Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,6
pondered for a moment, understood its meaning, and smiled to himself. And as if to confirm his suspicions, he then detected the clinking of a chain.
He entered.
This room had been spared by the fire, but not by the ravages of time. Dusty and decaying, it was lit by a dozen candles placed here and there. A large bed, of which only the frame and cabled columns remained, took up almost the entire space. At the rear was a door whose outer corner was bevelled to lit against the sloped ceiling just beneath the roof. Tattered curtains swayed before a window with broken panes. Planks
had been nailed across it from within, but one of them had been ripped away recently. La Fargue understood why when he saw a dragonnet wend its way into the room from outside.
After shaking its dripping wings dry the small reptile leapt onto the wrist held out by a beautiful young woman who, turning to the old gentleman, greeted him in a friendly fashion.
'Welcome, monsieur de La Fargue.'
She was perfectly poised and elegant, wearing a grey hunting outfit composed of a jacket that clasped her waist prettily and a heavy skirt that was hitched up on the right to allow her to ride in a saddle like a man. Her attire was completed by a pair of hose, a hat tilted coquettishly over one eye and gloves that matched her fawn leather boots.
'Madame.'
'You can't imagine, monsieur, my pleasure in meeting with you.'
'Really?'
'Of course! Do you doubt it?'
'Yes. A little.'
'And why is that?'
'Because my orders could be to arrest you and bring you to France to be tried. And in all likelihood, be convicted.'
'Are those your orders, monsieur?'
La Fargue did not reply. Impassive, he simply waited.
He was nearly sixty years old, a more than respectable age in a century when anyone over forty was considered elderly. But if ordeals, battles and grief had turned his hair white and left his eyes dull from lost illusions, time had not yet stripped him of his vigour and personal aura. Tall and wide-shouldered, with a proud, confident bearing, the old gentleman remained impressive in both his figure and in the strength that emanated from him — and he knew it. He deliberately resorted to silence rather than words to impose his will on others.
Standing before him, the young woman seemed small and fragile. She met his eyes for a moment, without blinking, and then, quite casually, pointed to a small table and two stools.
'I wager that you have not supped. You must be famished. Sit, please. You are my guest.'
La Fargue took a stool and, as she busied herself with preparations, he was able to look more closely at this woman playing the role of hostess. She was a pale-skinned, red-headed beauty with delicate features, finely drawn lips, a charming smile, and dark, lively eyes. But the old gentleman was aware of the danger lurking behind this pretty face and innocent air. ()thers before him had learned that lesson to their bitter cost. The she-devil was cunning and had few scruples. And she was said to be a mercenary at heart.
With her dragonnet perched on her shoulder, she brought over a heavy wicker basket, removed the cloth covering it to dress the table, and arranged various victuals between the captain and herself, setting a porcelain plate, a fine-cut glass, and a knife with a mother-of-pearl handle before each of them.
'Would you pour the wine?' she proposed.
Readily enough, La Fargue took the bottle he saw poking from the basket, removed the wax stopper and tipped the layer of oil that protected the wine from contact with the air out onto the floor.
'What should I call you?' he asked as he filled the glasses.
The young woman, who was amusing herself by feeding titbits to her dragonnet, paused and gave La Fargue a puzzled glance.
'I beg your pardon?'
'What is your name, madame?'
She shrugged and smiled as if he were jesting with her.
'Come now, monsieur. You know who I am.'
'To be sure,' allowed La Fargue. 'But of all the names you have employed in the service of France, England, Spain and the Pope, which do you prefer?'
She stared at him for a long moment and her eyes grew cold.
At last, she replied:
'Alessandra. Alessandra di Santi.' She nodded with her chin at the glass which the old gentleman had not yet raised to his lips. 'Aren't you drinking? The wine is from Beaune, and I believe it to be to your liking.'