Read Chapter 28: The Rothschild Offer

The room smelled of coffee and old paper, which was more civilized than Étienne expected from a traitor’s lair. Rothschild sat behind a rosewood desk, his fingers steepled, his expression one of mild impatience, as though he were a banker being asked to extend a loan to a man who had already defaulted.

Behind Étienne, the door clicked shut. Juliette had insisted on waiting outside, and Marchand had gone to check on Lucien, who was still too weak to climb stairs. That left Étienne alone with the man who had sold Paris’s surrender for a profit.

“Monsieur Vautrin,” Rothschild said, gesturing to a chair. “I confess I did not expect you to come alone.”

“I didn’t expect you to be a traitor,” Étienne replied, remaining standing. “But here we are.”

Rothschild’s mouth tightened, but he recovered quickly. He poured himself coffee, took a deliberate sip, and set the cup down with a soft click. “Traitor is such a final word. I prefer *pragmatist*. Paris is starving. The Prussians have more shells than we have bread. A negotiated surrender, handled by the right people, could save thousands of lives.”

“And put money in your pocket.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.” Rothschild spread his hands. “I am a businessman, Monsieur Vautrin. I trade in what is valuable. Grain, gold, information. Lives, when necessary. You are an aeronaut. You understand mechanics. I understand markets.” He leaned forward. “Paris is a market that is about to crash. I am simply trying to salvage what I can.”

Étienne felt the rage coil in his chest, but he forced it down. He needed information, not satisfaction. “Juliette has your ledgers. The names of every conspirator. The grain shipments. The correspondence with the Prussian command.” He watched Rothschild’s face for a flicker of concern. “One word from her, and the Commune will hang you from the nearest lamppost.”

Rothschild’s smile did not waver, but something behind his eyes went cold. “The Commune,” he repeated. “Yes, Juliette is quite devoted to them. Tell me, Monsieur Vautrin—what do you think the Commune will do with the men they catch? They will not arrest them. They will not try them. They will execute them in the street, and they will do the same to anyone who knows of the conspiracy. Including you. Including your brother.”

Étienne’s jaw tightened. Rothschild saw the hit and pressed his advantage.

“I am offering you a way out. For all of us.”

He opened a drawer and slid a stack of papers across the desk. Étienne didn’t touch them. “What is this?”

“Names. Dates. Signatures. Every man who helped me feed the Prussian army while Paris starved. Generals, politicians, merchants—the full list.” Rothschild paused. “It is yours, if you do something for me.”

“Why would I trade with you? I already have what I need.”

“You have Juliette’s word. I am offering you proof.” Rothschild’s voice dropped. “And I am offering you gold. Enough to take your brother to Switzerland, to England, to anywhere the bombs cannot reach. He is dying, Monsieur Vautrin. You know it. I know it. The only question is whether he dies in a Paris infirmary, or in a clean bed with a doctor who has actual medicine.”

Étienne’s hands curled into fists. The words were a blade, and Rothschild knew exactly where to twist it.

“What do you want?”

Rothschild’s smile returned. “I want you to fly one more mission.”

He stood and walked to a map of the siege lines that hung on the wall. His finger traced a path eastward, past the Prussian artillery positions, toward the main supply depot at Villeneuve.

“I have a balloon ready. It is loaded with gold coins—French francs, Prussian thalers, English sovereigns. A small fortune.” He turned to face Étienne. “You will fly it over the Prussian camp at night and release the cargo. The coins will scatter across their position. It will cause chaos. Riots. Soldiers deserting their posts to scoop up the gold. In the confusion, my people will move the grain that is still waiting at the depot. We both get what we want.”

Étienne stared at him. “You want me to throw gold at the Prussians so you can smuggle more grain.”

“I want you to create a diversion,” Rothschild corrected. “The gold is a means to an end. The grain is worth ten times its weight in gold inside the walls of Paris. The Prussians will be too busy fighting over their windfall to notice a few wagons slipping through the lines.”

“And if they notice the balloon instead?”

Rothschild shrugged. “Then they shoot it down. The gold scatters anyway. Either way, I get my diversion.” He picked up his coffee cup. “You are the best pilot in Paris, Monsieur Vautrin. That is why I asked for you specifically.”

Étienne’s mind churned. There were a dozen ways this could go wrong. The balloon could drift off course. The gold could land in the wrong sector. The Prussians could shoot him dead before he released the cargo. But deeper than the risks, he saw the shape of the trap Rothschild was laying—and the shape of the trap he could lay in return.

“And my brother?” he asked.

“I will have a carriage ready at the eastern gate tonight. A doctor will accompany him and your friend Marchand to the Swiss border. Passports, money, warm blankets. Everything they need.” Rothschild paused. “You have my word.”

“Your word,” Étienne repeated, and the contempt in his voice was unmistakable. “You sold your city for profit. You let children starve. And you expect me to trust your word?”

Rothschild’s eyes hardened. “I expect you to make a choice. You can walk out of here, denounce me to the Commune, and watch them hang me while your brother dies in a cold room. Or you can take my offer, fly the gold, and live to see your brother grow old.” He set down his cup. “I am not asking you to forgive me. I am asking you to be practical.”

Étienne looked at the papers on the desk. The names. The proof. He knew that Juliette would want to see them. He knew that the Commune would use them to purge the traitors from Paris. But he also knew that Rothschild was right about one thing: Lucien could not wait for justice.

He reached out and took the papers.

“The balloon,” he said. “Where is it?”

Rothschild’s smile returned, broader this time. “The Montmartre yard. I will have my men prepare it. You will fly at midnight, when the moon is behind the clouds.” He extended his hand. “We have an understanding, then?”

Étienne ignored the hand. “We have a transaction.”

He turned and walked out, the papers folded inside his coat. Juliette was waiting in the corridor, her arms crossed, her face unreadable.

“Well?” she asked.

“He gave me everything,” Étienne said. “The names. The proof.”

“And what did he want in return?”

Étienne told her. Juliette’s expression shifted through several stages—anger, disbelief, and finally a cold, calculating focus.

“Gold over the Prussian lines,” she repeated. “He’s not just creating a diversion. He’s hedging. If the gold doesn’t cause a riot, it will buy him favor with the Prussians. He wins either way.”

“Which is why I’m not going to give him what he wants.” Étienne lowered his voice. “I need to see Marchand.”

“Marchand? Why?”

“Because Marchand still has his bomb.” Étienne felt the weight of the words settle between them. “And I have an idea.”

Juliette’s eyes widened. “Étienne, that’s suicide.”

“It’s leverage,” he corrected. “Rothschild thinks he’s using me. He doesn’t realize that I’m going to use his balloon to end this war—and his profit—in a single night.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You’re going to blow up the gold.”

“I’m going to blow up everything.” He started walking toward the stairs. “But first, I need to make sure Lucien is safe. Tomorrow, he leaves Paris. Tonight, I finish this.”