Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,22

saying?'

'Quite simply, that—'

'Papa?'

A pretty girl of sixteen, with dark hair and green eyes, had just opened the door leading to the room at the rear of the bookshop. The quarrel immediately ceased and its cause was forgotten.

'Good afternoon, Clotilde,' said the printer with a kind smile.

'Good afternoon, monsieur. And good afternoon to you, monsieur de Laincourt.'

'Good afternoon. How are you?'

'Very well, monsieur,' the girl answered with a blush.

'Well, my girl?' queried Bertaud. 'What is it?'

The bookseller's only daughter said in a faint voice:

'There is someone in the shop, papa. A gentleman.'

Bertaud, who had leaned down to listen to Clotilde, straightened up triumphantly.

'Excuse me,' he said, his words directed so ostensibly at Laincourt that he could only be in fact aiming them at Daunois, 'but I must attend to my business. Unlike some, I cannot spend all day idling about while others do my work for me.'

Daunois, of course, could not let this pass by unanswered:

'Allow me to bid you good day, Arnaud. I must return to my workshop, where there are some delicate operations awaiting that cannot be carried out without my supervision.'

And thereupon, the printer and the bookseller, both draped in a theatrical air of dignity, turned on their heels and went their separate ways. Pretty Clotilde, however, did not follow her father back inside. She lingered for a moment within the frame of the doorway until, embarrassed when the eyes of the former Cardinal's Guard did not shift from the trictrac board, she finally withdrew. No doubt any man other than Laincourt would have perceived the sentiments she felt for him. But this young man, so skilled at detecting lies and dissembling in a thousand different clues, was unable to read the heart of a young girl in love.

Bertaud returned after a few minutes.

He sat back down, observing with pleasure that his opponent had finally made his move.

'So?' asked Laincourt. 'This customer?'

'Bah! He only came in to browse. He didn't even know what he was looking for . . .'

The young man nodded knowingly.

'Slender, elegant, with a blond moustache?' he guessed.

'Yes,' the bookseller replied in astonishment. 'But how—?'

'And wearing a beige doublet?'

'Precisely! Do you know him, then?'

'Slightly,' said Laincourt, holding out the dice cup. 'It's your turn, Jules. This game is certainly dragging on.'

Upon leaving the Red Eagle, following his interview with Rochefort, La Fargue rejoined Almades and together they returned to the Hotel de l'Epervier on their exhausted mounts.

They chose the shortest route, which is to say, they took the Pont Rouge. Thus named because of its coating of red lead paint, the wooden bridge had been built the previous year. Like the Pont Neuf, it allowed Parisians to cross the Seine river directly, but there was a toll to be paid, making it less popular.

On the Left Bank, La Fargue and the Spaniard rode up rue de Beaune, through a neighbourhood that had only recently sprung up from the ground in the Pre-aux-Clercs, the former domain of Queen Marguerite de Navarre. Beyond it, they finally reached the faubourg Saint-Germain. Rue de la Sor-bonne led them to the right-angled crossing with rue des Saints-Peres, which they followed alongside the facades of La Charite hospital before passing in front of Les Reformes cemetery and turning into the small rue Saint-Guillaume.

They arrived at their destination and, despite the questions about La Donna and the alleged plot against the king that still nagged at him, the old captain could only think of finding a bite to eat and then going to bed. He rang the bell at the entrance to the Hotel de l'Epervier without dismounting, and waited for someone to open one of the great rectangular doors of the carriage gate. It was not monsieur Guibot but Andre, the new groom, who hurried over. Once inside the courtyard, La Fargue and Almades handed him the reins of their horses.

They found the others in the garden.

Agnes, Leprat, and Marciac were chatting away beneath the chestnut tree at one end of the old table, where the meal had not yet been cleared away. Looking happy and thick as thieves together, they sipped wine and conversed for the sole pleasure of enjoying one another's company. The heat was bearable out here in the garden. The air was fresher and a relaxed hush reigned which was only slightly disturbed by the regular snores from Ballardieu, asleep in an armchair.

The old soldier had drunk a fair amount of wine and he merely stirred in his sleep when the others greeted the new arrivals. He