The lazy morning sun streamed through the tall French windows of the Rex Club at half past seven, spilling over the Haussmann-style balcony and bathing Jacques Lefebvre's office in amber light. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, turning the glow into a haze of quiet opulence.
The stripes of sunlight that crossed the dark walnut floor resembled the languid rhythm of a jazz melody—soft, luxurious, and tinged with indolence.
On Lefebvre's polished desk lay three objects: a leather-bound cash box from Louis Gaumont, its brass corners gleaming; an open replica of a 1912 Le Figaro; and this morning's issue of Le Matin, still fragrant with ink and coffee.
Shane Cassidy stood before the desk, the morning light gilding the edges of his dark suit. Outside, the hum of awakening Paris drifted in—the clatter of carriage wheels, the hiss of early trams, the lyrical calls of the newsboys echoing through the misty boulevards.
"Extra! Chaplin and the Secret Origins of French Pantomime!"
The cry carried through the air like a refrain from an unseen orchestra, full of poetry and momentum.
Spread across the desk was the theatre rental agreement. The signatures of Louis Gaumont and Jacques Lefebvre were still fresh. Shane's fountain pen hovered briefly over the parchment; the ink bled into the paper in a slow, elegant bloom—dark as the Seine at night—before he drew the final stroke of his name.
Outside, two workers were adjusting a new poster above the Rex Club's entrance. In the image, Chaplin's iconic mustache merged with Pierrot's teardrop makeup, the two faces becoming one. The golden letters below read:
L'élève Retrouvé — The Returned Apprentice
Each serif shimmered in the sunlight, proclaiming to all of Paris that the art of mime, long forgotten, was reborn.
The ink on the contract had barely dried when Shane and Louis Gaumont returned to the Gaumont headquarters on Avenue de l'Opéra. The hum of the morning crowd followed them as they climbed the marble staircase to Gaumont's corner office, sunlight filtering through the blinds in neat, geometric lines.
From his crocodile leather briefcase, Shane withdrew a film reel labelled Hell's Angels – Test Print and placed it gently on the desk.
Louis turned the reel between his fingers, his reflection warping in the metal surface. "You're not attending the premiere?" he asked, rubbing the enamel cover of his pocket watch.
"There are matters in Berlin that require my attention," Shane replied evenly. He adjusted his cufflinks, his tone calm and assured. "And I trust your precision. The presale system we launched in London transformed the West End overnight—Leicester Square hasn't seen such numbers in ten years. With your network in Paris, this will be even greater."
Louis smiled faintly, tapping the map of Parisian cinemas pinned to the wall. Red thumbtacks marked Pathé's distribution points across the city. "And the new colour-strip process?"
"Entrusted to you," Shane said.
Louis flipped his pocket watch open and shut, its silver lid catching the light. "Thirty seconds," he murmured. "That's all we'll need to make Paris forget Pathé's ancient relics."
He referred, of course, to the aerial combat sequence from Hell's Angels that would precede the premiere—a scene of fire, clouds, and roaring engines that would leave audiences spellbound.
The telephone rang sharply. Louis picked it up, his fingers tightening briefly on the receiver.
"Yes, Mr. Charlie—ah! Good morning." His tone brightened instantly, every word measured. "No, you needn't give a long speech. Just a few words after the screening… yes, something light, in your Folies Bergère spirit—Paris loves you for that."
He smiled as he hung up, that same knowing, commercial grin lingering.
By the banks of the Seine, where the mist had begun to clear, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom waited. The dew on its bonnet refracted the sunlight into miniature rainbows. Catterson stood beside the car, his camel trench coat fluttering softly in the breeze.
As Shane handed him the briefcase, their eyes met briefly—wordless understanding exchanged in the golden light.
"Back to the hotel," Shane said, settling into the back seat. "Take Boulevard des Capucines."
As the car glided along Rue de Rivoli, Shane rolled down the window. The morning air carried the aroma of fresh croissants, roasted beans, and damp stone—Paris's unique perfume.
"Extra! The Circus premiere confirmed—Mr. Chaplin to attend!" cried a newsboy near the curb, his voice mingling with the tolling of distant church bells.
From the front seat, Mikhail glanced into the mirror. "Sir, A call from Geneva," he reported quietly. "Dr. Reinhardt Krause has arrived safely. But our men spotted a tail at the station."
Shane's gaze remained on the passing streets. "And the equipment?"
"All accounted for. High-precision optical instruments, and the unlisted lens blueprints."
"Good," Shane said softly. "You'll go yourself. Protect Dr. Krause and get him to New York—quietly."
As they turned onto Rue de la Paix, a cinema billboard came into view. Chaplin's bowler hat hovered comically above a Pathé advertisement for Joan of Arc—a silent irony painted across the city's skyline.