Time to Leave Paris.

On the streetcorner at dusk, the two passers-by seem innocent. You alight from your carriage; for a moment, they turn, like puppets on strings, both staring at you.

Then they turn away again and, without acknowledging each other, go their separate ways.

You thump the carriage door closed; the driver rattles away, returning the vehicle to the Comtesse S----. You are left alone in the empty street.

But the message is clear. D'Envers will not wait forever.

You need money.