Free The Library of Forgotten Books by Rjurik Davidson Page A

in emerald greens and solar reds—on the walls.
    Guests conversed excitedly as they examined each other and each new patron who entered the mansion. A woman in a corner pointed towards him and whispered to a friend, for Anton himself was part of the entertainment. For Lefebvre, Anton’s presence was a display of exoticism and excitement, allowing the respectable gentlemen and ladies of the House to return from the ball whispering to each other about the gratificationist-assassin who believed that true life could only be found in the attainment of immediate pleasure.
    As he crossed the floor, Anton felt someone grasp his forearm roughly.
    Madame Demoul, her face set coldly like a statue’s, looked up at him. “You bastard.”
    “So nice to see you,” said Anton pleasantly. He would have to get rid of her quickly, before she made a scene.
    “I’m just like the rest of them, aren’t I? You seduce us and then throw us away when you’re sick of us.” She spat the words out, her head craned forward.
    Anton looked around and smiled at other guests. Chatter echoed around the hall, concealing his conversation. “Jeana, you were always special. The months we had together—you remember how we embraced. How could you say that was not real? But we were forced to stop. You know that. Your husband, he suspected.”
    “I’ll have you killed. I’ll have your throat cut in your sleep.”
    Anton leaned in and touched her hand briefly. “I loved you.”
    Madame Demoul seemed to shrink, and her eyes filled with tears. “Please come back to me. Please...”
    Anton smiled at more guests as they passed by. “Send me a message at café La Tazia . Perhaps enough time has passed.”
    Madame Demoul looked at the floor. “I can’t. You’ll hurt me again. I’m just one of your whores.”
    Anton nodded slowly. “As you wish.”
    Madame Demoul’s face was wracked with emotion. “I will, I will send you a note...”
    “Now go, before anyone suspects.” Anton spoke with authority.
    Madame Demoul turned and hurried away. Hopefully the pathetic creature would leave him alone for the rest of the night.
    Anton continued on into the ballroom, where couples danced in intricate patterns, circling each other like parts of a great machine. On a stage along one wall sat a small orchestra, playing a sophisticated minuet.
    Across the room stood a delicate and childlike woman, her golden ringlets piled on her head in a great tower, a beauty spot painted on one cheek. She talked to two other gowned ladies, one of whom apparently said something humorous, for the delicate woman threw her head back and laughed gaily. Her mouth smiling slightly, revealing white but slightly crooked teeth, she glanced across the room, and Anton caught her eye. He struck that half-smile that he knew made him look devilish, and for several seconds she held his gaze.
    There she is, thought Anton: my conquest for the night.
    A servant requested his presence with Director Lefebvre himself. The man passed Anton a note: “Be prepared.”
    As he began to follow, Anton looked back at the woman. This time she smiled devilishly at him but then broke eye contact as if he bored her.
    Anton smiled to himself. It seemed this would be a challenge.

    Lefebvre dominated the smoking room the way he dominated everything. As was befitting a Director of House Arbor, he sat, tall and grey-haired, his nose straight, his eyes impenetrable.
    Behind Lefebvre stood his cold-faced adjutant, Jean-Paul, while a number of Officiates lounged in chaise longues, their attention directed towards him subtly: here the feet angled in his direction, there the head.
    “Ah my trusted colleagues, let me introduce you to the gratificationist, Anton Moreau.”
    An Officiate whom Anton had already met—a man called Villiers with a greasy sheen to his skin—stood up. “Please, take a seat.” He ushered Anton to a chaise longue and turned to Lefebvre. “I must say Director, what a wonderful collection of