Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,47

avoid him while he, by taking successive sidesteps, would have cut off any attempt to advance. And this cruel little game would have continued until his victim became exasperated, fled, or tried to force his way past.

But instead . . .

Because the brim of his hat hid his eyes, Saint-Lucq slowly lifted his head until the grey drac's scaly features were reflected in the scarlet lenses of his round spectacles. The drac's gaze became lost in them, while the half-blood stood there unmoving.

He waited, expressionless, for the reptilian to smell, detect, discern in him the blood of a superior race, a blood that would make the drac's primordial instincts scream out in fear and respect.

As finally happened.

Frightened and ashamed, unable to bear the dumbfounded looks on his comrades' faces, the drac stepped aside, letting Saint-Lucq continue on his way, and then fled down the nearest alley.

The other three members of the band were speechless for a moment. What had happened? Who was this man in black, calmly walking at a steady pace, and now disappearing around a corner to penetrate further into Les Ecailles?

After a brief consultation, they resolved to follow him.

And kill him.

The nightmares had stayed at a distance for some time, but tonight the whole baying pack had returned to haunt Agnes's sleep. Awakening with a start, her throat and brow damp with sweat, she knew she would not be able to fall asleep again immediately in the warm night air. She therefore got up and, feeling a slight pang of hunger, decided to find herself something to eat. She would no doubt locate something to nibble in the kitchen, as she waited for sleep to return or for dawn to break. In any event, it was pointless to remain in her bed, surrounded by shadows and at the mercy of her regrets.

Without paying much heed to convention, the young baronne de Vaudreuil dressed in a summary fashion and, barefoot, silently descended the shadowy main staircase. All of the denizens of the Hotel de l'Epervier were fast asleep . . .

. . . except for one person, already in the kitchen.

It was La Fargue.

Sitting alone in the candlelight, his hat and his Pappen-heimer placed beside him, the old gentleman was polishing off a substantial snack.

Upon seeing who had joined him, he smiled and greeted her softly:

'But who have we here? Are you hungry, baronne?'

Agnes cast a longing eye over the appetising victuals on the table.

She yawned.

'Well, yes, as a matter of fact . . .'

'Then sit down,' La Fargue invited her, pointing to the place opposite him.

She took a seat, watching the gentleman cut a piece of bread, butter it, and then spread a thick slice of pate upon it.

'Here,' he said.

Agnes bit deeply into the tartine, and her mouth was still full when La Fargue, handing her a glass of red wine, asked:

'So? This master of magic?'

She had to swallow with the help of a sip of wine before answering.

'Frankly, the man seemed very young and a trifle . . . whimsical.'

The old captain smiled faintly.

'Sieur Teyssier often gives people that impression.'

'Are you acquainted with him, then?'

'Well enough to know that he is extremely learned. Besides, His Eminence is not in the habit of surrounding himself with mediocrities.'

Still dubious, the baronne de Vaudreuil shrugged and continued to devour her tartine.

'He spoke of the men the dracs killed when they entered Paris that night,' she declared. 'According to him, the poor wretches all died of the ranse.'

The ranse was a terrible disease said to be transmitted to humans by dragons and which, in its final stages, corrupted the soul as much as the body. The process, however, was usually a slow one.

Those who fell victim to the disease could live with it lor years.

'They succumbed in just a few minutes?' La Fargue queried in astonishment.

Agnes nodded, unable to reply, once again having her mouth full.

She gulped, and added:

'Teyssier had one of their hearts in a jar. It was a black, revolting thing that could have come from the carcass of some old man who'd suffered from the disease for years. But in fact, it belonged to a halberdier on guard that night. The man was not even thirty . . .'

La Fargue grimaced.

'The dracs have a sorcerer,' he said.

'That was Teyssier's opinion ... Is there any more pate?'

Agnes had finished her tartine and, with a hungry look, was examining the rest of the food on the table.

'I'll take care of that. Tell me what else Teyssier had to