Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 8: Silence?

In the master suite located in the furthest wing of the second floor at 83 Avenue Foch—a requisitioned aristocratic mansion turned into the De Molay residence—Julian Vance sat in the dark.

After retreating to his room, he had immediately engaged his Structural Penetration to revisit the details of the purge plan he had glimpsed in Arthur’s study. The so-called "Operation: Night and Fog" was a masterstroke of cruelty. It intended to use the 'Canvas' resistance cell—now compromised by the traitor Vivienne—to lure out the new Station Chief sent by London. The goal was simple: the total decapitation of the Resistance leadership in Paris before the winter set in.

Vivienne’s identity as a turncoat remained a secret to the underground. If she continued to feed London false intel while working for the Milice, the Paris station would be nipped in the bud before it could even blossom.

More importantly, Margot LeClerc—The Nightingale—was embedded within that very cell.

Whether for the sake of the mission or a more personal sense of duty, Julian could not stand by and watch Margot walk into a Gestapo execution squad.

But he was paralyzed by his own cover. He had no excuse to leave the villa, especially at this hour, under the watchful eyes of the Milice sentries and the ever-suspicious Adelaide. The purge was set to move at dawn when Arthur returned to the bureau. Time was a luxury Julian didn't have.

For two hours, Julian paced the room, his mind a frantic chessboard. Just as he was considering the risk of a midnight "stroll," a sharp rap sounded at his door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It was nearly midnight. Normally, the house was a tomb at this hour.

Julian activated his Pulse Shift, his senses expanding through the wood of the door. He caught the flicker of a thought before he even saw the face.

(This young lady is magnanimous, truly. I don’t hold grudges. My brother-in-law did save my life today, after all... it’s only right that I come to thank him personally.)

A thin, cold smile touched Julian’s lips. The opportunity had arrived, wearing a silk dressing gown.

"I suppose taking advantage of a young girl’s appetite is a sin," Julian whispered to himself, "but your timing, Elodie, is impeccable."

He pulled the door open, feigning a look of weary surprise. Elodie stood there, chin tilted up with a smug, self-important air.

"I, um... I came to say thank you for today, brother-in-law."

(My lady ship has come to offer thanks in person! If you dare to be rude now, hmph—)

"I see," Julian said flatly. He turned his back on her, walking toward his desk with studied indifference. "You’ve said it. Goodnight."

Elodie stood frozen in the doorway, her mouth agape. That was it?

(Ugh! I am so angry! When has a De Molay ever been treated like this? You arrogant, big-headed brat!)

Julian sat at his desk, pretending to organize his papers. He looked back at her with a slight, annoyed frown. "Elodie? Is there something else? Are you planning to stand there all night, or were you going to invite me out for a midnight snack?"

Elodie bristled, but at the mention of "snack," she subconsciously swallowed.

In the two months Julian had played the role of the leech, he had learned one vital truth: his sister-in-law was a slave to her stomach. She had a particular obsession with a small, illicit stall in the Pigalle District, hidden in an alley off the Rue des Martyrs, that served the best Confit de Canard and buckwheat galettes in the city.

It was a place for poets, criminals, and starving students. Elodie loved the danger of it as much as the taste.

(Wait! That’s a brilliant idea! Uncle Arthur and Adelaide always forbid me from going to Pigalle so late. I’ve been craving those duck galettes for weeks. If I drag Julian along, they can’t scold me—he’s the 'responsible' adult!)

Julian didn't need the Analytical Engine to know he had her hooked.

"Ahem," Elodie cleared her throat, trying to regain her dignity. "As it happens, I was thinking exactly that. To properly thank you for saving my life, I’ve decided to treat you to the finest late-night galette in Paris. Well? Are you man enough for Pigalle at midnight?"

Julian picked up a book, flipping a page with a dismissive snap. "I’m not going. It’s past curfew."

Elodie’s face turned a shade of crimson. Her small chest heaved with indignation, her teeth practically grinding. Just as she was about to explode, the door to the study across the hall opened. Arthur de Molay stepped out, smoothing his vest.

"Uncle!" Elodie chirped, her voice instantly changing to a sweet, melodic pitch. She ran to him, catching his arm as he descended toward the salon.

"Elodie? Why on earth are you still awake? And at Julian’s door?"

She giggled, flashing her "innocent" tiger-teeth smile. "Uncle, Julian saved me today, and I wanted to thank him properly. I want to take him for a late-night bite at that little creperie I found in Pigalle. Please, Uncle! Tell him he has to go with me!"

