Chapter 20: Really going to test the cadres with black truffles and strawberry cake?

“Three hundred francs?”

Vivian stared at the few lonely silver coins on the table, her eyes nearly popping out.

“And that’s before taxes.”

Inspector Jacques sprawled on the office’s leather sofa, with even darker circles under his eyes than Vivian.

“According to the ‘Regulations on Rewards for Non-staff Police Assistance’…” Jacques feebly pulled out a crumpled receipt from his breast pocket.

“After deducting personal income tax, accident insurance withholdings, and…”

He shot a guilty glance at Cicero, “And the ‘weapon wear fee’ and ‘mental distress compensation’ for you snatching my service pistol that night. What’s left is all here.”

“Weapon wear fee?” Vivian slapped the table and jumped up.

“I only fired three shots! What did I wear out? Did I shave the barrel thin?”

“It’s procedure, miss, just procedure.” Jacques pressed his temples in pain.

“Do you know how many ‘Statements of Public Property Damage Due to Force Majeure’ I had to write to get that hunk of scrap metal reimbursed? One thousand two hundred pages! My hand is still shaking!”

To prove his point, he picked up his teacup with a hand that really was trembling violently, spilling tea all over his lap.

“Damn it… Now I’ll have to fill out another ‘Uniform Cleaning Request’…” Jacques let out a wretched moan.

Cicero sat behind the desk, carefully wiping his monocle with a piece of deerskin. Sunlight streamed through the window onto his infuriatingly smug face, making him look like a charlatan about to swindle money.

“Be grateful, Vivian.” Cicero said flatly, returning his gleaming monocle to his nose.

“At least the police sent over a banner.”

He pointed to the corner of the wall, where a red banner with golden characters was rolled up. On it, in crooked oversized script, were the words: [Enthusiastic Citizen, Protector of Peace].

“Can you eat that? Can you buy pants with it?” Vivian lost it. “My pants have three holes burned through them!”

“That’s called artistic sacrifice.” Cicero pulled a thick ledger from the drawer and opened it.

“Since Inspector Jacques is here, let’s settle some internal accounts.”

Vivian warily took half a step back. “What internal accounts?”

“Cost accounting for this operation.” Cicero dipped his quill in ink.

“First, the cab fare back to the office that night. Night double-rate, plus the hush money for the driver—after all, your look at the time nearly scared the horses to death. Total, fifteen francs.”

“And I have to pay for that?”

“You’re the assistant, itinerary is your responsibility.” Cicero didn’t look up.

“Next, my cane. To break the golden barrier, the ruby core cracked. Estimated repair cost: two hundred francs.”

“You’re the one who wanted to show off!”

“And who was chasing a side job?” Cicero lifted his eyes, gaze sharp as a knife.

“If we had rescued a cat, at least the cat would’ve meowed at me in thanks.”

Vivian opened her mouth, then muttered sheepishly, “Meow.”

Jacques let out a snort, then hurriedly covered it with a cough.

“Very good.” Cicero continued scribbling in the ledger.

“Finally, and most importantly—”

He pointed to the floor.

Vivian looked down.

The once intricately elegant pure-wool rug was now stamped with a trail of black footprints—the ones they’d left coming back from the Garnier Opera House that night.

Especially where Vivian had collapsed, there was a distinct human-shaped stain, like a chalk outline at a crime scene.

“I had that shipped in from Istanbul by a friend. One thousand knots per square inch.” There was a trace of heartache in Cicero’s voice.

“Now it looks like a herd of wild boars held a party on it.”

“Cleaning fee, plus depreciation.” Cicero drew a heavy line in the ledger and turned it to face Vivian.

“In summary, after deducting your base salary and that three hundred franc bonus, you now owe the agency seventy-five francs and sixty centimes.”

A deathly silence.

Vivian stared at the red negative number, feeling her soul split in two.

A week of back-breaking work and not only did she not earn a cent, she ended up in debt?

Is this the evil of capitalism? Is this exploitation?

“I quit!”

Vivian flung the “Enthusiastic Citizen” banner to the floor.

“I resign! I’m changing jobs!” She planted her fists on her hips and shouted at Cicero.

“Isn’t that so-called ‘Dusk Society’ hiring? That eggplant-looking count may be pretentious, but he’s loaded! I’m taking this pan and defecting to the enemy!”

She actually pulled out the battle-scarred Louis XV frying pan from behind her back.

“Let’s not be rash, let’s not be rash.” Jacques tried to mediate.

“Dusk Society doesn’t offer benefits, and if you get caught, the paperwork’s three times as—”

“Shut up! I just want money now!” Vivian’s eyes were red.

Cicero watched the girl teetering on the edge of an outburst, the corners of his mouth curving up.

“You’re going to defect to Count Saint-Germain?” He calmly closed the ledger.

“Then you’d better prepare a full set of Louis XV court dresses, learn sixteen kinds of bows, and get up at four every morning to polish his utterly useless medals.”

“And most importantly,” Cicero paused.

“He absolutely will not allow you to eat in the office.”

“Huh?” Vivian froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cicero didn’t answer, just gently clapped his hands.

The door to the living room opened, and a rich aroma instantly filled the office.

Vivian’s nose twitched.

It was the scent of butter sizzling at high heat, the depth of rosemary mingling with roast meat, and… the sweet aroma of freshly-baked caramel pudding!

Two waiters in white aprons pushed in a silver cart.

The cart was laden with food.

