel at sophistry. Unfortunately for you, my word is my word—it is my bond. I do not go back on it.”
Massier shook his head. “Very well. The more pity you.”
“You, on the other hand, obviously feel no loyalty toward your employer.”
Massier laughed. “Let’s just say I have grown weary of his antics! I have worked with him for five years, and he does not wear well. He has also grown more and more erratic and unstable. He can simply not be trusted. I hope you understand that—you may keep your word, but if he gets the treasure, neither you nor I are likely to receive any share at all. And certainly the people of France will not get a penny! That is why keeping your word in this case is foolish.”
“When I give my word, it is not conditional.” Holmes stared closely at Massier, his gray eyes intense. “Five years is a long time.”
“Yes—an eternity, I assure you, when you are with someone as innately boorish as him.”
“So you were there when he took in his niece?”
“Yes, of course I was.”
“Five years…” Holmes murmured. “I suspect you know all his secrets—including why he wants that treasure so badly.”
“I do know them all—everything, all the secrets, all the skeletons in the closet—and I can share them with you, if you will agree to work with me and split the treasure.”
Holmes sipped at his drink. “You already have my answer.”
Massier shook his head. “Then there is little use in prolonging this conversation.” He downed the last of his Armagnac. “Well, you have made it clear that the treasure must be inside the Needle at Étretat. And who knows? There may be another way in besides the one described on your paper.” He smiled. “We shall see who gets there first.” He set one hand on the table, preparing to rise, but Holmes raised his hand to signal that he should wait.
“Before you go, one secret is not, I think, the baron’s, but your own. You arranged to have that potted plant dropped from the hotel window, did you not?”
Massier grinned. “Very good, Monsieur Holmes! I did indeed. Of course, I was quite precise in my instructions that you were not to be harmed. It was only meant as a warning. I was, so to speak, trying to test your mettle, and I wanted to see if I could scare you off. I did not want any useless competition in the search for the treasure. Getting my share already seemed problematic enough. But in the end you did far better than me at Creuse, and I am glad you do not frighten easily. I apologize for unnecessarily disturbing you.”
Holmes nodded. “Apology accepted.”
I was not so easily placated. “Well, I don’t accept it.”
“Sorry, Dr. Vernier.” Massier had stood and had his hat in his left hand. “Good day, gentlemen, and thanks for the aperitif. I am sorry we could not reach an agreement, but I am sure I shall see you again soon—at Étretat.” With a slight bow, he strode away.
I shook my head. “I don’t think he can be trusted any more than the baron. They are both scoundrels.”
Holmes smiled. “I must agree with you there, Henry! After a meeting with a person such as Monsieur Massier, one feels the need to thoroughly wash one’s hands with hot water and soap.”
* * *
Holmes and I paused at the foot of the grandest of grand stairways, that of the Palais Garnier, the Paris Opera House.
The steps before us were made of white marble, the balusters of the railing a dark crimson or even green marble, and to our side, two heroic damsels sculpted in dark bronze held candelabras with flaming candles. Indeed, one ornate candelabra with many candles had somehow sprouted from the upper figure’s sculpted head! Over us were balconies and chandeliers, and a cavernous opening that rose a few stories to the ornate glass dome far above.
On the stairs thronged the high society of Paris come for this gala performance. While the majority of men were “crows” (mostly in black—formal black tailcoats and trousers, with either black waistcoats or white ones of silk, and bow ties, also in white or black), also scattered about were a few brilliant “peacocks” (soldiers in gaudy uniforms of red and blue, with gold braid or epaulets). The women, however, wore colorful silken dresses: shades of rose, blue, lavender, even a brilliant scarlet; and their shoulders and necks were generally bare. But jeweled necklaces or pendants—emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, rubies—or pearls, rested upon the exposed skin of their decolletages.
