Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 7: Perspective

At Arthur de Molay’s residence, a sprawling villa near the Bois de Boulogne, Marie had already laid out a traditional four-course dinner on the heavy oak table.

Arthur and Adelaide had returned together. The moment they stepped through the threshold, Madame Claire hurried to the kitchen to signal Marie to serve the pot-au-feu. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of red wine and unspoken suspicion.

Sitting at the table as Marie ladled out the soup, Arthur de Molay looked at Elodie with a paternal, yet calculating concern.

"Elodie, dear," he began, his voice smooth as silk. "Were you frightened today?"

Elodie hummed softly, her youthful face clouded with a pout. She shot a sharp glare at Arthur. "It’s fine, I suppose. But Uncle..."

She leaned forward, her voice rising in indignation. "Adelaide went too far! She actually had her Milice thugs arrest Julian and me. They dragged us to Avenue Foch like common criminals! I was absolutely terrified in that interrogation vault!"

After venting, Elodie snorted at her older sister. Adelaide, however, remained unmoved. She silently ladled a bowl of consommé and pushed it across the table toward Elodie without a word, her face a mask of bureaucratic indifference.

"It was a routine security clearance," Adelaide said coldly. "You weren't harmed, were you? Stop running to Uncle with your grievances every time the world doesn't bow to you."

Seeing the two sisters on the verge of another verbal skirmish, Arthur raised a hand, his signet ring glinting under the chandelier.

"Enough. You two bicker like magpies every time you share a meal. Eat."

Arthur then turned his gaze toward Julian Vance, who sat silently beside Elodie. Julian had been the picture of the "offended scholar" all evening—quiet, slightly withdrawn, and seemingly wounded by the day's events. Arthur sighed.

"Julian... come to my study after dinner."

Julian looked up, his eyes flickering briefly to Adelaide’s stoic face before settling on Arthur. "Of course, Uncle."

Elodie glanced at Julian with genuine concern. When she saw that he didn't even acknowledge her—the man who had shielded her earlier that day—she huffed and returned to her meal in silence.

Around the table, the mental gears were turning. Julian, leaning back slightly, allowed his unique gift to manifest. He didn't just see them; he read them.

(It seems my nephew-in-law passed the vetting. This business is brutal; I only hope he doesn't harbor a grudge against the family...) Arthur’s thoughts were heavy with the pragmatism of a collaborator.

(You arrogant scoundrel! You didn't even look at me! I was actually going to thank you for today, but forget it!) Elodie’s mind was a whirlwind of teenage frustration and misplaced gratitude.

(Vivienne—the Artist—wants to verify Julian’s identity one more time. It seems his 'offended intellectual' routine didn't entirely satisfy her. Fine. Let her dig...) Adelaide’s thoughts were the most dangerous, sharp and cold as a guillotine blade.

Julian ate his meal in silence, filtering the noise. He had previously suspected Madame Claire, the housekeeper, of being a plant for the Resistance. Now, hearing the domestic mundanity of her thoughts, he realized she and Marie were merely pawns used by Adelaide to monitor the household's perimeter.

Adelaide’s thoughts, however, triggered a silent alarm in his mind.

Another screening? What else does Vivienne have planned?

After dinner, the heavy mahogany doors of Arthur de Molay’s study closed behind Julian.

Arthur gestured toward a leather armchair. "Sit, Julian. Please." He poured two glasses of cognac. "Adelaide has a... difficult temperament. Her work at the Milice demands a certain hardness. You mustn't let today’s 'misunderstanding' poison your marriage. You two have a long life ahead in the New Europe."

Julian smiled weakly, nodding with a practiced submissiveness. "I understand, Uncle. I don't hold it against her. Section Chief de Molay was simply doing her duty to the State."

Arthur’s lip twitched—a sign of mild amusement or perhaps pity. "Good. You’re a sensible man." He leaned back. "Tell me, how have you found Paris these last two months? It’s different from the city you left before the war, isn't it?"

As Julian began to speak, he initiated the Pulse Shift. His heart rate slowed, his focus sharpened, and he triggered his Structural Penetration.

His gaze didn't stay on Arthur. It drifted to the desk. Inside a locked leather folio, the paper became translucent to his eyes. The words bled through the ink: "Operation: Night and Fog."