Arthur looked from his niece to the shadowed doorway of Julian’s room. He chuckled, tapping Elodie’s forehead. "You little glutton. You’re the one craving it, aren't you? And you’re using poor Julian as a bodyguard so I won't lock the front door."

Elodie lowered her head, feigning a shy blush. Arthur looked at Julian, who had appeared in the doorway looking reluctant.

"Go on, Julian," Arthur said with a wave of his hand. "Take the girl. She’s had a fright today; she deserves a treat. Just keep your eyes open. Pigalle isn't the Sorbonne."

London – SOE Headquarters, Whitehall.

"Vivienne, the leader of the 'Canvas' cell, has turned," Colonel Masterman said, his voice as dry as parchment. He handed a decrypted cable to his secretary. "Arthur de Molay has co-opted her for a purge. The details are thin, but the 'Nightingale' is in the crosshairs. Our agent, Orchid, is calling for instructions."

Masterman stood by the window, looking out at the foggy London streets. He slammed a fist onto the mahogany table.

"Issue the order," Masterman commanded. "Orchid is to remain silent. He is not to break cover for any reason. If the 'Canvas' cell must be sacrificed to protect the long-term reconstruction of the Paris station, then so be it."

The secretary hesitated. "Sir? You’re going to let them walk into a trap?"

Masterman gave a cold, joyless laugh. "First they tried 'Operation: Ground Zero,' and now this 'Night and Fog.' They play the same cards. If De Molay wants a bloodbath, I’ll give him one—but I’ll make sure the Milice pays for every drop of Resistance blood in ten-fold."

"I want the collaborators dead," Masterman whispered to the glass. "All of them."

Paris – Rue des Martyrs.

The Pigalle district was a fever dream of neon and shadow. Even under the Occupation, the "red-light" soul of the district refused to die. It was a haven for slums, opium dens, and the desperate—but it was also where the best food was hidden.

The stall Elodie led him to was a rickety wooden cart tucked behind a bombed-out cabaret. The owner was a weathered old man who claimed his grandfather had cooked for the Bourbons. One bite of his duck confit galette, and Julian believed him. The fat was perfectly rendered, the edges of the buckwheat crepe crisp and buttery.

Even a girl of Elodie's status was willing to trek through the dangerous Parisian night for a taste of this.

(So delicious! My soul is literally floating! Waaah, it’s so good! Thank god Julian agreed, or I’d be stuck at home eating Adelaide’s cold soup!)

Listening to her thoughts, Julian finished his portion, his eyes scanning the dark alleyways. He saw a shadow move—a man in a newsboy cap leaning against a lamppost two blocks down. A Resistance scout.

He turned back to Elodie. "Was it worth the risk? Do you want to come back tomorrow?"

"Really, Julian?" Elodie looked up, her face bright with hope. "You’ll come with me again tomorrow night?"

"Perhaps," Julian said, his mind already calculating the drop-off point for his warning. "But only if you promise to keep our little 'excursions' strictly between us. Adelaide wouldn't approve of us... mingling with the masses."

As Elodie nodded vigorously, Julian looked past her. He needed to find a way to signal the scout without alerting the girl. He had the 'Night and Fog' list memorized. Tonight, the "Ghost" of Paris had to speak, or the Sorbonne would be a graveyard by morning.

The Rue des Martyrs was a labyrinth of half-light and shifting silhouettes. As Elodie indulged in her second galette, her eyes closed in a moment of pure, culinary bliss, Julian Vance stood perfectly still. To any observer, he was merely the bored, aristocratic husband waiting for a spoiled girl. But beneath the surface, his Analytical Engine was running at maximum capacity.

(Sir, three hostiles detected in the upper window of the derelict bakery—Milice scouts. One friendly contact identified at the mouth of the alley: the newsboy. He is using the 'Sovereign' hand signal.)

Julian’s heart didn't skip a beat. He knew the newsboy. He was a runner for the 'Canvas' cell, likely there to pick up scraps of gossip from the German soldiers who frequented the nearby cabarets.

"Julian, you're being awfully quiet," Elodie mumbled through a mouthful of duck confit. She wiped a stray drop of grease from her chin with a silk handkerchief. "Are you still brooding about the 'interrogation' this morning? Honestly, you need to loosen up. Look around! Even the Nazis can't stop Paris from being Paris."

