Finally, remarking on her arrival, the innkeeper excused himself from the gentlemen. They grumbled while he hastened to greet Agnes. On his way, he hailed a stable boy, who abandoned his bucket and pitchfork to busy himself with the baronne’s horse.
“Ah, madame! Madame!”
She walked toward him with a firm step. And as she neither slowed her pace nor changed her course when they met, he was forced to make an abrupt about-turn and trot along at her side.
“What has he done now?” asked Agnes.
The innkeeper was a small, dry, thin man, although sporting a pot belly as round as a balloon. He wore a short waistcoat over his shirt, and his figure was squeezed by the belt of his apron, which fell to his thighs.
“Thank the Lord, madame. You’re here.”
“Rather than heaven, thank the boy you sent to warn me, master Leonard… Where is Ballardieu? And what has he done?”
“He’s inside, madame.”
“Why are all these people waiting outside?”
“Because their coats or bags are still within, madame.”
“Then why don’t they collect them?”
“Because monsieur Ballardieu will not let anyone in.”
Agnes halted.
Caught unawares, the innkeeper was two steps past her before he followed suit.
“Pardon me, master Leonard?”
“It’s just as I said, madame. He threatens to shoot anyone who opens the door in the head, unless it is you.”
“Is he armed?”
“Only with a pistol.”
“Is he drunk?”
Master Leonard had the air of a man who was not quite certain he understood the question and was afraid of committing a faux pas.
“Do you mean: more drunk than usual?”
The baronne gave an aggravated sigh.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Then yes, madame. He is drunk.”
“Plague on the old tosspot! Can he not indulge within reason?” she said to herself.
“I believe he never learned how, madame. Or else he has no desire to do so-”
“So how did all this start?”
“Ah, well,” the innkeeper hesitated. “There were these gentlemen… Please note, madame, that they had enjoyed an excellent meal and that it was more the wine than themselves that was talking…”
“I see. And then?”
“A few of their comments displeased monsieur Ballardieu-”
“-who, in his way, let them know it. Very well, I understand. Where are they, these gentlemen?”
The innkeeper was astonished.
“They’re still inside, madame!”
“So who are those three over there, covered with bumps and bruises?”
“Just those who attempted to intervene.”
Agnes raised her eyes to the sky then continued to walk toward the inn and, in addition, toward those standing outside it. Master Leonard hurried ahead of her to open a path.
Seeing that she was about to enter, an elegant officer who had only remained to be entertained by the comedy of the situation, said to her: “Madame, I advise you against opening this door.”
“Monsieur, I advise you against preventing me,” the baronne replied in a flash.
The officer drew back his shoulders, more surprised than annoyed. Agnes suddenly understood that he had only meant to be gallant. She softened.
“Never fear, monsieur. I know the man conducting the siege inside.”
“What?” interrupted the man with the dented hat. “You know that raving madman?”
“Have a care with your remarks, monsieur,” said Agnes de Vaudreuil glacially. “He of whom you speak began some work upon you which I could easily complete. And it would cost you a little more than a hat.”
“Would you like me to accompany you?” the officer insisted politely.
“No, thank you, monsieur.”
“Know, nevertheless, that I shall be ready if needed.”
She nodded and entered.
Low-ceilinged and silent, the room had been thrown into an upheaval of fallen chairs, toppled tables, and shattered crockery. Splatters of wine stained the walls where jugs had been broken. Several panes of glass were missing from a window. A serving platter had been cracked. In the hearth, the spit was only held up by one forked support and the counterweight mechanism designed to keep it turning clicked uselessly.
“Finally!” exclaimed Ballardieu in the tone of someone welcoming a long-hoped-for visitor.
He was enthroned in triumph in the middle of the chaos, sitting on a chair, one foot leaning against a supporting beam to balance himself. His red velvet doublet was open over his massive chest, hairy and sweating, and his smile was huge, seeming full of reckless joy despite-or perhaps because of-his split lip and swelling eye. Ballardieu was one of those who took delight in a good brawl.
He held a wine bottle in one hand and, in the other, something which looked like a wooden skittle.
“Finally?” Agnes was astonished.
“Of course! We’ve been waiting for you!”
“‘We’? Who is this ‘we’?”
“These messieurs and myself.”
Tearing her incredulous gaze away from the old soldier with great difficulty, Agnes observed the men. They were all a sorry sight to see, having received a severe chastising.
Two very richly dressed men-merchants no doubt-were piled up one on top of the other, either unconscious or pretending to be. Another-most likely a pedlar-had scarcely fared better: he was sitting with his arms and chest pinned inside a large wicker basket through the bottom of which his head had burst, the latter now swaying woozily on his neck. Finally, a fourth member of the party was huddled up at Ballardieu’s feet, and his cringing manner indicated that he feared another thump. This one the baronne knew by sight at least: he was a veteran who had lost a leg in the Wars of Religion, and henceforth, hobbling around, dedicated his days to a tour of the local inns.
“You’ve left them in a pretty state,” commented Agnes.
She noticed that the veteran was missing his wooden peg leg, and suddenly realised it was the skittle-shaped object with which Ballardieu was playing.
“They deserved it.”
“Let us hope so. Why have you been waiting for me?”
“I wanted this man, right here, to offer you his apologies.”
Agnes looked at the unfortunate one-legged man who, trembling, was protecting his head with his forearms.
“Apologies? For what?”
Ballardieu suddenly found himself extremely embarrassed. How could he explain, without repeating the vulgar and abusive comments that had been made about her?
“Uhh…”
“I’m waiting.”
“The important thing,” continued the old soldier waving the wooden peg leg like a sceptre. “The important thing is that this lout offers his apologies. So, lout, speak up! The lady is waiting!”
“Madame,” groaned the other, still seeking about for his prosthesis, “I beg you to accept my most sincere and respectful apologies. I have ignored all my obligations, which not even my poor nature, my neglected education, and my deplorable habits can justify. I promise to mind my conduct and manners in future and, conscious of my faults, I deliver myself to your goodwill. I add that I am ugly, have a mouth like an arse, and that it is difficult to believe, having seen me, that the Almighty made Adam in his own image.”