A whole golden roast chicken, a platter of black truffle risotto piled like a small mountain, a basket of steaming croissants, and a cream cake covered with strawberries.

“In light of your… brutish but effective survival skills during this operation,” Cicero tapped the table.

“This is employee welfare.”

Vivian made a suspicious gulping sound.

Her resolute revolutionary spirit was crumbling at a visible rate before this feast.

“You… you’re testing cadres with this?” She pointed at herself, her eyes glazed.

“If you don’t want it, Inspector Jacques looks more than willing.”

“Who said I don’t want it!”

Vivian tore off a drumstick and stuffed it in her mouth.

“Mmm-mmm-mmm…” (So delicious)

The hot juices exploded in her mouth, and tears of joy welled up in Vivian’s eyes. She hadn’t had a proper meal in days and had been chased around by onions—now this was what it meant to be alive!

Jacques gazed longingly at the risotto. His stomach growled on cue.

“Inspector, if you don’t mind.” Cicero gestured to the chair beside him.

“I imagine you’ll need some extra brainpower to deal with all those forms.”

“Praise the Lord, praise Cicero!” Jacques sat down without hesitation and grabbed a croissant.

“If you don’t reimburse this meal, I’ll write you up as a miser in the ‘Police-Citizen Cooperation Report.'”

“You already did.” Cicero poured himself a glass of red wine and swirled it.

“In dossier number three hundred and forty-two.”

The only sounds left in the office were chewing and the clink of cutlery.

Vivian clutched a drumstick in her left hand, dug into the cake with her right, and stuffed her cheeks so full she looked like a hoarding hamster.

When she finally burped and slumped back in her chair, thoroughly content, Cicero spoke again.

“Full now?”

“Mm.” Vivian licked the cream from her lips. “It was great, but it doesn’t cancel that seventy-five franc debt. I’m still broke.”

“About that.”

Cicero pulled open the drawer and took out a fresh sheet of parchment.

This one looked brand new, densely packed with words.

“Given the many… unreasonable points in your previous employment contract,” Cicero slid the paper in front of Vivian.

“For instance, it didn’t account for the possibility of an employee tearing skirts, going berserk, or beating up French historical figures with a frying pan.”

“So?” Vivian eyed him warily.

“This is a new contract.”

Cicero tapped the title with his finger.

Gone was the “Temporary Assistant Employment Agreement”—in its place were three ornate words:

[Partnership Agreement]

“Partner?” Vivian was stunned. Her fork slipped from her hand and clanged onto her plate.

“Base pay doubled.” Cicero tossed out the bait like the devil.

“Case commission increased from five to twenty percent. Full medical insurance—since your methods tend to get you hurt. And…”

He glanced at Vivian, “The carpet’s still on you, but you can pay in installments. No interest.”

Vivian looked at the contract, then at the guy across from her—sharp-tongued, stingy, but always stepped in front of her in danger.

He was a charlatan, a capitalist.

But in this Paris full of strange tales and madness, this contract felt more reassuring than any exorcism spell.

“Thirty percent,” Vivian suddenly said.

“What?”

“Commission,” Vivian sat up straight.

“If it’s a partnership, then let’s do it properly. Thirty percent, or I’ll report you for illegally hiring child labor—my body may be eighteen, but my mental age is only twelve!”

Jacques nearly spat out his wine at this.

Cicero shook his head helplessly and gave a light laugh.

“Deal.”

He handed over the quill.

Scratch scratch scratch…

Vivian solemnly signed her name on the parchment.

“Happy partnership, boss.” Vivian extended a hand still slick with chicken grease.

“It’s partner,” Cicero muttered in disgust at her hand, but still reached out and gave her fingertips a light shake.

“Also, that was the original contract. You got it dirty. I’m docking your pay.”

“You old bastard!”

Inspector Jacques, belly full and spirit somewhat soothed, took his leave.

The office quieted down again.

Vivian was helping Cicero clear the leftovers from the table.

“By the way, boss,” Vivian asked while wiping the table.

“That Queen Marie… is she really free now?”

“Who knows.” Cicero stood at the window, gazing at the bustling street below.

The Parisian mist was dissipating, and the white dome of the Sacré-Cœur gleamed in the sunlight.

“Maybe she just found a better dream.”

“That’s good enough.” Vivian hung the frying pan back on her belt.

“Isn’t living just about chasing a good dream?”

“Well said.” Cicero turned around.

“And to help you dream well tonight, scrub that carpet first.”

“…”

At that moment, a breeze pushed open the half-closed window.

A colorful flyer fluttered in, spiraled around, and landed softly next to the freshly signed [Partnership Agreement].

Vivian picked it up curiously.

It was an opera house flyer.

The artwork was eerie and magnificent, showing a man in a half-mask standing center stage, countless overlapping shadows behind him.

The title was embossed in gold:

[Paris Opera House World Premiere—”The Phantom’s Twelfth Curtain Call”]

Deep in the darkness of the Paris underground.

A faint candle flickered, lighting up an exquisite walnut table.

A bandaged hand toyed with a… head.

It was the Queen’s puppet head, eyes closed, a faint smile at its lips.

“Interesting… truly interesting.”

The true form of Count Saint-Germain sat in the shadows.

He wasn’t, as Vivian imagined, furious. In fact, he seemed in quite good spirits.

“Though you ruined my script, I must admit—the ‘cake’ ending was… more splendid than mine.”

The count snapped his fingers. The candle went out.

In the darkness, a high note from an aria echoed through the empty underground, like a knife about to pierce the curtain.

[End of Volume Zero]