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Another set of rooms. I was going to have to go out for cleaning products. I had no doubt there was a broom in the kitchen, but like as not it would fall apart with age, as would any rags or scourers. I would need an apron and rubber gloves. I made a mental shopping list and retraced my steps across what I had decided to call the ‘drawing room’. Time to discuss matters with Monsieur Armand Pascal.

Chapter 4
    “Ainsi, vous voulez connaître Madame Chalgrin?” Armand Pascal sported an old leather jacket and looked as if he was about to go out. I blocked his path to the street door and smiled my most winsome smile, though I did not feel kindly disposed towards him. Now I stood closer, he smelled of garlic and old man’s pee.
    “If you don’t mind,” I said. “Only I do not have much time and there is so much to do. You said you would tell me stories… about Berthe Chalgrin?”
    “ Oui . I was a child when she left, but I know something of her.” He leaned in closely. “ Mon père, la connaissait intimement.”
    “Really?” His father knew her intimately? What did that mean exactly? 
    “C est vrai. She gave him a signed photograph.” He tapped the side of his nose.
    “Signed? But why? Were they…” I dare not say the word ‘lovers’ for fear it was true.
    “Come, come with me. You will find out.” Monsieur Pascal led the way. I was reticent to follow but I was curious, and if I was to learn about Berthe then it would by talking to the people that knew her. Armand Pascal opened the door to a small room and there, lying in sheets the colour of a cloudy sky and surrounded by a thick smog of cigarette smoke, was Pascal Senior, a wizened, hairless, toothless old man. He wore a nightshirt darkened with food stains and he smelled worse than his son.
    “ Papa, c'est la femme. Elle est Américaine. Elle veut savoir à propos de Madame Chalgrin.” 
    The old man beckoned me forth.  “Oui. Viens ici mon cher,” he croaked.
    “Monsieur?”
    Pascal Senior ground his gums. “You are not very much like her,” he said in perfect English, which took me by surprise. “Yes, yes. I have English. I knew many Americans during the war. What do you want?”
    “I’m sorry. I am given to understand you have a photograph of Madame Chalgrin?”
    “ Oui. I do. She was a famous beauty and an even better singer. You may have it. I have no use for it. There, there…” He pointed a bony finger at the bedside table. “In the drawer. Open it. Take out the Bible. Be careful. God will rain terror on you if you damage his word.”
    I did as he said. The Bible was leather-bound and greasy to the touch. I flicked through pages with curled edges and underscored passages.
    The old man shrugged. “Ah but it was a long time ago.”
    The photograph was on a postcard, as was the way in those days. It was tucked into Revelations. Berthe had been captured smiling coyly to the camera. Her hair was curly around her face, but the length pulled back into a loose bun, which was in turn tucked into a small feathered clip. She was corseted and wore a silk off the shoulder dress, as if about to go out to the theatre. She held an ostrich feather fan, open and dusting her chin. I had not expected her to be a great beauty, but she was. She had signed her name across the bottom of the photograph and when I flipped the card I read the message she had written there: Mon cher Michel, avec tous mon amour. Berthe.
    “Yes, with all her love,” growled Pascal Senior. “She wrote hundreds of them. Not simply to me. To all her admirers.”
    “I don’t understand. She was on the stage?”
    “But my dear, she was an opera singer. One of the best.” Michel Pascal broke into a volley of coughs and reached for his cigarettes. “Keep it,” he said, waving me away. “I am dying.” He made a vulgar gesture. I tucked the photograph into my bag and thanked him profusely.
    “I like a pretty face. It is better than looking at this monster.” Michel