A heavy silence fell. Everyone froze, while the temperature in the room seemed to fall by several degrees. Marciac, like some Levantine pasha in the midst of his harem, found himself caught with one little frog on his right, one to his left, another kneeling at his feet, and the last perched on his knee. He attempted a smile, which only worsened the delicate situation in which he had been surprised.
Gabrielle had just made her entrance.
She had shimmering strawberry-blonde hair and was one of those women who are less striking for their beauty-however great-than for their imperious presence. A gown of silk and satin emphasised the perfection of her skin and the spark of her royal blue eyes. Tiny wrinkles had begun to appear at the corners of her eyelids over the passing years-lines which usually denote experience, as well as a certain penchant for laughter.
But Gabrielle neither laughed, nor even smiled.
Icily, she took in each detail of the Gascon from head to toe, as though he were a muddy dog who threatened to ruin her carpets.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to pay my respects to your little frogs.”
“Have you?”
“Uh… yes.”
“Then you can go. Goodbye.”
She turned on her heels.
Marciac extricated himself, not without difficulty, from the divan and its little frogs. He caught up with Gabrielle in the corridor and detained her by the elbow, but, when skewered by her deadly stare, promptly released his hold.
“Gabrielle, my beauty, please… One word-”
“Don’t you dare speak to me. After that nasty trick you played, I should have you beaten!… Ah, actually, that’s an idea.”
She called out: “Thibault!”
A door-leading into the front hall through which visitors to the house normally passed-opened. A giant dressed as a lackey appeared, who seemed at first astonished and then delighted to see Marciac.
“Hello, monsieur.”
“Hello, Thibault. How is your son, the one who broke his arm in a fall?”
“He has recovered, monsieur. Thank you for your concern, monsieur.”
“And your littlest one? How is she?”
“She cries a great deal. She’s teething.”
“Just how many children do you have, exactly?”
“Eight, monsieur.”
“Eight! Well, well, you know your business, my lusty chap!”
Thibault blushed and dropped his gaze.
“Have you finished?” Gabrielle asked in a frosty voice. “Thibault, I am not pleased.”
When he looked at her without comprehension she had to explain: “He waltzed in here as though we live in a barn!”
Thibault turned toward the front hall and the main entrance.
“But he didn’t. The door is shut tight and I swear to you I never left my stool. Although I wouldn’t say no to a cushion, due to the pains which-”
Marciac made an effort not to laugh.
“That’s enough, Thibault,” Gabrielle decreed. “Return to your stool and your tightly shut door.”
And catching sight of the little frogs peeping at them from the salon door, she ordered: “And you! Off with you! Now! And close the door.”
Swiftly obeyed, but still dissatisfied, she added: “Well, there’s never a moment’s peace in this house. Come.”
Marciac followed her into an antechamber, one adjoining her bedroom, whose delicious pleasures he remembered well. But the door to that retreat remained closed and Gabrielle, standing very stiff with her arms folded, prompted him: “You wanted a word with me? Very well. Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“Gabrielle,” the Gascon began in a conciliatory tone-
“There. A word. You’ve said it. Now, goodbye. You know the way… And do not make me ask Thibault to accompany you.”
“Under these circumstances,” Marciac said contritely but gamely, “I wager that even a chaste kiss would be too much to ask-”
“A kiss from Thibault? I’m sure you can arrange that.”
His shoulders lowered, Marciac made a show of leaving. Then he turned and proffered, as a peace offering, the ring won in his duel against the marquis de Brevaux.
“A gift?”
Gabrielle made an effort to remain unmoved. In her eyes, however, there was a gleam with the same sparkle as the ruby in its setting.
“Stolen?”
“You wound me. Handed over willingly by its former owner.”
“Before witnesses?”
“Yes. D’Orvand. You can ask him.”
“He no longer visits me.”
“I’ll make him come see you again.”
“It’s a man’s ring.”
“But the stone is still beautiful.”
She softened somewhat.
“That’s true.”
“And it has no regard for gender.”
With a shrug of her shoulders, Gabrielle took the ring with a swift gesture and, pointing her finger menacingly, she snapped: “Don’t believe that all is forgiven because of this!”
Marciac, now happy and seeking to endear himself further, gave her a knowing look and replied: “But it’s a start, no?”
16
Inside the inn on the road to Clermont, no one had dared to speak or move since the five mercenaries had entered.
“Malencontre,” their leader repeated, tucking his flaxen hair behind his ear. “It’s a memorable name for a warrior, isn’t it?”
He was still seated at Leprat’s table and, having ordered wine, made conversation in a tone that was too self-confident to be at all innocent. Three of his men gathered together behind him while the last of the band, the drac with slate grey scales, guarded the door and kept an eye on everything.
“And yet,” continued Malencontre, “my name means nothing to you. Do you know why?”
“No,” said Leprat.
“Because all those who have heard it from my mouth, without being my friends, soon met their end.”
“Ah.”
“That doesn’t worry you?”
“Hardly.”
Malencontre scraped the scar at the corner of his mouth with a fingernail, and forced himself to smile.
“You’re right. Because you see, today, I happen to be in a merciful mood. I am ready to forget the numerous difficulties which you have created for us. I am even disposed to forgive you for the two bodies you left on the bridge at the border. Not to mention that trick you played on us in Amiens. But…”
“But?”
“But you have to give us what we seek.”
The mercenaries smelled victory. They were five against a single adversary who had no hope of reinforcements. They smiled, anticipating the moment when they would draw swords and let blood spill.
Leprat appeared to take stock of his situation, and then said: “Understood.”
He slowly plunged his left hand into his dusty doublet and withdrew a letter sealed with a blob of red wax. He placed the document on the table, pushed it in front of him, and waited.
Malencontre watched this, frowning.
He made no move to pick up this missive which had already cost two lives.
“That’s all?” he said in surprise.
“That’s all.”
“You simply comply? Without even making a show of resistance?”
“I’ve already done enough, it seems to me. I will no doubt be held accountable for my actions, but it does not serve me at all if, in the end, you pluck a piece of paper from my corpse, does it? In any case, I must have been betrayed for you to have found me so quickly. Someone told you which route I would follow. I believe that this authorises me to take a few liberties as far as my masters’ orders are concerned. One owes nothing to those who prove unworthy of one’s trust.”
When the other continued to hesitate, Leprat insisted: “You want this letter? Take it. It’s yours.”
In the shadowy room, lit only by the faint red flames of the hearth, the silence grew as it does just before the fall of an executioner’s axe, when the upraised blade catches a ray of sunlight and the crowd holds its breath.