The heavy oak doors of the Central Post Office creaked open, and the soft April sunlight spilled across the steps. Shane narrowed his eyes against the brightness.
"To the National Library," he said curtly, lowering himself into the back seat of the waiting Rolls-Royce Phantom. As the chauffeur closed the door, a rush of air carried in the unmistakable scent of Paris—freshly roasted coffee mingled with gasoline, the buttery aroma of morning pastries blending faintly with the sour trace of horse manure from the cobbled streets.
He glanced at his wristwatch; the Roman numerals on the enamel dial gleamed softly—4:15 p.m. The minute hand had just passed the tiny iris motif engraved beside the numeral III.
"Contact Catterson," Shane said, absently brushing his thumb across the watch crown. "Tell him I need performance records from the Folies Bergère between 1911 and 1912 within two hours. Then see Louis and tell him to be ready."
The engine purred to life, and the car slipped smoothly into the late-afternoon traffic of the Champs-Élysées. The sunlight danced on the Seine as they crossed the Pont de la Concorde, golden ripples reflecting off the Phantom's polished chrome.
Pulling a notepad from his coat pocket, Shane uncapped his gold-plated fountain pen and wrote swiftly:
Chaplin / Debureau / 1911–12 / Le Figaro.
The ink bled slightly into the fine paper, leaving crisp blue letters behind.
By half past four, Shane was already stepping through the grand archway of the Bibliothèque nationale de France on Rue de Richelieu. His leather shoes echoed on the oak flooring as he made his way toward the manager's office, Mikhail trailing close behind with a bulging leather briefcase.
"We'll need access to some restricted materials," Shane said evenly. Mikhail placed the briefcase on the desk with a quiet thud. The metallic click of the clasps snapped the silence.
The manager's eyes darted toward the thick stack of francs within. "The underground archives…" he hesitated, his fingers brushing the keyring at his waist. "Officially, they're not open to the public."
Shane said nothing, only met the man's gaze with quiet assurance. That was enough.
Moments later, they descended the cold spiral staircase to the lower level. The air grew damp and musty. Each step stirred up motes of dust that glimmered faintly in the beam of Mikhail's pocket torch.
When the heavy iron door finally swung open, a wave of stale parchment and ancient wood greeted them.
By 3:17 a.m., under the dim glow of a desk lamp, Shane's sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his forearms smudged with dust and ink. Mikhail's fingertips were reddened from hours of carefully turning brittle newspaper pages.
"Le Figaro, February 1912…" Shane's roughened voice broke the stillness.
Mikhail shuffled over, excitement in his tone. "Here."
They crouched side by side before a stack of yellowed broadsheets. There, half-buried in the theatre listings, a small notice—no larger than a postage stamp—read:
"Special performance by London Vaudeville Troupe. Young actor C. Chaplin's homage to Debureau's 'Pierrot Lunaire.'"
The edges were browned and fragile, but the single letter "C." remained sharp and visible. Shane pressed his finger lightly on the paper.
"That's it."
Mikhail withdrew a Leica 35mm camera from his case. The magnesium flash burst in a searing white flare—just for an instant, the archive was filled with light, as though lightning had struck underground. When it faded, the record was captured forever.
At 6:50 a.m., the printing factory's yard buzzed with activity. Workers loaded still-warm bundles of Le Matin into the back of delivery trucks. The morning's special edition carried a bold headline across the front page:
"The Forgotten Apprentice: Chaplin and the Bloodline of French Mime."
Below it, a photograph taken from the archives showed a young Chaplin in mime costume—white face paint streaked with black tears, eyes bright and full of life.
At the bottom corner of the page, a smaller inset reprinted the 1912 theatre notice from Le Figaro, carefully distressed to resemble a rediscovered relic.
The yellow glow of a gaslamp flickered in the early mist. Catterson leaned against it, a rolled copy of Le Matin in one hand, his grey-blue eyes half hidden beneath the brim of his hat. Across the quiet boulevard, Shane sat in the Phantom, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips.
"Durand's sharper than we thought," Catterson called softly as he crossed the street. "He kept Pathé GG's advertisement—just changed the copy to Champagne GG."
He unfolded the newspaper, pointing to the theatre column near the fold. "But this—this is the real masterpiece."
The headline read: "Forgotten Parisian Moments." Below it, a faded photograph of Chaplin taking a bow at Café de Flore—deliberately aged to look like an artefact of memory.
Mikhail emerged from the café with three tin cups of steaming coffee. He handed one to William Catterson, one to Shane, and took a sip from his own. As Shane lifted the cup, the rim brushed against his wristwatch. The dial read 7:17.
"Thirteen minutes more," Catterson murmured, glancing down the boulevard toward the Rex Club. Then, with a faint grin, he pulled a white rose from his coat pocket and offered it to Shane.
"Sir, Mr. Louis Gaumont asked me to give you this. He said the look on Durand's face this morning—when he opened the theatre section—was the best comedy he's seen in years."
Shane chuckled quietly. The rose's thorns grazed his palm, leaving a thin red line.
Beyond the mist, the sun rose over the Seine, gilding the barges and rooftops. The clatter of hooves echoed down the cobblestones, and the newsboys began their morning rounds—each paper carrying, in its bottom corner, a forgotten Parisian memory reborn.