Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,25

off with a visible shake of the head, his way of expressing utter disapproval of proceedings while washing his hands of the matter.

Even when domesticated and trained, wyverns remained carnivorous creatures powerful enough to tear off an arm with a single bite. And if one avoided approaching a horse from behind, one needed to take similar care with these winged reptiles, as placid and good-natured as they might seem.

Elementary rules, known to all, or almost all . . . and which La Donna evidently chose to ignore . . .

Standing up, she turned her back to the wyvern as she left the enclosure and, showing no fear of the beast behind her, said to the painter:

'The poor thing is exhausted. I must say I've hardly spared her strength these past few days . . .'

Smiling and serene, she wore a hunting outfit that looked delightful on her, very similar to the one she had worn the night before, in Artois, when she had met La Fargue.

'And you?' enquired Aubusson in a tone where concern outweighed reproach. 'You promised me you would rest a while.'

'I shall rest this evening,' said Alessandra.

The painter helped her shut the gate to the enclosure.

'You must take good care of her,' she added, looking over at the wyvern.

'I promise you I shall.'

'She has truly earned it. Last night, for my sake, she faced a terrible storm and did not falter until she brought me here safely, despite—'

'I shall give up my own bed to her, if that will reassure you . . . But am I permitted to have some care for you?'

The Italian spy did not respond, instead turning round to sweep the surrounding area with a slow scrutinising gaze.

'What is it?' asked Aubusson worriedly, in turn searching around them.

'I'm wondering where my little dragonnets, Scylla and Charybdis, might be.'

'Bah! No doubt they're off hunting some poor field mouse, which they will deposit half-devoured in front of my door . . .'

Taking Alessandra by the elbow, the painter led her towards a table placed in the shade provided by an arbour. They sat down and, once they were face-to-face, Aubusson gently squeezed the young woman's hands in his own and sought to capture her gaze.

'There's still time to abandon this course of action, you know that?'

Touched, La Donna gave him a smile full of tenderness. She felt troubled by this man so imbued with paternal instincts towards her. He was the only man she never made an effort to seduce.

'No,' she said. 'It's too late to turn back. And it has been too late for quite some time . . . Besides, I've already made all my arrangements for this evening. The important thing is not to deviate from the plan. Remember, I shall no doubt be taken to La Renardiere.'

'I know. I'll scout out the domain tomorrow. And I shall return there during the night to make sure I will be able to find the path to the clearing, whatever happens.'

'The domain is vast, but well guarded. Don't let them arrest you.'

'If necessary, I shall say that I was out strolling and became lost . . . But what if you're taken elsewhere?'

'Knowing the cardinal, that's highly unlikely.'

'Nevertheless.'

'Then I shall send you a warning by means of Scylla and Charybdis.'

'And if you're someplace where you can't be reached?'

'For example?'

'Le Chatelet? Or the Bastille? Or in a cell at the chateau de Vincennes?

Irritated, Alessandra stood up.

'You always take the blackest view of things!'

Aubusson rose to his feet as well.

'Your plan is too full of risks!' he exclaimed. 'It will be a miracle if—'

He did not finish, feeling upset and embarrassed by his outburst.

With a smile and a knowing glance up at his face, the Italian adventuress indicated that she was not angry with him.

'You're forgetting one thing,' she said.

'And what is that?'

'Even if they do not realise it, I shall have the Cardinal's Blades on my side.'

The tavern was located in rue des Mauvais-Garcons, not far from the Saint-Jean cemetery. Like the surrounding neighbourhood, it was dark, filthy, smelly and sinister. Although its dirt floor was not strewn with the same unhealthy muck that spattered the paving stones outside, the air stank of the smoke from pipes and the cheap yellow tallow candles, as well as the sweating, grimy bodies of its clientele. The One-Eyed Tarasque was a place where people came to drink themselves senseless, drowning their pain and sorrows in the sour wine. One such drunkard could be seen mumbling to himself in