Since Saint-Lucq had turned away a slim brunette, a busty blonde tried her luck. And met with the same lack of success. The serving girl returned to her friends, irritated and disappointed, but she shrugged and said to them: “He just left a brothel. Or he has eyes only for his mistress.”
“I think he prefers men,” added the brunette, with a pout which betrayed her hurt feelings.
“Perhaps…” the third trailed off. “But if he does not touch his glass and he is not seeking company, what does bring him here?”
The other two agreed, in any case, that there was little point in persisting with their advances, and Saint-Lucq-who was watching their debate out of the corner of his eye-was led to hope that they would now leave him in peace.
He returned to his surveillance.
A little after midday, the man Saint-Lucq had been expecting to appear entered the tavern.
He was tall and badly shaven, with long greasy hair, a sword at his side, and a surly air about him. He was called Tranchelard and, as was his habit, he was accompanied by two scoundrels, no doubt hired for their brawn rather than their brains. They picked a table-which emptied as they approached-and did not have to order the wine jugs the tavern keeper brought to them with an apprehensive look.
The third serving girl, whose eyes had remained fixed on Saint-Lucq, chose this moment to act.
She was redheaded and pale-skinned, very pretty, no more than seventeen and knew-from experience-the effect that her green eyes, rose-coloured lips, and young curves had on men. She wore a heavy skirt and, beneath her bustier, her open-necked blouse left her shoulders bare.
“You do not drink,” she said, suddenly standing in front of Saint-Lucq.
He paused before replying: “No.”
“No doubt because you don’t care for the wine you have been served.”
This time he said nothing.
“I could bring you our best.”
Silence again.
“And at the same price.”
“No thank you.”
But the girl wasn’t listening. Adolescent pride dictated that, after the unsuccessful attempts of her two colleagues, she could not fail.
“In return, I shall ask you only to tell me your name,” she insisted with a smile full of promise. “And I shall give you mine.”
Saint-Lucq held back a sigh.
Then, expressionless, he slid his red spectacles down his nose with an index finger and gazed back at the young girl…
… who froze when she saw the reptilian eyes.
No one was unaware of dragons, of the fact that they had always existed, that they had adopted human form, and that they had been living among men for centuries. To the misfortune of all of Europe, a great number of them were now to be found within the royal court of Spain. And their distant racial cousins, the wyverns, served men as winged mounts, while the tiny dragonnets made valued pets and companions. Despite that, a half-blood always made a powerful impression. They were all born of the rare love between a dragon and a human woman, provoking a malaise which became hatred in certain people, horror in others, and in the case of a few men and women, an erotic fascination. Half-bloods were said to be cold, cruel, indifferent, and scornful of ordinary human beings.
“I- I’m sorry, monsieur…” the serving girl stammered. “Forgive me…”
She turned on her heel, her lower lip trembling.
Saint-Lucq pushed his spectacles back to the top of his nose and interested himself anew in Tranchelard and his bodyguards. As they had only come to drink a glass of wine and extort their protection fee from the tavern keeper, they soon left. The half-blood drained his glass, rose, left a coin on the table, and followed them out.
Tranchelard and his men moved steadily through the packed streets where their ill manner alone was enough to open a path for them. They chattered and laughed, unaware of any danger. The crowd protected them, although it also provided cover for Saint-Lucq as he tailed them discreetly. As luck would have it, they soon turned off into a winding alley, as rank as a sewer, which offered a shortcut to the old rue Pavee.
It was too good an opportunity to miss.
Suddenly pressing forward, Saint-Lucq caught up with them in a few strides and took them totally off guard. They barely had time to hear the scrape of the steel leaving its scabbard. The first man fell at once, knocked out by a blow from Saint-Lucq’s elbow which also broke his nose, Tranchelard was held immobile by the caress of a dagger blade at his throat, and the third man had barely moved his hand toward his sword when a rapier point, an inch from his right eye, froze him in midgesture.
“Think twice,” the half-blood advised in a quiet voice.
The man did not delay in taking to his heels, and Saint-Lucq found himself alone, face-to-face with Tranchelard. Continuing to threaten him with the dagger, Saint-Lucq pressed him back up against a grubby wall. They were so close that their breaths blended together; the street thug stank of fear.
“Look at me carefully, my friend. Do you recognise me?”
Tranchelard swallowed and nodded slightly to the man with red spectacles, sweat beading at his temples.
“Perfect,” Saint-Lucq continued. “Now, open your ears and listen…”
12
As his feet touched ground in the courtyard of a beautiful mansion recently built in the Marais quarter, near the elegant and aristocratic Place Royale, the gentleman entrusted his horse to a servant who had rushed up at once.
“I’m not staying,” he said. “Wait here.”
The other nodded and, reins in hand, watched out of the corner of his eye as the marquis de Gagniere climbed the front steps with a quick and supple step.
Sporting a large felt hat with a huge plumed feather, he was dressed in the latest fashion, with such obvious care for his appearance that it bordered on preciousness: he wore a cloak thrown over his left shoulder and held in place beneath his right arm with a silk cord, a high-waisted doublet of grey linen with silver fastenings, matching hose decorated with buttons, cream lace at his collar and cuffs, beige suede gloves, and cavalier boots made of kid leather. The extreme stylishness of his manner and attire added to the androgynous character of his silhouette: slender, willowy, and almost juvenile. He was not yet twenty years old but seemed even younger, his face still bearing a childish charm and softness which would take a long time to mature, while the blond hair of his moustache and finely trimmed royale beard preserved a silky adolescent downiness.
An ancient maitre d’hotel greeted him at the top of the steps and, eyes lowered, accompanied him as far as a pretty antechamber where the marquis was asked to wait while he was announced to the vicomtesse. When the servant finally returned he held a door open and, with a bow, ushered the marquis through. Remaining by the door, he again avoided meeting the young man’s gaze as though something dangerous and troubling emanated from him, his elegance and angelic beauty nothing but a facade disguising a poisonous soul. In that respect, the young marquis resembled the sword which hung from his baldric: a weapon whose guard and pommel had been worked in the most exquisite manner, but whose blade was of good sharp steel.
Gagniere entered and found himself alone when the maitre d’hotel closed the door behind him.
The luxuriously furnished room was plunged into shadow. Drawn curtains shut out the daylight and the few scented candles that burned here and there created a permanent twilight. The room was a study for reading. Shelves full of books covered one wall. A comfortable armchair was installed next to a window, by a small side table which bore a candelabrum, a carafe of wine, and a small crystal glass. A large mirror in a gilded frame hung above the mantelpiece, looming over a table and an old leather-backed chair with a patina of age.