Holmes and I plunged into the crowd. Halfway up, the stairway divided in two, branching in either direction, and Holmes and I went to the left. Our destination was Box 5, the one which the “Opera Ghost” had demanded be reserved for him, but the Phantom was long gone and presumed dead. Holmes and I were the only ones present who knew that Eric, the tormented genius with the hideous face, had found happiness elsewhere at last. However, the opera management still generally left Box 5 empty, except when Holmes requested it. We two knew it was perfectly safe. We went down a carpeted corridor and opened the door with ornate carvings and the number 5 in brass.
The location was ideal, very close to the stage, now hidden by the great curtain. We were on the first floor up, the third box over on the left side. Above us rose two more floors of boxes, then the fourth floor with the paradis, or upper balcony. The fronts of the boxes and the occasional pillars, which formed a horseshoe shape, were all elaborately decorated in gold, while the interiors and the chairs were red. I glanced up at the domed ceiling with its paintings and the massive chandelier, and a shiver went up my spine as I recalled when its predecessor had come crashing down that time Holmes and I were investigating the Opera Ghost.
Someone rapped at the door. I turned and went to open it. Before me was a figure I recognized at once, a bent old man in a black soutane with an oversized black overcoat, a brimmed hat clutched in one hand, a cane in the other. Spectacles of blue glass hid his eyes, and his long white hair was all astray.
“You,” I murmured. “What do you want this time?”
Behind me, Holmes spoke. “Come in, Isidore.”
The old man smiled, briefly breaking character. “Thank you, Monsieur Holmes.”
I sighed wearily. “I do hate disguises.”
Lupin came into the loge, and I closed the door. He was back in character, bent over and perched on the cane. He advanced slowly forward, and I followed.
“Very nice, Monsieur Holmes.” His voice was a raspy whisper. “A great view of the stage and—mon Dieu!—also of Mademoiselle Chamerac.”
I glanced to the right where Lupin was staring. The boxes were separated by partitions covered with red fabric, partitions which sloped downward so that one’s neighbors were only partly hidden. As our row of boxes curved off to the right round the auditorium, more and more of the interiors were revealed, and in a box about ten distant from ours, just before a pillar, sat the trio of Chameracs behind the golden railing. The Baron of Creuse was in the center, his wife to his right, his niece to the left.
The baron and his wife were in black, but Angelique wore an elaborately patterned ivory silk gown which left her shoulders and decolletage bare. The dress and her bound-up blond hair accentuated her long slender neck, and a jewel on her left ear sparkled as she moved. She wore a gold necklace with a pendant of gems which also caught the light. She was quite the vision of youth and beauty, especially alongside her aunt and uncle. The baron appeared almost fat and faintly comical with that enormous waxed mustache, while his wife seemed scrawny, and had what must be a perpetually weary, sour look. Her black dress was modest, and she wore no jewelry whatsoever. The faces of the baron and his niece showed a certain self-assurance, something so similar that I wondered if it might be a shared hereditary trait manifesting itself, although his expression veered more toward hauteur and arrogance.
“She is lovely, is she not?” Lupin murmured softly in his own voice.
Holmes was staring at the baron’s box, too, but he remained silent, his eyes stern.
“Can you blame me for loving her? With my share of the treasure I shall be able to shower her with jewels and the finest gowns.” He must have noticed something in my look. “What is it?”
“A beautiful woman doesn’t really need jewels and fancy gowns. In the end they are… superfluous.” I was thinking of Michelle and how I found her the most stunning with nothing on at all. But of course, I could never say such a thing aloud!
Lupin shrugged. “Perhaps not. But you will never convince a woman of that! At heart, they are all like our Manon.”
“Ah,” I said, “so you have seen the opera before. Have you also read the book?”
“Certainly, as an adolescent. With its scandalous reputation you could not keep me from it.”
I laughed. “It had the same sordid appeal to me as a youth, but I found it rather tedious and not in the least salacious.”
Holmes smiled faintly. “I believe we are in agreement on the merits of the book.”
