Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,29
bottles.
Saint-Lucq joined him and, while he stood there and poured himself a drink, he asked:
'And La Rochelle?'
Marciac pursed his lips and shrugged.
The half-blood drained his glass, peered at the Gascon through his red spectacles, nodded briefly, and went to sit in an alcove window that looked out onto the garden.
Marciac smiled.
It had been three weeks since they had seen one another. Three weeks during which Marciac, on his solo mission, could very well have been killed. But he knew that as far as welcomes were concerned, he could expect no more from Saint-Lucq.
The door of the antechamber opened and Rochefort, without glancing at anyone, departed as quickly as he had arrived. As for La Fargue, he took his time in emerging. He went over lo the Blades and accepted the glass Leprat held out to him.
'So?' Agnes asked.
'So, La Donna has somehow managed to achieve her goal. I don't know why, but the cardinal is taking her very seriously. He believes this plot she claims to have discovered does in fact exist, and he charges us with unravelling the whole affair . . .'
'And how are we to do that?' enquired Leprat.
'Obviously, first we need to find our lady spy again.'
'Preferably before the dracs, who are also hunting for her,' added Marciac.
'Yes . . . The trouble is, we have no idea how to find her.'
'Didn't she say she would make contact this evening, in Paris, captain?' recalled Agnes.
'Yes,' La Fargue admitted.
'Then let's hope she -doesn't delay too long before keeping her promise.'
'And for now, captain?' Marciac wanted to know.
'For now,' the old gentleman replied, 'we wait.'
'Ah—'
'What? Do you have other plans?'
'Yes. Two of them. And both have very beautiful eyes.'
His dragonnet perched on his shoulder, Arnaud de Laincourt returned home from the One-Eyed Tarasque slightly drunk. He arrived at his house in rue de la Ferronnerie just as night was falling and found someone waiting outside for him. It was the man in the beige doublet who seemed to take great pleasure these past few days in dogging his footsteps without openly showing himself.
'Good evening, monsieur,' said the gentleman.
'Good evening. You were waiting for me, I see . . .'
'Indeed.'
'In vain, I fear.'
Without seeming to, Laincourt watched the darkening shadows around them carefully. Although there were still people travelling along rue de la Ferronnerie at this hour, it was never too early to carry out a well-executed ambush in Paris. Prudence was thus called for, until he knew exactly what the man in the beige doublet wanted from him. But the
cardinal's former spy — for whom being alert to the slightest hint of danger was second nature —
could detect no cause for alarm. And Marechal, the old hurdy-gurdy player's dragon-net, remained placid.
'In vain? Could you not hear me out, before chasing me away ?'
'I am not chasing you away, monsieur.'
'Grant me just a few moments of your time. I only ask that you listen to me.'
Laincourt was silent for a long while, examining the mysterious gentleman with an impassive eye.
He was probably approaching forty years of age. Trim, fair-haired, with a well-kept moustache and royale beard, he was dressed elegantly but not ostentatiously. He had a frank and kindly demeanour, and his friendly eyes made no attempt to evade Laincourt's searching gaze.
'With your permission, it is time we had a certain conversation,' the gentleman insisted.
A window opened above them. It was done discreetly, but not so quietly that Laincourt failed to hear it. No doubt it was monsieur Laborde, the ribbon seller who possessed a shop on the ground floor and resided on the first floor with his family . . . unless it was his wife, or both of them, pressed together and lending a curious ear to the proceedings below. Laborde was the principal lodger in the house. Enjoying the landlord's complete trust, he collected other lodgers' rent and made it his business to maintain the respectability of the entire house. When Laincourt was still an ensign in His Eminence's Guards, the ribbon maker had sought his good graces by fawning over him. But now the young man had returned his cape — and done so under such troubling circumstances that it had even started rumours — matters had changed.
Still hesitating over whether he should allow the gentleman a hearing, Laincourt wondered what advice the hurdy-gurdy player would have provided in such a situation.
I would advise you not to have this conversation on the front doorstep. Especially not with that fat Laborde eavesdropping . . .