A list of names. A timeline for mass arrests.

(Ariadne,) Julian called out internally. (Acquire the document. Analyze and archive.)

(Sir,) the calm, feminine voice of his internal subconscious processor responded. (The 'Night and Fog' decree is a purge directive targeting the 'Canvas' cell and the Sorbonne faculty. Full text archived. Would you like a tactical breakdown?)

(Later,) Julian replied. (When I'm alone.)

He looked back at Arthur, who was watching him closely.

"It’s a bit stifling, Uncle," Julian said aloud. "I’ve been thinking of applying for a professorship at the Sorbonne. Staying in this villa all day... a man of my education begins to feel like a caged bird."

(A professor?) Arthur’s internal monologue flared. (Is he testing my influence, or is he truly that naive? He’s a top scholar, Sorbonne-educated, fluent in four languages... he’d be an asset anywhere. But Adelaide’s vetting is only the beginning. My own test starts now. I need him where I can see him.)

Arthur cleared his throat. "Julian, I’ve considered your position. I haven't pushed you into a career because I wanted you to acclimate to the Occupation. But a man needs a station. A 'professor' is a fine title, but in these times, academia is a nest of vipers and rebels. You need real status to avoid being 'mistaken' for the wrong sort again."

Arthur leaned forward, his eyes boring into Julian’s. "I want you to come to 83 Avenue Foch. Work for the Milice. Help me in the Analysis Bureau. What do you say?"

Julian feigned hesitation, the perfect image of a scholar reluctant to touch the dirty machinery of war. "The Milice? Uncle, I'm not a soldier. I'm a man of books."

"The Bureau needs men of books, Julian! It needs brains, not just boots."

Ten minutes later, Julian exited the study. No sooner had he left than Adelaide stepped back in from the shadows of the hallway.

"Did the 'Le Vaurien' agree?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Arthur capped his fountain pen and slid the Purge Plan into his floor-safe. "I had to practically beg. The boy is stubborn; he actually insisted he wanted to teach at the Lycée."

Adelaide let out a short, dry laugh. "Then let him go, Uncle. He’s soft. His personality isn't suited for the Vaults. He’ll faint at the first scent of iron and blood."

Arthur shook his head, a thin smile playing on his lips. "We are family, Adelaide. I don't trust the Corsicans or the Vichy careerists at Avenue Foch. I trust blood. He passed your interrogation today—that proves he’s either clean or the greatest actor I’ve ever met. Either way, I want his mind working for me."

Adelaide shrugged, adjusting the leather strap of her sidearm. "Fine. If you want to keep a pet scholar in the office, that’s your prerogative. But keep him out of my way."

She turned toward the door, her eyes darkening. "I have to go back to the bureau. We have a lead on the 'Canvas' cell. We can't let the grasshoppers on Vivienne’s line stay free for too long. If they won't talk, they'll burn."

As she walked out, the house felt colder. In his room, Julian sat in the dark, staring at the Rue de Seine through the window, waiting for the night to truly begin.

Adelaide stepped out, the click of her polished riding boots echoing down the cold marble hallway, leaving a heavy, stifling silence in the De Molay residence. Meanwhile, upstairs, Julian Vance stood in the darkness of his room. He did not turn on the lights. The Paris moonlight slipped through the gaps in the curtains, illuminating the sharp concentration on a face that usually appeared listless and harmless.

(Ariadne, visualize the 'Operation: Night and Fog' document. Extract the names in Appendix B.)

Before his eyes, a transparent interface—visible only to him—began to organize the data. Names appeared one by one, glowing in a faint blue hue.

(Processing complete, Sir. There are thirty-two names. The top entry is Professor Henri Dumont of the Sorbonne—the primary logistics contact for the 'Canvas' cell.)

Julian clenched his fist. Dumont. The old man had been his mentor when he was a student in Paris before the war. If the Milice moved tonight, Dumont wouldn't last an hour in the interrogation vaults of Avenue Foch. Arthur de Molay didn't just want information; he wanted a total purge to impress his German masters in the Gestapo.

"Julian? Are you asleep?"