From the pit, we heard the orchestra players begin tuning their instruments, and the three of us sat down in the plush chairs. The conductor with his corona of white hair strode to the podium, bowed to the crowd, and then, with a drum roll, the sprightly music of the overture began. In comparison with Verdi and Wagner, the two famed composers of our day, Massenet’s music lacked true drama, but it had a certain Gallic elegance and charm. Soon the curtain rose on a pastoral scene before a country inn.
The opera Manon is based on the eighteenth-century novel, Histoire du chevalier Des Grieux, et de Manon Lescaut by the Abbé Prévost. Both tell the same tale of the infatuated nobleman Des Grieux who falls hard for the country girl Manon. She is on the way to the convent, when they meet at the ripe old age of seventeen for him, sixteen for her, and both are smitten by the classic French coup de foudre. Des Grieux vows to save her from a life of celibacy, and they flee to Paris where they live in sin and quickly burn through his meager funds.
In the book, Des Grieux tells his own story, recounting the ups and downs of the relationship (and their finances), including Manon’s occasional betrayals for richer suitors. Des Grieux is all overblown and hysterical emotion. He will lie, cheat, and do anything to keep Manon. He borrows money from a long-suffering friend with little intention of paying it back. He deceives several older men who trust him, including his father. He even shoots a man dead while helping Manon escape from prison and shows little remorse, blaming it on Manon’s brother for foolishly lending him a loaded pistol!
The opera began with a raucous crowd coming and going before the inn, but soon a coach arrived and Manon made her first appearance. The soprano in the first Manon I had seen two years before had been close to forty and quite plump. The singer tonight was Sibyl Sanderson, supposedly the favorite of Massenet, and she looked more the part. Sanderson was still in her twenties, slender in her modest peasant’s dress, and she had a lovely effortless voice. Soon Des Grieux made his appearance dressed in an elegant gold and white coat, brown breeches and a tricorn hat, and the tenor too was quite convincing in his lovestruck ardor. After the two rushed offstage together, ready to leave for Paris, the audience applauded loudly.
Holmes leaned toward me. “They are quite good, much more believable as youthful lovers than the last pair we saw.”
I nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Lupin briefly turned toward the Chamerac box, then sighed softly. “Ah, I know just how Des Grieux feels!” His youthful voice was something of a surprise coming from so convincingly aged a visage. The blue glass of his spectacles hid his eyes.
I smiled faintly. “So you wish to run off with Mademoiselle Chamerac and live in sin with her?”
“Certainly not! Despite my profession as gentleman burglar, I am not lacking in moral scruples. I respect the lady too much to propose such a thing. Besides, I am not a foolish young nobleman and have no interfering father—I can marry whomever I wish. Once we have the treasure, I can make a respectable woman of her.”
Holmes was watching Lupin closely. “But I wonder, would she take you without money?”
Lupin shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But the treasure should make that a moot point. Besides, I need to be in a position to retire from my current occupation. She is far too proper to pardon it.”
Act Two took place in a garret apartment in Paris. Despite her feelings for Des Grieux, Manon had accepted gifts from another admirer, de Brétigny. While her cousin kept Des Grieux occupied, de Brétigny explained that the chevalier’s father was about to have him kidnaped and returned to his family. Manon need only keep silent, and de Brétigny would make her his own and shower her with jewels and riches.
Sanderson was very good at conveying Manon’s inner turmoil as she struggled to choose. Her voice had a sorrowful intensity, a pathos, that made you believe she really did love Des Grieux, and yet, she could not bring herself to warn him. As the act ended with Des Grieux carried away offstage, Manon cried out twice, “Mon pauvre chevalier!”
The curtain came down, and again the applause was enthusiastic. She almost had me convinced, but despite the beautiful music, Manon the character was hopelessly weak. She had to choose between love and greed, and she chose greed. All women were not fickle, all were not swayed by jewels and gowns, as I well knew—I had married one who would never in her life betray me.
