“I am not a reactionary!” she said, stung to indignation.
He laughed. “Oh, not in the sense of those fossils who wish to create a world of peasants and oxcarts once again; I experienced the last of that, and the ennui would be paralyzing. They yearn for a past they themselves never experienced. You are more forethoughtful; you seek to hold the wave of change in place here, the wave I have seen erode away all I knew…and, ma cherie, I speak as one who has worn the pith helmet in his time and seen the Hovas fall before the Lebels. You seek to hold this modern world in place before it leaves you, too, stranded in time. I grant that you are being…preemptive…rather than reactionary.”
“Well, then.”
“But from the viewpoint of that future you would abort before it was born, perhaps the difference between your stasis and that of the ox-cart nostalgics might not be so great. A thousand years from now, you would be playing with the same toys.”
The Pyrénées lamb slow-roasted in clay arrived, with its accompanying simple artichokes, vegetables and watercress, its measured tang of garlic blending smoothly with the herb-scented meat. They argued amiably for a moment about the wine and settled on a Chateau Belgrave from early in the century.
“You have some reason,” she said. To herself: Which affects my resentment not at all.
She continued aloud: “But my motivations are not merely psychological. Or at least not completely so. If the humans continue their project of science much longer, it will be impossible for us to control the world in secret.”
He made a graceful gesture of agreement and the waiters cleared the plates. “Ironic, is it not? For it was science that let us reconstitute our race.”
That was true enough; their own family had discovered Gregor Mendel’s work long before the world in general was conscious of it. The Power was subtle enough to act as a tool of genetic engineering, if you knew where to point it…or just knew that you had genes.
Then he lit a cigarette. One of the attendants made a horrified sound, and Arnaud gestured again, his eyes going a little blank with concentration for an instant. The man clutched his head and staggered out of the room, weeping softly; there was a soft heavy thump from the next room. The faces of the others might have been carved out of seasoned beechwood, save for the sheen of sweat. Adrienne lit a cigarillo of her own, a private blend of Turkish tobacco and Moroccan hashish, a slim brown cylinder in an ivory holder. The smoke was mildly soothing, and complemented the selection of cheeses, coffee and brandy that ended the simple meal.
“One might argue that we have done very badly at directing the world, secretly or otherwise,” he said. “I speak purely from our own viewpoint, of course. A wise parasite keeps its host healthy and does not draw attention to itself. And if we had done that, we would not be confronted by these…unpalatable and risky choices now. We seek to cure a disease of which we were the agents, or at least responsible for.”
“Are we parasite or predator?”
“That depends on one’s self-image. My brother identifies with the wolf or tiger.”
“Natural enough, surely?”
“Both are endangered species which survive on human sufferance. Mosquitoes, on the other hand…”
Adrienne laughed, though the comparison was far too supine for her taste. “And there is no element of resentment towards my great-grandfather your brother there, eh?” she said, giving him a very slight wink. “Since he is the secret ruler of whom you speak.”
They shared a laugh. Arnaud contemplated the end of his cigarette: “Though of course your plan to…How shall I put this…trim the dead wood from our species as well…is somewhat drastic. And I hope you were not thinking of including me in that category once we are all in Tbilisi.”
“Ah,” she said noncommittally, hiding her fury behind a slight smile. “No, of course not, my old, that goes without saying. Your assistance aside, you are notably unambitious politically, a rare and precious quality. We are overequipped with would-be leaders and deplorably short of followers, we lords of Shadow.”
“Nevertheless, on reflection I heartily approve of the basic idea. Not least because Étienne-Maurice would meet a suitably fiery end in your little scenario of Hell brought to Earth.” He chuckled. “My brother takes you a little less seriously than he might, because you are female. An error, and hopefully a fatal error.”
She laid her own cigarette down, took a sip of her black coffee and another of brandy. There was no point in pretending ignorance. He knew about the bomb. There really wasn’t any point in asking him when he’d found out, either; it was enough that he had. Though she certainly intended to find out how he’d penetrated that secret.
“Indeed, I think that was why I tried to kill your brother last year, he being so set on preventing your charming little joke.”
“You think, rather than know?”
He shrugged expressively. “Often prescience produces no concrete reason for action, especially when other adepts are muddying the waters.”
Adrienne nodded. That was true; it was also a splendid excuse for simply acting on a whim, something for which Arnaud was notorious. The way he phrased it implied that he hadn’t learned about the bomb until well after that. Which in itself proved nothing, since he might be lying, but might well be indicative. It was as naïve to imagine someone always lied as to think they never did, one of those facts you had to fight your natural instincts to keep in mind.
“I’m sure your talents will be extremely useful in Tbilisi,” Adrienne said graciously.
“Perhaps. Although I have already done most of what I can. Still, let us contemplate a few contingencies.”
Outside the restaurant a half hour later Adrienne pushed her hands into the ermine-lined pockets of her Astrakhan wool coat. The Place Vendôme was thronged, the crowds thick beneath the triple lights in their cast-iron stands, around the Austerlitz pillar with its bronze bas-reliefs cast from the metal of captured cannon. It was a close replica of the Column of Trajan in Rome, down to the enemies shown suffering defeat being mostly Germans and other Central Europeans. Unable to improve on his Classical model, Napoleon had simply made his bigger and more expensive and put a statue of himself on the top.
“I think dear Arnaud was right; he has done most of what he can. And, to quote a classic line, he knows too much,” she said thoughtfully.
“Whatever you say, Doña,” Monica said. She smiled as she looked around. “I do love Paris at night. There’s always a certain magic in the air, even at this time of year.”
“Have you forgotten what I said about punishment?” Adrienne asked archly.
The night air had that particularly Parisian damp winter chill that made you wish for a crackling fire in the hearth and some sort of hot drink involving cocoa and rum. Not to mention…She looked around herself. A classically chic woman of indeterminate age was walking a very large poodle whose coat shone like a silvered confection carved from whipped cream, its collar rich turquoise edged with sparkling diamanté. Adrienne stepped over.
“Give me that,” she said, and twitched it out of her hand. “I need it for my bitch.”
The Frenchwoman started to protest, looked into the yellow-flecked black eyes and backed up, her mouth quivering. The dog half snarled and half whined, crouching and urinating on the pavement as Adrienne unbuckled.
“Bend, my Golden Retriever Barbie,” she said, and cinched it around Monica’s neck.
The blue eyes were wide. “Uh, that’s sort of…tight,” she said hoarsely.