Rue des Martyrs, Paris – 08:57 AM
The rain had eased to a cold drizzle by the time Émile reached the narrow street tucked between the shadows of Montmartre. The bakery scents mingled with coal smoke and yesterday's headlines, half-washed from the cobblestones. This was the kind of Paris that didn't make it onto postcards — and exactly the kind he trusted.
He stopped in front of a faded green door beneath a crooked sign: Chez Madeleine – Couture et Secrets.
The bell chimed as he pushed inside.
The room smelled of lavender, tobacco, and something older — memory, perhaps. Lace curtains filtered the gray light, and dresses in various stages of completion hung like ghosts on mannequins. At the back, a woman in her fifties sat with a needle in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
She didn't look up.
"You're early, Verhaeren. The war must be coming sooner than expected."
"It always is," he replied, removing his hat and stepping forward.
Madeleine Leblanc had once been a star on the cabaret stages of Paris, known for her voice, her scandal, and her ability to make powerful men weep. Now, she stitched secrets into silk and traded whispers for favors.
She put down her work and finally looked at him. Her eyes were sharp, amber-colored, and entirely unreadable.
"Tell me something, Émile." She used his real name like a weapon. "Why protect a man like Reiner?"
He lit a cigarette to buy time.
"Because someone worse wants him dead."
She nodded, accepting the logic of war. Then she reached beneath a bolt of fabric and slid out a thin envelope.
"Three days ago, a man came asking about a 'German guest' scheduled to arrive in Versailles. Russian accent. Tried to pay me in gold."
Émile's jaw tightened.
"Name?"
"He gave none. But he was too polished to be a thug, and too curious to be alone."
Émile tucked the envelope into his coat.
"If he contacts you again?"
"I'll tell him I know nothing. Then I'll tell you everything."
He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.
"Émile."
He glanced back.
"You'll need a second pair of eyes in Versailles. Preferably ones with mascara and a flask."
A pause. Then he smiled.
"I know just the pair."