Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,14

in which a grievance might be more harmful to the one who nurtures it than to the one who causes it . . . Well, I must go now.'

Out of politeness, the Gascon rose from his chair. The young baronne was about to leave the room when, without warning, she went over and took him in her arms.

Not knowing the reason for this sudden display of emotion, Marciac let her embrace him.

'We were worried,' she murmured in his ear. 'Don't expect the others to tell you so, but you frightened us all. And if ever again you leave us for so long without sending news, I'll scratch your eyes out. Understood?'

'Understood, Agnes. Thank you.'

She left him standing there, but from the stairs she called back:

'Get some rest, but come down as soon as you're ready. I'm sure Ballardieu has planned a feast in your honour.'

With a smile, the Gascon closed the door.

He remained thoughtful for a moment, then gave a huge yawn and turned longing eyes towards the bed.

A slender, nimble, forked tongue woke Arnaud de Laincourt by tickling his ear. The young man groaned, weakly pushing the scaly snout away, and turned over in his bed. But the dragonnet was stubborn.

It switched ears.

Come on, boy . . . You know him well enough by now to realise that he isn't going to leave you in peace . . .

Giving up on sleep, Laincourt sighed heavily and opened his eyes.

'All right, Marechal. All right

Pushing back the sheet, he rose up on his elbows and gave the gaunt old dragonnet an unhappy look. Sitting there with its wings folded and its tail wrapped around its feet, the small reptile seemed to be waiting for something.

He's hungry.

Of course he's hungry, Laincourt replied without speaking. He's always hungry. In fact, I'm starting to wonder how it is that he eats so much and yet remains so thin.

Then out loud, he told Marechal:

'Do you know what a sorry sight you are?' The dragonnet tipped its head to the left. 'Yes, you are . . .'

Laincourt looked over at the big cage with bars as thick as fingers that sat in a corner of the room. It was standing open, as it was every morning, even though he had locked it before going to bed, as he did every evening.

He sighed again.

'Back in your cage!' the young man ordered, clapping his hands. 'Go on! You know the rules! Into your cage!'

Don't be too hard on him . . . When he was mine, he was never locked up.

Slowly, and with obvious reluctance, Marechal turned around and waddled away. Then with a hop and a flap of his wings, he returned to his prison, closing the door with an insolent swipe of one clawed foot. As it clanged shut, the latch fell into place. The old dragonnet did not appear to be worried by this. Laincourt couldn't help smiling.

He was a thin brown-haired young man, with crystalline blue eyes. He was intelligent, cultivated, calm and reserved. Some found him to be distant, as he was in some ways. Others judged his reserve to be a sign of arrogance. They were mistaken. The truth was that, while Laincourt looked down on no one, he simply didn't much care for his contemporaries, asking only that they leave him peace and feeling no need to please them. He detested hollow platitudes, conventional opinions and polite smiles. He disliked being forced into conversation. He preferred silence to small talk and solitude to futile company. When confronted with someone he found tiresome he smiled, nodded, said nothing, and excused himself as quickly as possible. For him, politeness consisted in saying

'good day', 'thank you', 'goodbye', and enquiring only about the health of those he truly cared for.

As soon as he got out of bed and had pulled on his breeches, Laincourt went to close the window of his bedchamber. He had left it open to enjoy the night's cool breeze, but now it was letting in the heat as well as the stink and noise of Paris.

You've slept late again, boy.

So it seems.

That's a bad habit you've picked up since you've been idle and spent your nights reading.

Reading is not the same as being idle.

You are no longer employed.

I no longer have a master.

You will soon be in need of money.

Laincourt shrugged.

He lived on the second floor of a house in rue de la Ferronnerie, not far from the Saints-Innocents cemetery, between the neighbourhoods of Sainte-Opportune and Les Halles. Barely four metres