Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,19
the edge of a rickety stool, praying that they would all forget she was present.
'And Andre?' Ballardieu persisted. 'He should share in this feast, shouldn't he? Somebody should tell him to come. Guibot, go fetch him, would you?'
The concierge, who was already holding out a plate, grumbled under his breath but obeyed willingly enough. He went off on his wooden leg, avoiding the molehills.
Leprat passed a hunting dagger to Marciac.
'Go ahead,' he said. 'Do the honours.'
The Gascon rose before the enormous pate en croute and looked around at the company seated at the table. Some of his best friends were here and had arranged this meal for him. He felt good, happy inside.
He was even in the mood to say a few words expressing his feelings.
Agnes guessed as much.
'Marciac,' she said, 'if the next thing you say isn't: "Who wants this handsome slice?" I swear I shall make mincemeat out of you.'
He burst out laughing and planted the blade in the golden crust.
The three riders arrived in Paris by the Montmartre gate.
Weariness from their travels had left them with drawn faces and great rings under their eyes. And they were all dirty and in need of a shave. They still wore the same clothing they had on when leaving Paris the previous day, having ridden more than forty leagues in under twenty-four hours to meet La Donna and then return as quickly as possible. Indeed, only the fear of killing their mounts had kept them from galloping the whole way back.
They soon parted ways.
While Saint-Lucq continued straight ahead down rue
Montmartre, La Fargue and Almades took rue des Vieux-Augustins instead and then rue Coquilhere, before almost immediately turning left. At last, not far from the palace Cardinal Richelieu was having built for himself, they halted before a tavern in rue des Petits-Champs.
Its sign boasted an eagle daubed in scarlet paint.
The tavern's facade was set back from those of the other buildings on the same street, behind a mossy stone archway and a few feet of uneven paving. There were men occupying this space, glasses in hand, some of them standing around three barrels which served as a table, others leaning beside the tavern's wide-open windows conversing with those inside. Almost all of them were dressed as soldiers, wearing swords, striking dashing poses and bearing scars that left no doubt as to their profession. Moreover, they addressed one another as much by rank as by name, and even the names were often a nom de guerre.
Having dismounted, La Fargue entrusted the reins of his horse to Almades and went inside.
The Red Eagle was one of the places in Paris most frequented by the musketeers serving His Eminence. Two companies of soldiers served the cardinal directly: the Guards on horseback and the musketeers on foot. The Guards wore the famous red cape. They were all gentlemen, protected His Eminence's person, and accompanied him everywhere. As for the musketeers, they were commoners. Ordinary soldiers, they only signed up for three years and carried out less prestigious duties. Still, they were excellent fighters and were bound together by a strong esprit de corps. The best of them could have joined the Guards if they had been of more noble birth.
From the threshold, La Fargue caught the eye of the person he knew to be the owner of the establishment, a tall redheaded man who was still relatively fit despite the incipient bulge of his belly. His name was Balmaire and he walked with a slight limp ever since a wound had forced this former cardinal's musketeer to hang up his sword. He wore an ample shirt, brown breeches, and had an apron tied around lus waist. But instead of the usual white stockings and pumps he wore a pair of worn funnel-shaped boots, indicating that his role as tavern keeper did not define him entirely.
Recognising La Fargue, Balmaire addressed a silent salute to him from afar. The old captain responded in the same fashion and went across the taproom to a door giving onto a corridor and a narrow staircase. He climbed the stairs and, upon reaching the first landing, entered a dusty room with peeling walls, cluttered with some crates, old furniture and chairs in need of repair.
Leaning forward, a tall, thin gentleman was gazing out the window at the street. The small, diamond-shaped panes of glass were filthy and had in places been replaced with pieces of carton, so that they blocked more light than they let through.