holding a broken head, had a moment of disgust, and dropped the thing.
‘
Zut alors
,’ said Christine. ‘What a shambles!’
The Countess was gone, her throne descended into a trapdoor, a smear of thick blood marking her trail. Erik was vanished too. During the
mêlée
, he had fixed his detonator box to a clockwork percussionist, wiring its hand to the grasshopper switch and setting an hourglass timer which was already close to running out.
‘We’d best tell everyone to abandon ship,’ ordered Irene.
* * *
Most of the company were in the main ballroom when Erik’s explosives went off. There was a great grinding sound as the greater works of the barge misaligned and tore themselves to pieces, wrecking whatever purpose they might have had. More explosions followed.
Christine, Trilby and Irene were in a corridor, which ought to lead up to the deck and safety. They found the doorway barred and bolted. The Countess evidently took the ruin of her schemes personally. The incandescent lamps wavered, and they were ankle-deep in cold water. Then the floor listed, and the water flowed away. The girls found things to hang onto.
‘I think our music master might have planned this phase of the evening rather better,’ observed Irene. ‘We’re quite likely to drown.’
‘Have more faith, Irène,’ said Christine, cheerfully. ‘Something will turn up.’
They were looking at a foaming torrent advancing up the corridor. Something broke the surface angrily – one of the toy soldiers, or at least the top half of one. It thumped against a wall, turned over, and sank.
‘How sad,’ said Christine. ‘I love a man in uniform.’
One of the porthole windows broke inwards, and a rope ladder descended.
A familiar face loomed through the aperture, a beckoning arm extended.
It was the Persian! Alive!
‘Ladies, time to leave this playroom.’
He did not have to say it twice.
XII
O NLY 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
‘
Zut alors
,’ said Christine. ‘What a shambles!’
The Countess was gone, her throne descended into a trapdoor, a smear of thick blood marking her trail. Erik was vanished too. During the
mêlée
, he had fixed his detonator box to a clockwork percussionist, wiring its hand to the grasshopper switch and setting an hourglass timer which was already close to running out.
‘We’d best tell everyone to abandon ship,’ ordered Irene.
* * *
Most of the company were in the main ballroom when Erik’s explosives went off. There was a great grinding sound as the greater works of the barge misaligned and tore themselves to pieces, wrecking whatever purpose they might have had. More explosions followed.
Christine, Trilby and Irene were in a corridor, which ought to lead up to the deck and safety. They found the doorway barred and bolted. The Countess evidently took the ruin of her schemes personally. The incandescent lamps wavered, and they were ankle-deep in cold water. Then the floor listed, and the water flowed away. The girls found things to hang onto.
‘I think our music master might have planned this phase of the evening rather better,’ observed Irene. ‘We’re quite likely to drown.’
‘Have more faith, Irène,’ said Christine, cheerfully. ‘Something will turn up.’
They were looking at a foaming torrent advancing up the corridor. Something broke the surface angrily – one of the toy soldiers, or at least the top half of one. It thumped against a wall, turned over, and sank.
‘How sad,’ said Christine. ‘I love a man in uniform.’
One of the porthole windows broke inwards, and a rope ladder descended.
A familiar face loomed through the aperture, a beckoning arm extended.
It was the Persian! Alive!
‘Ladies, time to leave this playroom.’
He did not have to say it twice.
XII
O NLY 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
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