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was gaunt. All I could see before me was an old lady gazing at me tenderly.
    En cueillant des roses printanières
    Tristement elle fit un bouquet . . .
    He would be overcome by a weariness, a helplessness as through suddenly realising that he could do nothing. He kept repeating: ‘You have the heart of a starry-eyed girl . . .’ By which, I suppose, he meant that I wasn’t a ‘bad sort’ (one of his expressions). At such times, I would have liked to thank him for his kindness to me, he who was usually so abrupt, so overbearing, but I could not find the words. After a moment I would manage to stammer: ‘I left my heart back at Batignolles,’ hoping that this phrase would expose my true self: a rough and ready boy, emotional – no – restless underneath and pretty decent on the whole.
    Pauvre Swing Troubadour
    Pauvre Swing Troubadour . . .
    The record stops. ‘Dry martini, young man?’ Lionel de Zieff inquires. The others gather round me. ‘Feeling queasy again?’ Count Baruzzi asks. ‘You look terribly pale.’ ‘Suppose we get him some fresh air?’ suggests Rosenheim. I hadn’t noticed the large photo of Pola Négri behind the bar. Her lips are unmoving, her features smooth and serene. She contemplates what is happening with studied indifference. The yellowed print makes her seem even more distant. Pola Négri cannot help me.
    The Lieutenant. He stepped into Zelly’s café followed by Saint-Georges around midnight, as arranged. Everything happened quickly. I wave to them. I cannot bring myself to meet their eyes. I lead them back outside. The Khedive, Gouari, and Vital-Leca immediately surround them, revolvers drawn. Only then do I look them square in the eye. They stare at me, first in amazement and then with a kind of triumphant scorn. Just as Vital-Leca is about to slip the cuffs on them they make a break for it and run towards the boulevard. The Khedive fires three shots. They crumple at the corner of Avenue Victoria and the square. Arrested during the next hour are:
Corvisart:
2 Avenue Bosquet
Pernety:
172 Rue de Vaugirard
Jasmin:
83 Boulevard Pasteur
Obligado:
5 Rue Duroc
Picpus:
17 Avenue Félix-Faure
Marbeuf and Pelleport:
28 Avenue de Breteuil
    Each time, I rang the doorbell and, to win their trust, I gave my name.
    They’re sleeping now. Coco Lacour has the largest room in the house. I’ve put Esmeralda in the blue room that probably once belonged to the owners’ daughter. The owners fled Paris in June ‘owing to circumstances’. They’ll come back when order has been restored – next year maybe, who knows? – and throw us out of their house. In court, I’ll admit that I entered their home illegally. The Khedive, Philibert, and the others will be there in the dock with me. The world will wear its customary colours again. Paris will once more be the City of Light, and the general public in the gallery will pick their noses while they listen to the litany of our crimes: denouncements, beatings, theft, murder, trafficking of every description – things that, as I write these lines, are commonplace. Who will be willing to give evidence for me? The Fort de Montrouge on a bleak December morning. The firing squad. And all the horrors Madeleine Jacob will write about me. (Don’t read them, maman.) But it hardly matters, my partners in crime will kill me long before Morality, Justice, and Humanity return to confound me. I would like to leave a few memories, if nothing else, to leave to posterity the names of Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. Tonight I can watch over them, but for how much longer? What will become of them without me? They were my only companions. Gentle and silent as gazelles. Defenceless. I remember clipping a picture of a cat that had just been saved from drowning from a magazine. Its fur was soaked and dripping with mud. Around its neck, a noose weighted at one end with a stone. Never have I seen an expression that radiated such goodness. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda are like that cat.