In the end, one could simply not generalize about women. Certainly in my time with Sherlock, I had encountered women enough who were true monsters capable of terrible crimes. And indeed, greed was their usual motive. Lady Arabella had committed one murder and was about to kill her niece as well because she wanted the family estate, Diana’s Grove. Worse still was Constance Grimswell, who had worked with her evil illegitimate son to kill off the legitimate heirs between him and the family fortune. In her case, it was not only greed at work, but a deranged sort of love for her devilish son. And yet I had also met many admirable and sympathetic women, true innocents like young Diana Marsh and Rose Grimswell.
Act Three began with the transformed Manon in an elaborate red gown wearing a white wig and savoring the delights of all her wealth. However, soon enough she was off to Saint-Sulpice where the repentant Des Grieux had become a zealous preacher who was about to take Holy Orders. Manon was the pleading temptress recalling their past love, and the tenor’s voice conveyed Des Grieux’s desperate, all-consuming passion for her. The act concluded with the two of them departing together, Des Grieux having abandoned all thoughts of the priesthood.
After the applause had died down, Holmes turned to me, a brief sardonic smile flickering over his lips. “Now the pair of them are even. Each has saved the other from a life of celibacy.”
I smiled back. “I had not thought of that.”
The fourth act took place in a grand hotel hall devoted to gambling. Since their money was gone, Manon tried to convince Des Grieux to try his luck at cards. At first he refused, asking her if he must yield up to her not only his heart, but his honor. At last he yielded. Strangely enough, he actually won at cards, but old Guillot called him a cheat and stormed out. Soon enough he returned with the police, and Des Grieux’s father also appeared, berating his son for dishonoring them both. The act ended with the two lovers each dragged away by the police.
After we finished applauding, I said to my companions, “Des Grieux never seems to learn anything; he is putty in Manon’s hands. Massenet does his best to make her sympathetic, but in the end he has not won me over. She seems shallow and brainless. Des Grieux’s father was right: he should have married some nice girl of his own class.”
Holmes was smiling at me. “Ah Henry, so there is something of the pragmatist in you, after all! You are not a complete romantic.”
Lupin gave his head a shake. “You are too severe, Vernier. You forget she is supposed to be only sixteen or seventeen years old, hardly more than a child.”
“Not all children are captivated by shiny objects and beautiful dresses the way that she is. Children also do not offer up themselves to rich promiscuous gentlemen for a few trinkets.”
“How harsh you are. Most women may guard their virtue, but I have yet to meet a woman who cannot be captivated by a beautiful gown or a diamond necklace.”
“I know one.”
“Ah, your wife the physician. She is the exception which proves the rule! Actually I find Des Grieux more reprehensible than Manon. A real gentlemen would not so easily forgive a woman’s infidelity. She betrays him only once in the opera, but several times in the book. I may not be a member of the nobility, but even once would be enough for me.”
Holmes had been listening carefully, and he spoke to Lupin. “So you would not tolerate even a single infidelity?”
“Certainly not! And especially if the infidelity went… shall we say, all the way, as with Manon. A little flirting is harmless enough, but not that.”
Holmes nodded. “I see.”
“I think we can all agree on that,” I said. “Faithfulness is essential between a man and woman—essential for both sexes. Some, especially among the nobility, think wives must remain faithful even while a man may keep a young and pretty mistress. I find that despicable.”
“So do I!” Lupin exclaimed.
“Maybe you are ready for marriage, after all,” I replied.
The curtain rose again, and Holmes sat back in his seat. “And now all that remains is for Manon to perish.”
“She dies so conveniently,” I murmured, “both in the opera and the book. Even as a doctor, I cannot diagnose what the exact malady was.”
“How cynical you are,” Lupin murmured. “I thought you were a romantic.”
“And so I am—when it matters. You can ask my wife. But I cannot tolerate these stories of ridiculous lovesick puppies like Des Grieux or young Werther in Goethe’s novel. Idiots, both of them.”
Act Five took place at dusk in the countryside. Manon, along with some prostitutes, was being taken away to be deported to New Orleans in the New World. Des Grieux had arranged with Manon’s cousin, Lescaut, to have a small band of men free her, but they had all fled. Des Grieux was outraged and in despair, but Lescaut told him that with a bribe he would arrange a meeting with Manon.
