“It’s beyond belief!” blurted another merchant.
“And yet,” added a pedlar who knew the region well. “Nothing could be truer.”
“And since when did baronnes carry swords, around here?
“Why, since it pleased them to-”
“It’s simply extraordinary!”
“The baronne Agnes de Vaudreuil…” sighed the first merchant dreamily.
“It’s said she’s of excellent birth,” said the second.
“Old nobility of the sword,” declared the veteran of the Wars of Religion. “The best. The true… Her ancestors went on the crusades and her father fought beside King Henri.”
This exchange took place at the Silver Cask, a village hostelry on the road to Paris. The two merchants had stopped there after concluding their business at an excellent market in Chantilly, which explained their shared good humour. Two more men had invited themselves to join their table. One was a quaint, garrulous local, an old soldier with a wooden leg who lived on a meagre pension, passing the greater part of his days drinking, if possible at someone else’s expense. The other was a pedlar who seemed not at all eager to resume his rounds, carrying his heavy wicker pannier on his back. It was an hour after dinner and, with the afternoon rush over, the tables had quickly emptied. With the aid of wine, the conversation rolled along freely and vigorously.
“She seemed very beautiful to me,” said a merchant.
“Beautiful?” repeated the veteran. “She is more than that… Her firm tits. Her long thighs. And her arse, my friends… that arse!”
“The way you speak of her arse I would swear you’d seen it?”
“Bloody hell! I’ve not had that good fortune… But others have seen it. And felt it. And enjoyed it. For it’s a very welcoming arse, indeed…”
The drinkers were talkative, the subject ripe for discussion and the wine pitchers quickly emptied, all to be replaced immediately. However, the prospect of a handsome profit was not enough to gladden the heart of master Leonard, owner of the Silver Cask. Anxious, but not daring to intervene, he kept an eye on another customer sitting all alone at a table, visibly fuming.
The man wore sagging funnel-shaped boots, brown leather trousers, and a large red velvet doublet left open over his bare chest. His body was of a robust build but weighed down with fat-large thighs, broad shoulders, and a thick neck. He might have been fifty-five years old, perhaps more. Beneath a close-cut beard, his lined face was that of an old soldier who had grown soft over the last few years, and interlacing crimson veins-which would soon blossom into blotches-decorated his cheeks. Nevertheless, his eyes remained sharp. And the impression of strength which emanated from his person was unmistakable.
“And where are they, these happy arse-samplers?” gaily demanded the most cheerful, and most drunk, of the merchants. “I would like to hear more from them!”
“They’re all about. This beauty is not shy.”
“It’s said she kills her lovers,” interjected the pedlar.
“Nonsense!”
“You might better say that she exhausts them!” corrected the veteran with a bawdy wink of the eye. “If you know what I mean…”
“I see, yes,” nodded the merchant. “And I say, myself, that there are worse deaths than that… I’d gladly flirt with her myself, the naughty wench!”
Hearing that, the man who had been listening to them unnoticed rose with the air of someone resolved to carry out a necessary task. He advanced with steady steps and was halfway to the table when master Leonard nimbly barred his path, a somewhat courageous act, since he was two heads shorter and only half the other man’s weight. But the safekeeping of his establishment was at stake.
“Monsieur Ballardieu, please?”
“Don’t be alarmed, master Leonard. You know me.”
“Precisely. With respect… they’ve been drinking. No doubt, too much. They don’t know what they’re-”
“I tell you, there’s no cause for concern,” the man said with a friendly and reassuring smile.
“Just promise me you won’t start anything,” begged the innkeeper.
“I promise to do everything possible to that end.”
Master Leonard stepped aside with regret and, wiping his damp hands on his apron, watched Ballardieu continue on his way.
On seeing him, the veteran with the wooden leg turned pale. The three others, in contrast, were taken in by his easy manner.
“Please excuse me, messieurs, for interrupting you…”
“Please, monsieur,” replied a merchant. “What can we do for you? Would you care to join our table?”
“Just a question.”
“We’re listening.”
“I would like to know which of your four heads I shall have the honour of breaking first.”
18
A sound disturbed the drowsing Saint-Lucq.
It was a repeated, irregular scratching, which sometimes seemed to have stopped only to promptly begin again. A scrape of a claw. Against wood.
The half-blood sighed and sat up under the bedclothes. The afternoon was drawing to a close.
“What is it?” asked the muffled voice of the young woman lying beside him in bed.
“You can’t hear it?”
“I can.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
And she turned over, pulling the bedcovers round her.
Having two or three hours to kill during the day, Saint-Lucq had approached her on rue de Glatigny, an alley in the city where ladies of pleasure had plied their trade since the Middle Ages. He had offered to pay her handsomely on the condition that he could also take rest in her dwelling. The deal concluded, she had led him into the little attic room where she lived, close to the law courts. “You’re not my first,” she had said, on seeing the half-blood’s reptilian eyes.
Then she’d undressed.
An hour later, she was asleep. As for Saint-Lucq, he had remained awake for a moment, looking at the stripped plaster ceiling. He had no preference for the company of prostitutes but their bought hospitality had its advantages-one being that, unlike hoteliers, they did not keep a guest register.
The scratching continued.
Saint-Lucq rose, put on his breeches and his shirt, listened carefully, and drew back the nasty brown rag which served as a curtain to the sole window. The sound was coming from there. Daylight entered, and the silhouette of a black dragonnet was clearly visible behind the pane of glass.
The half-blood was still for a moment.
“Is he yours?”
The young woman-she claimed to be called Madeleine, “like the other Magdalene”-sat up and, squinting in the light, grumbled: “No. But it seems to think so… I made the mistake of feeding it two or three times. Now it won’t stop coming here to beg for more.”
Truly wild dragonnets had almost disappeared in France. But those that were lost, had escaped, or had been abandoned by their masters lived in the cities like stray cats.
“Find me something to feed him,” ordered Saint-Lucq as he opened the window.
“Oh, no! I want to persuade him to go elsewhere. And it’s not-”
“I’ll pay for it as well. Surely you have something he’ll eat?”
Madeleine rose, naked, while the half-blood watched the dragonnet and the dragonnet watched the half-blood, with equal wariness. The reptile’s scales shone in the light of the waning sun.
“There,” said Madeleine, bringing in a cloth tied together at the corners.
Saint-Lucq untied the linen and found a half-eaten dried-up sausage.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all,” confirmed the young woman, already back in bed. “But there’s a roast-meat seller on the street corner, if you like…”
Hand held flat, the half-blood presented a morsel of sausage to the dragonnet. The animal hesitated, sniffed, took the food in at the tip of its pointed muzzle, and seemed to chew it with some regret.