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at dawn,” said Bonnat. “At the southeast gate of the Montparnasse cemetery.”
    “A suitable location,” said Duval. “Pistols for two and coffee for one.”
    Bonnat started to say more, then turned and walked away, out of the parlor, his footsteps echoing in the silence that had fallen over the salon. Duval picked up the crumpled piece of paper Bonnat had hurled at his feet.
    “What is it?” asked Madame Lazare.
    Duval glanced at the paper and then folded it, putting it in his pocket. “As you say, madame, there are secrets.”
    “His wife?” she asked softly.
    “You are too perceptive.” Duval smiled, Bonnat’s handprint slowly disappearing from his cheek.
    “What are you going to do?” asked Picard, feeling that he must stop the duel.
    “Do? There is only one thing a man of honor can do. I’m leaving Paris at once.”
    “I’m happy there will be no bloodshed,” said Madame Lazare. “It doesn’t do to carry such things to extremes.” She smiled, a flickering scorn in her eyes, for both of them. She extended her hand to Picard, and turned away. He studied her movements as she crossed the room—beneath the elegance of the hostess there was something else, a hint of the gypsy dancer, of wine and taverns, her hips looking as if they wanted to roll when she walked. But it was all hidden, or nearly so, this dark abandon, veiled by the propriety and wealth of the rue de Richelieu.
    Duval flourished the Eldorado portfolio again, tapping the gold embossment with his finger. “Has Bonnat spoiled your taste for adventure, Fanjoy? Or do you still love a mine?”
    “What happens in people’s bedrooms is all the same to me.”
    “Good, good, then you and I shall meet as planned, tomorrow at my club.” Duval lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But how do you suppose this fellow Lazare gets his information?”
    “A network of informers,” said Picard, regretting at once that he’d spoken a policeman’s sentence, but Duval paid no attention, was already moving toward Lazare. Picard crossed the room beside him. Lazare had seated himself, with a number of young ladies nearby him. The ladies looked at Duval curiously, for by now they had divined, without the use of a fortune-telling machine, what the slap in his face had meant.
    “Your oracle is a most efficient spy,” said Duval, speaking from behind Lazare’s chair.
    Lazare looked up, turning his head slightly over his shoulder toward Duval. “It is only a toy, monsieur.”
    His wife had reached alongside him, to an ornate music stand, from which she’d taken a stringed instrument of obvious antiquity. “Play for us, Ric,” she said, handing him the instrument. Its wood was black, highly polished and shaped in the form of a snake, with four strings running from tail to lip.
    Lazare’s long fingers touched the strings, and the serpent’s fourfold tongue twanged softly, exotically, a tune like no other Picard had heard. The ancient instrument responded with delicate reverberation, the snake’s puffed hollow body echoing the minor air, as a spell fell over the parlor.
    There was something in the song—Picard could not remain aloof from it. A strange feeling came over him, the feeling that he was rootless, homeless, an endless wanderer. For an instant his Paris was gone, and the jeweled women were stars, twinkling in a vast empty space.
    The bass string returned, thumping softly, as if to an incessant drumbeat, and Picard felt still more alone, on the distant wind. Blown upon a carpet, floating out upon the finely woven song, he felt himself returning to Algeria, to the war. The salon of dreams was far behind him and he was racing on the sands toward the lamplight of a tent. He had it all in his hands—youth, the reins of a good horse, the music of a military encampment calling him.
    Lazare’s jeweled fingers flashed, ending the song abruptly, dramatically, the last bass note dying softly as the room was held in suspension, Picard no less than