''I''m sorry for disturbing you, Monsieur Lemercier,''said the woman, who didn''t seem at all sorry, but rather convinced of her rightto demand the immediate clearing out of the cupboard in question. As Xavier hadsuspected, the apartment had since been refurbished; the office had beentransformed into an open-plan kitchen living room, the old-fashioned ceilingmouldings had disappeared, and from what he could tell the kitchen at the endof the corridor had been converted into a children''s bedroom. An aluminiumscooter stood in the hallway. You saw it more and more in the city. Adults hadappropriated this child''s toy with an obviousness that often unsettled Xavier. Theypraised, with the greatest sincerity, the lightness and fluidity of movingaround the city, the ridiculousness of such a mode of transport never crossingtheir minds. Céline herself had dreamed of buying one for commuting to work. ''Here it is,'' said Madame Carmillon, opening themuch-vaunted cupboard door with a flourish.

The cupboard was hidden in thepanelling of the wall and had a small key in guise of a handle. Xavier hadsimply not seen it. It wasn''t even on the apartment inventory. It containedthree ancient rolls of fabric, a vase, a broken barometer, and a varnished,rectangular wooden chest, which must have been about five feet tall and a footwide. It had leather straps held in place by large upholstery nails. Three oldiron padlocks, opened with numbered codes, held it closed. ''It''s mostly that,'' said the owner, pointingto the chest. ''It weighs a ton,'' she added.

''My husband has a trapped sciaticnerve from running. There''s no way he could lift it, and neither can I.'' ''I understand,'' said Xavier, and he took thechest out of the cupboard. A ton was an exaggeration, but it weighed at least sixtypounds. ''I''ll deal with the fabric and the old barometer,''Madame Carmillon conceded, appeased by having the estate agent at hand to dealwith the matter immediately. ''But get rid of that chest, Monsieur Lemercier.'' The leather straps were carefully positioned toallow you to carry the trunk on your back, diagonally, like a hunter''s rifle.Its weight was therefore spread over two shoulders, making the load much moremanageable.

Strapped in like this, Xavier bade his old client goodbye and madehis way back through the streets to the agency. At a crossroads, he passed acellist who was carrying his instrument case on his back in the same way. Theman glanced at him, then did a double-take, no doubt wondering which instrumentXavier played. ''W-w-we don''t have the code,'' said Frédéric. ''No, Frédéric, we don''t have the code,'' Xavieragreed. ''Wh-wh-what could it be?'' The two men stood each side of the chest, whichwas standing on the ground. ''We won''t know until we get the padlocks open,Frédéric.'' ''We need an a-a-a-angle grinder to saw itopen,'' said the trainee.

''We don''t have an angle grinder, and we''re notgoing to buy one just for this.'' Frédéric''s face lit up. ''We need a locksmith,''he said. ''Yes.'' sighed Xavier. ''There used to be onearound here, but he''s gone.'' They stood in silence for a minute. ''I''m going togo and see Claude,'' Xavier decided.

''He might have an idea.'' The antiques dealer down the road from theagency had been there long before Xavier''s arrival on the street. Contrary towhat the name of his shop suggested - Smiles of the Past - its owner neversmiled anymore. His sales figures were in freefall; no one was interested insnuffboxes, old corkscrews, vintage mercury mirrors, glass inkwells or rosewoodbedside tables anymore. These objects weren''t of interest to the newgeneration, and the few collectors who continued to bargain-hunt got them at rock-bottomprices on eBay. Claude was nearing retirement, and now spoke only of the olivetrees on his property in the Mediterranean, where he planned to move to thefollowing year. He continued to open his shop every day to ''clock in'', in hiswords. ''It''s a trick,'' he murmured.

''A trick?'' Xavier repeated. The rectangularchest had been placed on the merchant''s desk, and he was examining it with ajeweller''s magnifying glass wedged in his right eye like a monocle. ''The codes don''t do anything,'' he said. ''It''sbuggered. We''ve been duped. That means there''s a trick to it. I don''tunderstand why each padlock has a fleur-de-lys embossed on the back. Why theking''s crest? Wait.

'' He got up and took an old dip-pen from thewindow display and resumed his work, scratching at one of the fleur-de-lys withthe steel sergeant-major nib. ''Pass me the oil,'' he said. Xavier passed hima bottle of gunsmith''s oil, which he had taken out to polish one of thepadlocks. The antiques dealer poured a drop onto a cloth, then wiped it overthe royal crest. ''Got it!'' he cried. ''You found it?'' asked Xavier. ''The fleur-de-lys, they''re the secret. Theyturn to the right.

'' He used his thumbnail to spin the fleur-de-lyson the first padlock, and it opened with a click. He did the same with theother two, which clicked identically. The three padlocks gave way. He got upfrom his chair and opened the chest on his desk. They were both silent as they looked at itscontents. ''What is it?'' ''A telescope,'' breathed the antiques dealer.''A very old telescope.''.