Soon Manon staggered on stage, dramatically changed, gone the fancy red dress of the previous act, replaced by a worn, dark blue one with a tear at the shoulder. She fell to her knees and begged Des Grieux to forgive her. He raised her up and took her in his arms, even as he sang how they would begin a new life together. Sanderson and the tenor were both quite affecting, their voices soaring as they recalled their first happy days together in the small apartment in Paris.
Manon’s voice faltered, and she collapsed, then sang that she was dying. High above the stage, a bright light came on, representing the first star of the night. Manon called it a beautiful diamond, then smiled at herself, saying she was still a coquette. Again, they sang of their past joys. Finally, in a weak voice, Sanderson proclaimed, “Et c’est l’histoire de Manon Lescaut,” “And this is the story of Manon Lescaut.” She slumped, her eyes closing. The tenor gave a dramatic sob, then bent over her, even as the orchestra played the final chords.
The curtain came down, and the applause began. That scene had been well done, but somehow it had not greatly moved me. The music was simply not so heartrending as that of, say, Verdi’s La traviata. That opera had a similar final death scene, but Violetta, the reformed courtesan, was a much more sympathetic character than Manon, and Verdi the better composer.
As we applauded, Holmes leaned toward me. “What did you think of the final act, Henry?”
“It was well sung, but did not exactly grip me.”
“I feel the same way.”
Lupin had heard us, and he shook his head. “Unfeeling brutes, the two of you!” His voice was mocking but had a quaver of emotion.
The great red curtain soon rose, and the lengthy rite of final bows and applause began. The vast hall resounded with the steady sound of the many hands clapping. My eyes shifted from the stage to my companions. Holmes and Lupin had both turned their heads toward the baron’s box. Lupin must be regarding his beloved, but Holmes?
In their box next to the golden pillar, the trio of Chameracs were all politely clapping, but none with real enthusiasm. Which of them was Holmes watching? The baron with his swept-back chestnut hair and that ridiculous mustache, the set of his mouth faintly arrogant; or his pallid wife with her almost lifeless, stolid expression; or Angelique, with her youthful sense of poise and self-assurance? One could tell she was aware of her spectacular beauty—aware of it and proud, glad to be alive, and confident of the future.
Again I was struck by her long slender neck. Some women had a certain plumpness in the throat, but not her. The line from throat, to jaw, to chin, was clean and well defined. Her nose was slightly turned up, and her full lips were certainly sensual. Her ash-blond hair was bound up tightly, and the way her tiny white ear with its flashing diamond stud was revealed in its entirety, was provocative, but hardly so much as that swath of white flesh below her collar bones, or that faint shadow where her breasts came together just above the silken lace of the gown.
I felt suddenly uncomfortable, ashamed even, and I turned my gaze to the stage. Angelique’s beauty was unsettling, and hard to resist. Little wonder Lupin had fallen hard for her. Coup de foudre was certainly appropriate for what had happened to him. I bit my lip and wished Michelle was with me. It was curious. When I had first met Michelle, I had found her attractive, but it was only as I grew to know and love her that I came to realize how truly beautiful she was. And in her case, an inner goodness augmented outer beauty.
Holmes and Lupin were still staring at the baron’s box. I wondered again about my cousin. I knew that he was not unmoved by the beauty of women, but unlike many men, it would never make him behave foolishly or impulsively. Could it be the two Chameracs, both the baron and his niece, who interested him? Was Holmes perhaps questioning whether Angelique could actually break free of the baron and marry Lupin?
At last Holmes turned to me. He knew I had been watching him. His dark eyebrows were slightly tensed, his lips set in a stern line. His gray eyes were faintly curious, but grave.
“Sherlock?” I murmured.
He shrugged, then looked down at the stage. Manon had come out for her solo bow, and the audience applauded warmly. For the first time there were shouts of “bravo.” She smiled and bowed before the enthusiastic ovation. Sanderson was a beautiful woman, but I reflected that she could not really compare with the likes of Angelique Chamerac.