A soft knock at the door broke his concentration. Julian instantly shifted his posture, slumping his shoulders and putting on his usual mask of exhaustion. He opened the door to find Elodie standing there, still in her day dress, her eyes red and puffy.

"Elodie? What is it?"

The girl brushed past him without apology, sitting on the edge of Julian’s bed. "I hate them, Julian. I hate Adelaide, and I hate Uncle Arthur. They talk about a 'New Europe' as if it isn't just a giant prison. Earlier at Avenue Foch... I heard screams coming from the basement. How can my sister work in a place like that?"

Julian sat in the wooden chair opposite her, maintaining a careful distance. "The world is sick, Elodie. Adelaide is just trying to ensure our family stays on the winning side."

"And you?" Elodie looked at him sharply. "Are you really going to work for them? To be a 'bloodhound' for their Analysis Bureau?"

Julian sighed, a perfect performance of resignation. "What choice do I have? To be a martyr at the Sorbonne? I’m just a scholar, Elodie. I have no rifle, no power. If working there ensures your safety and Adelaide’s, then I will do it."

(Subject’s heart rate increasing. Pupils dilating. She doesn’t believe me, but she feels pity,) Julian noted internally.

"You’re a coward, Julian," Elodie whispered, though her voice held no hatred, only a deep, hollow disappointment. "But at least you’re an honest coward."

After Elodie left, Julian did not return to bed. He waited until the house was truly silent—until Madame Claire’s heart rate on the floor below slowed into the steady rhythm of deep sleep. He opened his wardrobe, pressed a hidden panel at the back, and pulled out a small British-made radio transmitter smuggled in by the SOE a month ago.

He had to send a warning.

83 Avenue Foch – Milice Headquarters

Adelaide de Molay walked through corridors lit by flickering, pale fluorescent lights. Here, the air smelled of ozone, cheap cigarettes, and terror. She stopped in front of a heavy steel door labeled "Block B".

Inside, a woman with matted blonde hair and a bruised face was strapped into The Iron Seat. It was Vivienne, the traitor who had once led the 'Canvas' cell. Beside her, Captain Dupont stood with his hands behind his back, looking impatient.

"Has she spoken?" Adelaide asked coldly.

"She’s still insisting that 'The Artist' is the only one who knows the location of the limpet mine cache," Dupont grumbled. "She claims the next contact is at Rue de Rivoli tomorrow night."

Adelaide approached Vivienne, lifting the woman’s chin with the tip of her leather glove. "Vivienne, you’ve already given up half your friends. Why stop now? Give me the location of 'The Nightingale.' I know she’s in Paris."

Vivienne spat toward Adelaide, blood staining the dark charcoal uniform of the Signals Chief. "You’ll never catch her, Adelaide. She isn't human... she’s a ghost."

Adelaide wiped her face with a silk handkerchief, her eyes flashing with murderous intent. "Even ghosts can be burned, Vivienne."

She turned to Dupont. "Prepare the teams for a raid on the Sorbonne tomorrow morning. Use the list from Uncle Arthur. If 'The Nightingale' cannot be found, we will lure her out with the lives of her professors."

Back at Rue de Seine, Julian was tapping out Morse code with rapid, surgical precision.

LANCELOT TO CAMELOT. NIGHT AND FOG DECREE ACTIVE. SORBONNE CELL IN PERIL. TARGET: DUMONT. REQUEST IMMEDIATE EXTRACTION. THE NIGHTINGALE IS COMPROMISED.

After sending the message, he disassembled the radio and hid it once more. Julian stood on the balcony, looking toward the Eiffel Tower, now dark—a symbol of a city lying in a fitful sleep under the jackboots of the occupiers.

(Sir, message received by Colonel Masterman in London. New instructions: You must accept Arthur de Molay’s offer. Enter the heart of Avenue Foch. We need access to the 'Sovereign Vaults' codes located only at his desk.)

Julian smiled bitterly. Tomorrow, he would walk into the wolf's den—not as a victim, but as the thorn that would pierce it from within. He would be Julian Vance the "leech," the useless husband to Adelaide; but in the shadows, he was The Ghost who would dismantle this regime from its very foundation.

"Goodnight, Paris," he whispered to the night wind. "Hold on just a little longer."