Ripples of the Rhône

Judge Auguste Sterling's laughter boomed across the Place des Terreaux terrace, scattering pigeons into the lavender dusk. "Tu me flattes comme un avocat véreux!" He clapped Gavin's shoulder, the chessboard between them forgotten.

Gavin leaned back in the wrought-iron chair, adopting the playful reverence perfected since childhood. "Pas de flatterie, Grand-père. Seulement la vérité—vous voyez tout."

The judge's mirth faded as Gavin recounted Lefèvre's performance in Croix-Rousse—the tailored arrogance, the thinly veiled threats to neighbors, the theatrical display of power.

"Il a dit ça? 'Quand vous éternuez, le Palais tremble'?" The judge's knuckles whitened around his cognac glass. "Ce petit arriviste…" 

"Il n'est pas fait pour servir un Sterling," Gavin pressed, watching a barge drift down the Saône. "Oncle Robert propose Nice depuis des mois. Le climat aiderait votre arthrite…" 

"Nice?" The judge snorted. "Des palmiers et des retraités ennuyeux? Je resterai à Lyon tant que tu auras besoin de protection."

"Protection?" Gavin's eyebrow arched. "Ou pour gagner votre pari contre le Général?"

Silence fell, thick as the river fog. The wager hung between them—forged decades ago between two titans:

Judge Sterling: Revolutionary turned jurist, who traded a rifle for a gavel

General Thibault: Decorated war hero, Gavin's paternal grandfather

"Fu Zheng vole des MiG-29," the judge muttered, naming Gavin's elder brother. "Toi? Tu joues au détective avec une fille des Canuts."

Gavin's smile turned brittle. The bet was legend: whichever grandson achieved greater glory would decide which family name prevailed. Fu Zheng's fighter pilot exploits already tipped scales toward the Thibault dynasty.

"Le Général vous obsède," Gavin countered. "Même après ce qu'il a fait au Mali."

The judge slammed his glass down. Cognac sloshed like blood on linen. "Ne parle pas de choses que tu ne comprends pas!" 

As night deepened, the judge resumed his favorite lecture—a cynical mantra Gavin had heard since adolescence: 

"Pourquoi les mendiants mordent la main qui les nourrit?" The judge's eyes gleamed in the candlelight. "Parce que la charité est un poison. Elle rappelle aux faibles leur faiblesse."

Gavin's mind drifted to Lydia—her calloused hands kneading dough, her defiance in the face of Danielle's opulence. "Et si on aide sans qu'on demande?" 

"Alors tu mérites leur haine," the judge declared. "L'homme veut se sentir maître de son destin. Vole-lui ça, et il te volera ton portefeuille." 

Gavin thought of Serge Moreau—the broken mechanic who stole his Cervélo. The judge's words suddenly tasted like prophecy. 

At dawn, Rue des Canuts transformed into a film set. Spotlights bathed No. 9's courtyard in sterile white, exposing every crack in the plaster, every stain on Mémé Louise's apron.

Lydia stood by the noodle workshop, bathed in the honeyed light of false dawn. She wore a cornflower-blue sundress—a thrift-store treasure usually reserved for Mass. Her chestnut hair swung in a high ponytail, revealing the delicate line of her neck. 

Gavin rounded the corner on his Cervélo, the carbon frame gleaming like obsidian. His breath caught. Sunlight gilded Lydia's profile, turning her into a Degas painting—vibrant, ephemeral, heartbreakingly real. 

"Encore cette machine!" Lydia's voice shattered the moment, sharp as broken crockery. "Tu veux qu'on te le vole une deuxième fois?" 

Gavin braked, his romantic illusions crumbling. "Il a un cadenas maintenant."

"Comme si ça arrêterait les professionnels!" She gestured wildly at the film crew. "Tout le quartier connaît ce vélo. Tu pourrais au moins être discret!" 

Before Gavin could retort, Élodie Marchand materialized, camera in tow. "Quelle scène adorable!" she crooned, zooming in on Lydia's flushed cheeks. "La petite ouvrière et le prince des Terreaux. On garde ça pour le montage?" 

"Non!" Lydia and Gavin snapped in unison. 

Tante Solange bustled from the noodle workshop, flour dusting her brow like war paint. "Arrête de crier, Lydia! Tu vas faire croire qu'on est des sauvages!" 

Behind her, Lydia's mother emerged, clutching her six-year-old son Félix. "Ma chérie, sois polie avec ton ami." 

"Il n'est pas mon—" Lydia began, but her cousin Chloé cut her off. 

"Mais regarde-le!" Chloé winked at Gavin, her scarlet nails flashing. "Avec ce visage-là, il pourrait voler mon porte-monnaie que je le remercierais!" 

Gavin suppressed a groan. Chloé's flirtation felt like a pantomime—one scripted by Danielle's money. 

As the crew set up lighting rigs, Gavin cornered Lydia by the rainwater barrel. "Pourquoi cette colère?" 

She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Ton vélo vaut cinq ans de loyer de Mémé. Le montrer ici, aujourd'hui… c'est comme jeter de la viande dans une fosse aux lions." 

"Les lions?" His hand brushed her wrist. "Ou toi?" 

She jerked away. "Arrête." 

"Arrêter quoi?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "De te rappeler qu'on s'est touchés dans ce taxi? Que tu as frappé comme une furie quand je t'ai traitée d'agneau?" 

Lydia's cheeks flamed. "C'était un accident." 

"Vraiment?" Gavin's thumb grazed her pulse point. "Parce que ton cœur bat comme un tambour de guerre."

Mémé Louise's voice cracked like a whip. "Lydia! Aux fourneaux!" 

In the steamy kitchen, Mémé pressed a wax-sealed jar into Lydia's hands. Inside, the Mali bullet floated in formaldehyde—a grotesque paperweight. 

"Place-le près du pétrin," Mémé whispered, eyes darting to Élodie's hovering camera. "Quand ils filmeront 'l'authenticité', ils trouveront leur scandale." 

Lydia's fingers trembled. "Et si Danielle le fait disparaître avant?" 

"Alors Gavin filmera leur crime," Mémé nodded toward the courtyard. 

Through the window, Gavin adjusted his signet ring—and the micro-camera hidden in its crest. 

As Élodie directed Lydia kneading dough ("Plus d'émotion, ma chère! Pense à tes ancêtres affamés!"), Judge Sterling's black Citroën DS glided into Rue des Canuts. 

Lefèvre scrambled to open the door. "Monsieur le Juge! Je ne savais pas—" 

"Bien sûr que non," the judge cut him off, leaning on his ivory cane. "Tu ne sais jamais rien, Lefèvre." 

His gaze swept the circus—the klieg lights, the cables snaking through laundry lines, Gavin standing guard like a sentinel. 

"Alors c'est elle," the judge murmured, watching Lydia shape dough with fierce concentration. "La fille pour qui mon petit-fils risquerait un scandale." 

Danielle chose that moment to appear on her balcony, champagne flute in hand. Their eyes met across the courtyard—old power versus new corruption. 

The judge's smile chilled the July air. "Allumez les caméras, Mademoiselle Marchand. Le spectacle commence."