Julian forced a thin, condescending smile. "I'm merely reflecting on the hygiene of this establishment, Elodie. If Adelaide knew I allowed you to eat in an alleyway that smells of stale gin and wet cobblestones, she would have my head."

(Subject 'Elodie' is distracted. Probability of detection: 12%. Proceeding with the drop.)

Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He slowly opened it, revealing several hand-rolled cigarettes. He took one out, tucked it behind his ear, and then—with a calculated clumsiness—dropped the silver case. It skittered across the wet stones, sliding several feet toward the mouth of the alley where the newsboy stood.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Julian," Elodie giggled. "The great scholar can't even hold his own silver."

"My hands are cold," Julian retorted, his voice dripping with feigned annoyance.

As he walked over to retrieve the case, the newsboy moved with practiced fluidness. The boy stooped down to pick it up first, his eyes darting toward Julian. In that split second of contact, Julian didn't speak. He didn't need to. He pressed a small, tightly rolled slip of rice paper into the boy’s palm as he took back the case.

The paper contained only three words in a cipher the boy would recognize: DUMONT. DAWN. FOCH.

"Thank you, lad," Julian said, tossing a high-denomination franc coin into the boy's tray of newspapers. "Buy yourself a proper coat. You’re shivering."

The newsboy nodded, his face a mask of street-hardened indifference, and vanished into the fog of the Pigalle.

83 Avenue Foch – 03:00 AM

Adelaide de Molay stood in the Signals & Cryptography hub, the rhythmic clatter of the Enigma machines sounding like a thousand mechanical insects. She was staring at a map of the Sorbonne district.

"Captain Dupont," she barked without turning around.

The captain stepped forward, his charcoal Milice uniform impeccably pressed even at this hour. "The trucks are fueled, Madame. We move at 05:00. Every exit from the university will be cordoned off."

Adelaide tapped a finger against the desk. "And Vivienne? Is she secured?"

"She is in the transport, Madame. She will point out the couriers herself. She knows that if one 'grasshopper' escapes, her own brother will be the one in the Iron Seat by noon."

Adelaide nodded, but a strange, gnawing feeling sat in the pit of her stomach. She thought of Julian—his pale face, his trembling hands as he tried to explain his 'offended' dignity earlier that day. He was a leech, a man of books and cowardice. So why did her instincts, honed by years of hunting spies, keep returning to him?

"Check the guest logs for tonight," Adelaide ordered suddenly.

Dupont blinked. "The villa's logs? Why?"

"Just do it."

A few minutes later, Dupont returned with a look of confusion. "Sir Julian and Mademoiselle Elodie left the villa at 11:30 PM. They returned twenty minutes ago. Authorized by Director De Molay himself for a... culinary excursion in Pigalle."

Adelaide’s eyes narrowed. Pigalle. The heart of the underworld. She turned back to the map, her jaw tightening. "Double the sentries at the Sorbonne. If I find even a hint that the 'Nightingale' was warned, I’ll start the executions with the household staff."

The Sorbonne – 04:45 AM

The morning mist was a thick, gray shroud over the Latin Quarter. Professor Henri Dumont sat in his study, surrounded by the smell of old parchment and the looming threat of the end.

A shadow flickered across his window.

Dumont didn't reach for a gun; he reached for his glasses. He saw a figure in a floral tea dress, a dark coat draped over her shoulders. It was Margot LeClerc—the Nightingale.

"Henri," she whispered, stepping through the balcony door. "You have ten minutes. The Milice are three blocks away. They have Vivienne."

The old man’s hands shook as he grabbed a leather satchel. "Vivienne? Then the 'Canvas' is gone."

"Not yet," Margot said, her voice hard as flint. "The Ghost sent word. He’s inside, Henri. He’s at Foch."

"The Ghost?" Dumont paused. "Who is he, Margot?"

Margot looked toward the street as the faint rumble of Milice trucks began to vibrate through the cobblestones. "I don't know his name. I only know that tonight, he saved your life."

As they descended into the secret tunnels of the Paris catacombs, the first Milice truck screeched to a halt in front of the university gates. The hunt had begun, but the bird had already flown.

Back at the De Molay villa, Julian Vance lay in his bed, his eyes wide open in the dark. He listened to the distant sound of sirens, his Ariadne system projecting the blueprints of the Avenue Foch basement onto his ceiling.

(Sir, Professor Dumont is clear. The SOE has initiated the 'Tempest' protocol. Your first day at the Analysis Bureau begins in two hours.)

"The wolf's den," Julian whispered. "Let's see if they’ve kept a seat for me."