Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,38

remains of her fortune?'

The Alchemist gave one of his rare smiles, which barely lifted the corners of his thin lips. Like all dragons, he was amused by human religions and the shortcomings of their representatives. His race had no other form of worship than that of ancestors, no other divinities than the Ancestral Dragons whose existence, even in times immemorial, was not subject to doubt.

'Do you lack money, madame?'

'No, thank you. But I am touched by your concern, although it does seem to me that your visit cannot be one of pure courtesy.'

'Madame, I—'

'No, monsieur. Don't defend yourself on this subject; you would only be lying, after all . . .' She sighed. 'I am indeed most ungrateful in reproaching you. Since . . . since my setbacks, visitors have been rare. The Black Claw is quick to forget anyone who can no longer serve it. I do not regret that

-I'm happy to still be alive. I imagine I owe it to my birth, to my rank. And perhaps because they believe I've been rendered harmless once and for all—'

'I wager that they are mistaken on that point.'

'Do you really think so?'

The former vicomtesse looked at the Alchemist.

'Yes,' he said, returning her gaze without wavering.

It meant nothing, she knew that.

Nevertheless, she chose to believe that he was sincere.

'I just need to rest, hence my self-imposed retreat here. And then one day, when I have recovered some semblance of my past power—'

She broke off, eyes shining and lost in the distance . . .

The Alchemist waited for her to return from her dreams of restored glory. But perhaps those dreams had carried her too far away. After a moment, he heard her murmuring, as she nodded her head vaguely:

'Yes . . . Some rest ... I only need some rest . . .'

*

The inn, a little way from Vincennes on the road to Champagne, was full of soldiers going to join their regiment at Chalons-sur-Marne. Swords, daggers and pistols lay on all the tables; muskets and halberds leant against the walls. The noisy, mixed-up, indistinct, but warlike conversations reverberated around the common room where a golden light poured in through the windows.

Mocking sallies were thrown above heads wreathed in pipe smoke. Other jests answered them and loud laughter erupted.

Captain La Fargue entered and, from the inn's threshold, where his impressive silhouette was outlined against daylight and blocked the exit, he surveyed the assembly with a slow glance. Eyes narrowed, he did not find the person he was looking for, while ignoring the curious looks that were being warily cast in his direction. Anyone but him would no doubt have drawn some remark that would have started a fight. But none of the soldiers present were stupid enough or drunk enough to pick a quarrel with a man like La Fargue.

A rare kind of man, intimidating and dangerous.

Entering in turn, Almades approached the captain from behind and said in his ear:

'Round the back.'

La Fargue nodded and, accompanied by the Spaniard, went out into the sunny back yard. There he found the comte de Rochefort, who was playing skittles with a group of gentlemen.

Seeing who had arrived, the cardinal's henchman took his time to aim, launched the ball, and managed a fairly good throw. Satisfied, he rubbed his hands together while his playing companions congratulated him. He thanked them, excused himself, finally nodded to the captain of the Blades, and went to recover his doublet which he had removed in order to play more comfortably. Putting it back on, he invited La Fargue to sit with him at a small table beneath a tree. There was a glass and a jug placed upon it. Rochefort drank from the glass and La Fargue, provocatively, from the jug.

'Please, help yourself,' said the cardinal's man ironically.

The old gentleman soldier gazed at him steadily. And for good measure, without blinking, he wiped his mouth with the hack of his hand and smacked his lips.

'How very elegant . . .'

'What do you want, Rochefort? I have better things to do than watch you play skittles.'

The comte nodded vaguely. He glanced distractedly at their surroundings, and then took a deep breath as he collected his thoughts. Finally, in an almost casual tone, he asked:

'What do you make of La Donna?'

La Fargue sighed and leaned back in his chair.

'My opinion of her has not changed,' he replied in a weary voice. 'I believe we cannot trust the woman. But I also believe she has come to us with a story