The Man Who Risked It All Read Online Free PDF Page A

lined with tapestries and more paintings, lit by crystal sconces. It was like a château.
    Dubreuil walked with confidence and spoke in a loud voice, as if I was ten yards away. His dark suit contrasted with his silvery hair. Stray locks of hair made him look like a fiery conductor. His white shirt was open at the neck, showing a silk cravat.
    “Let’s go into my office. It’ll be more private.”
    Privacy was exactly what I needed in this place, which, although magnificent, was not really conducive to intimate conversations.
    His office did indeed seem cozier. The walls lined with antique bookcases full of books, most of them old, warmed the room. The parquet floor was partially hidden under a thick Persian rug. Heavy dark red curtains completed the muffled atmosphere. In front of the window was an imposing mahogany desk inlaid with gold-tooled black leather. The top was piled with books and files and, in the center, a large, threatening, silver paper knife, its tip turned toward me, like a murder weapon carelessly left behind by the killer in his haste to quit the scene. Dubreuil invited me to sit down in one of the two large, brown leather armchairs that faced each other on one side of the desk.
    “Would you like a drink?” he asked me as he poured himself a glass of bourbon.
    “No, thanks. Not at the moment.”
    He sat down calmly and took a sip while I waited to learn what, exactly, would be my fate.
    “Right, listen. Here’s what I propose. Today, first and foremost, you will tell me your life. You said you had had plenty of problems. I want to know everything. Let’s not play the timid maiden; don’t be afraid of confiding in me. In any case, rest assured that I’ve heard enough sordid things in my life not to be shocked or surprised by anything. But, conversely, don’t feel obliged to lay it on to justify the act you wanted to commit yesterday. I just want to understand your personal history.”
    He fell silent and took another sip.
    There is something shameless about telling your life story to a stranger, when you go beyond the trivial details of your existence, such as work, everyday encounters, and daily routines. I was afraid of confiding in him, as though exposing myself amounted to giving him power over me. After a while, I got started and no longer questioned what I was doing. I accepted revealing myself, perhaps because I didn’t feel judged. And then I must admit I was hooked. After all, it’s rather pleasant, when you’ve passed the barrier of propriety, to have an attentive ear at one’s disposal. You don’t often get the opportunity in life to be really listened to—to feel that the other person is trying to understand you, to uncover the twists and turns of your thoughts, the depths of your soul. Making myself transparent was liberating and even, in a certain way, exciting.
    I spent the day in the château, as I got into the habit of calling it. Dubreuil spoke little and listened to me with extreme concentration. People capable of sustaining their attention for such a length of time are rare. We were interrupted an hour or two after the start of our conversation by a woman who must have been in her 40s. He introduced her as “Catherine, in whom I have total confidence.” Lean, with dry hair tied back clumsily and drab, inelegant clothes that suggested a contempt for feminine finery. She could have been Madame Blanchard’s daughter, without the violence. She asked Dubreuil his opinion, pointing to a short written text on a piece of paper. Impossible for me to know what it was about. She looked a bit too cold to be his wife. Was she a colleague? His assistant?
    Our conversation—I should say my monologue—resumed until it was time to eat. We went down to have lunch in the garden, under an arbor. It was hard to believe we were in the heart of Paris. Catherine joined us but did not have much to say. Dubreuil tended to do both the questions and the answers, as if to make up for the