Je suis seul
ce soir
avec ma peine. .
Avenue Kléber, my heart began to beat a little faster. The front of the Baltimore Hotel. Cimarosa Square. Codébo and Robert le Pâle were standing guard in front of No. 3 bis. Codébo gave me a smile, flashing his gold teeth. I walked up one flight and opened the living-room door. The Khedive, in a dusty-pink brocade dressing gown, motioned to me. Monsieur Philibert was checking file cards: ‘How’s the CKS doing, Swing Troubadour?’ The Khedive gave me a sharp rap on the shoulder and handed me a cognac: ‘Very scarce. Three hundred thousand francs a bottle. Don’t worry. There is no rationing at Cimarosa Square. And the CKS? What’s new there?’ No, I still hadn’t obtained the addresses of the ‘Knights of the Shadows’. By the end of the week, for sure. ‘Supposing we organise the raid on the Rue Boisrobert for some afternoon when members of the CKS are there? What do you say to that, Troubadour?’ I discouraged this plan. Better to arrest them individually. ‘We’ve no time to lose, Troubadour.’ I calmed their impatience, promising yet again to come up with more detailed information. Sooner or later they would press me so hard that I would have to keep my promises to get them off my back. The ‘round-up’ would take place. I would finally earn the title of informant —
donneuse — the one that made my heart skip, my head spin every time I heard it. donneuse. Still, I tried to postpone the inevitable, assuring my two bosses that the boys in the CKS were innocuous. Dreamers. Full of fanciful ideals, nothing more. Why not let the benighted idiots be? They were afflicted from a common illness, youth, one from which they would quickly recover. In a few months they’d be much more tractable. Even the Lieutenant would give up the battle. And besides, what battle was there, besides a heated exchange of words like Justice, Progress, Truth, Democracy, Freedom, Revolution, Honour, and Patriotism? The whole thing struck me as completely harmless. As I saw it, the only dangerous man was LAM-BALLE, whom I had not yet identified. Invisible. Elusive. The true brains behind the CKS. He would strike, and strike viciously. The mere mention of his name at the Rue Boisrobert provoked whispers of awe and admiration, LAM-BALLE! Who was he? When I asked the Lieutenant, he was evasive. ‘LAMBALLE will not spare the thugs and traitors who currently have the upper hand. LAMBALLE strikes hard and fast. We will obey LAMBALLE without question, LAMBALLE is never wrong, LAMBALLE is a great guy, LAMBALLE is our only hope. .’ I could not get any more definite information. With a little patience we would flush out this mysterious character. I kept telling the Khedive and Philibert that capturing Lamballe ought to be our prime target, LAM-BALLE! The others did not matter. They were deluded, they were all talk. I asked that they be spared. ‘We ’ll see. First get us details on this Lamballe. Understood?’ The Khedive’s lips curled into a menacing leer. Philibert, pensively stroked his moustache and murmured: ‘LAM-BALLE, LAM-BALLE.’ ‘I’ll deal with this LAMBALLE once and for all,’ the Khedive concluded, ‘and neither London, Vichy, or the Americans will save him. Cognac? Craven A? Help yourself,