Lire le chapitre 27: The Critic's Choice

Colette Vernet swept into the atelier like a weather front—all silk and perfume and the particular authority of a woman who had never been told no. The February light caught the silver in her hair, and she paused at the threshold, taking in the bolts of organza stacked against the far wall, the half-finished bodice on the mannequin, Elise's hand still frozen mid-stitch.

"Madame Moreau." Colette's smile was a blade with a velvet sheath. "You're more difficult to find than a truffle in winter."

Elise set down her needle, her fingers tingling with the sudden, illogical urge to cover the collection like a mother shielding a child. "Madame Vernet. I wasn't expecting you."

"No one ever expects me. That's rather the point." Colette glided into the room, her gaze predatory and appraising. She stopped before the mannequin, circling it slowly. The robe de l'armistice, still in muslin, hung with a weight that seemed almost gravitational. "I've heard whispers. Extraordinary whispers. A lost Vasseur collection, resurrected by a seamstress from the rue de Sèvres. The press, my dear, is a hungry beast, and I've come to feed it."

Julien appeared in the doorway, his face a careful mask of cordiality. "Madame Vernet. We weren't informed of your visit."

"Does one inform a storm?" Colette laughed, a sound like crystal breaking. "I've come with an offer, not a subpoena. I want to write a feature on Elise Moreau, the new woman of couture. A full spread, photographs, interviews. The kind of coverage that makes a house—or breaks it."

Elise's heart hammered. A feature like that could save them. Could bring clients, attention, the breath of life to a house on its knees. She saw Julien's eyes flicker with the same calculation.

"The collection," Colette continued, gesturing at the muslin gown, "must be seen. I won't write about ghosts. I need to see what you've built. I need to see the dresses."

The words hung in the air like a blow. Elise glanced at the atelier door, where Sylvie and the new girl, Paulette, were pretending not to listen. The collection wasn't finished. The tailoring was perfect, but the finishing touches—the embroidery, the final press, the delicate work of turning fabric into story—remained days away. And worse, far worse, Lemaire's ledger still sat in Julien's office, and the true provenance of the Vasseur designs was a secret that could still undo them.

"Madame Vernet," Elise said slowly, "the collection isn't ready. To show it now would be to show a skeleton, not a woman. I can't—"

"Can't, or won't?" Colette's eyes sharpened. She stepped closer, close enough that Elise could smell her expensive soap and the faint, metallic undertone of ambition. "I've heard things, Elise. That this house is dancing on a knife's edge. That you've refused a buyer. That you're risking everything on a memory and a myth. A feature could change that. Cash, yes, I know the house needs it. But more than that, it would make you a name no one can ignore."

"Cash?" Julien's voice cracked. "You're offering payment?"

Colette waved a hand. "A modest honorarium, naturally. Only if you cooperate. But I need access. Full access, unfiltered. And I need—" She turned, suddenly, toward the back of the atelier where Sylvie was working. "That girl. The one with the hands like a pianist. She's wasted here. I'll take her with me. A position at my magazine, real money, real exposure. In exchange for the feature, of course."

The room went impossibly still. Sylvie's head snapped up, her face draining of color.

Elise felt the floor tilt. She saw Colette's game now, clear and cold as winter glass. The feature was bait, but the real prize was poaching her best assistant. If Sylvie left, the collection would falter. If Elise refused, Colette would write what she wanted anyway—a whisper here, a poisoned word there—and the house would bleed clients it couldn't afford to lose.

Sylvie's voice was barely audible. "Madame Vernet, I—I'm honored—"

"No." Elise's voice came out hard, flat, final. She stepped between Colette and Sylvie. "I won't show the collection. I won't sell my assistant. I won't buy your feature with pieces of my house."

Colette's smile didn't falter, but something shifted behind her eyes—a recalculation, a new variable being weighed. "That's a foolish answer, Elise. I'm offering you the difference between a footnote and a chapter."

"I've been a footnote," Elise said. "I've been invisible. I've been starved and cold and forgotten. What I haven't been is disloyal. Sylvie stays. The collection stays hidden until it's ready. You'll write what you like, Madame Vernet. That's your power. But you won't have my complicity."

For a long moment, no one breathed. Then Colette laughed again, but it was different—warmer, almost genuinely amused. "Well," she said, "I did hear you were a thorn. I'm glad to find it's true." She gathered her coat, her composure settling back into place. "I won't lie, Elise. I'll still write the column. But I'll write about your nerve instead of your secrets. That's more interesting anyway, and I suspect it will serve you better."

She swept past Julien, pausing at the door to look back. "One more thing. I hear you're making a trip to Lyon soon. Be careful there. The city has a long memory, and some of its ghosts are still wearing expensive suits."

The door clicked shut.

Elise stood shaking in the middle of the atelier. Sylvie had put down her work, her face mute with gratitude and shame. Paulette was openly crying. Julien's hand found Elise's shoulder, and she let herself lean into the warmth for just a moment.

"Lyon," Julien said quietly. "She knew about Lyon."

Elise frowned. Colette had known about the collection, about the sale, about the trip. The house was leaking like a sieve—and Nadia had told them about Duret's spy network, but this went deeper. Colette Vernet had no reason to love Duret. Which meant she had her own sources, or her own interests, and none of them were aligned with the house.

"Julien," she said, "we need to schedule the Lyon trip sooner. Days, not weeks."

He nodded, his jaw tight. "And the collection?"

"The collection stays here. Under lock and key. I'll ask Mme Beaumont to watch it while we're gone." She paused, something cold settling in her stomach. "And we need to find out who else knows about Hélène Bonnet. Colette knew her name before I told anyone. The only people who know are us, Hélène, and—"

She stopped. Pierre. Pierre, who'd been too quiet lately, too eager to help. Pierre, whose wartime past still hung over them like smoke from a distant fire.

Julien read her silence. "You don't suspect Pierre."

"I don't want to suspect anyone," Elise said. "But I'm done trusting shadows."

She turned back to the mannequin, to the robe de l'armistice waiting in its folds of muslin. The dress was supposed to be about peace, about the end of war. But war, she was learning, never truly ended. It just changed its uniforms.