Without taking any interest in Marciac, who approached her, she looked up at the private mansion as if she were considering buying it.
“Good day, madame.”
She turned toward him, looking at him haughtily without replying.
But her mouth smiled.
“How may I help you?” the Gascon tried.
From the window, Almades chose that moment to intervene.
“You have a very poor memory, Marciac. You don’t even recognise your friends.”
Disconcerted, Marciac shrugged and wrinkled his brow, then went from puzzlement to sudden joy when the baronne de Vaudreuil lifted her veil.
“Agnes!”
“Hello, Marciac.”
“Agnes! Will you permit me to embrace you?”
“I will allow that.”
They hugged in a friendly fashion, although the young woman had to restrain a hand that had gone wandering down the small of her back before they separated. But the happiness which the Gascon displayed on seeing her again seemed sincere and she did not want to spoil it.
“What a delight, Agnes! What a delight…! So, you too, you’re back in the game?”
Agnes indicated the steel signet ring she wore over her grey leather glove.
“By my word,” she said. “Once in…”
“… always in!” Marciac completed for her. “Do you know how many times I have thought of you over the past five years?”
“Really? Was I dressed?”
“Sometimes!” he exclaimed. “Sometimes!”
“Knowing you, that’s a very pretty compliment.”
Almades, who had left the window, emerged from the front door of the main building.
“Welcome, Agnes.”
“Thank you. I’m very pleased to see you. I’ve missed your fencing lessons.”
“We can continue them at your pleasure.”
During these effusions, Guibot had toiled to open the two great doors of the carriage gate. This done, the coach entered, driven by Ballardieu, who jumped down from the seat and, pipe between his teeth, smiled broadly. Once again, the greetings were jubilant and noisy, in particular between the old soldier and the Gascon: these two shared quite a few memories of bottles emptied and petticoats lifted.
They had to unhitch the coach, tow it into the stables, unload the luggage, and settle the horses in their stalls. This time everyone lent the porter a hand, all the while forbidding Agnes from lifting a finger to help. She wasn’t listening, but happily made acquaintance with the charmingly shy Nais who had been drawn from her kitchen by the sound of raised voices.
La Fargue, in his turn, arrived.
Without entirely putting a damper on their joyful mood, his presence did cause them to lower their tone slightly.
“Did you have a good journey, Agnes?”
“Yes, captain. We hitched up the horses upon receiving your letter and we have burned our way through the staging posts getting here.”
“Hello, Ballardieu.”
“Captain.”
“It’s still a sad place,” said the young woman, indicating the sinister grey stones of the Hotel de l’Epervier.
“A little less now,” said Marciac.
“Is that everyone, captain?”
Looking stern and proud, girded in his slate grey doublet, and with his hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword, La Fargue blinked slowly and paused before replying, his gaze drifting toward the carriage gate.
“Almost, now.”
The others turned and immediately recognised the man standing there, with a white rapier at his side, smiling at them in a way which might have been melancholic or simply sentimental.
Leprat.
9
On Sundays and feast days, when the weather was fine, Parisians were happy to travel beyond the capital for their pleasure. Once past the faubourgs the country villages of Vanves, Gentilly, and Belleville, and the market towns of Meudon and Saint-Cloud offered hospitable inns where all could drink, dance, play bowls beneath the trees, or simply partake of the cool shade and fresh air. The atmosphere was joyful and people took liberties or, in the eyes of some, indulged in scandalous licence. And it is true that spontaneous revels of lovemaking at times took place there in the evenings, enlivened by wine and a desire to taste all of life’s pleasures. There being fewer customers during the week, these establishments then became retreats which were visited mainly for their tranquillity and the quality of their table-such as Le Petit Maure, in Vaugirard, renowned for its peas and strawberries.
Saint-Lucq and Bailleux had temporarily found refuge in one of these inns. Having jumped into the river through a window in the water mill where the notary had been held captive, they successfully escaped the cavaliers who had come to collect their prisoner but were also carried far from their horses by the current. Rather than turn back toward their enemies Saint-Lucq had decided they would continue on foot. They therefore walked for several hours through woods and across fields, scanning the horizon on constant lookout for signs of pursuit, and arrived, exhausted, at a village with a hostelry standing by its entrance.
For the time being Lucien Bailleux found himself alone in a room on the first floor. Sitting at a table laid for the purpose, he ate with a ferocious appetite born of three days’ captivity, poor treatment, and fasting. He was still in his nightshirt-the same one he had been wearing when he was dragged from his bed in the middle of the night. But at least he was clean, after his forced bath in the river. Thin, his face drawn, and his hair falling across his eyes, he looked exactly what he was: a survivor.
He gave a sharp, worried glance toward the door when Saint-Lucq entered without knocking. The half-blood brought a package of clothes which he threw onto the bed.
“For you. They belonged to a guest who left without paying.”
“Thank you.”
“I also found us two saddled horses,” continued Saint-Lucq, risking a quick glance out of the window. “Can you ride?”
“Uh… Yes. A little… You think the cavaliers are still after us?”
“I’m sure of it. They want you and they’ve not given up the fight… The bodies of the brigands I killed at the mill were still warm when they arrived and as a result, these cavaliers know they only missed us by a tiny margin. And if they found the horses I had planned to use in our flight, they also know there are two of us, and that we are on foot. They are no doubt scouring the countryside for us at this very moment.”
“But we’ll escape them, won’t we?”
“We’ll have a chance if we don’t delay. After all, they don’t know where we’re going.”
“To Paris?”
“Not before we’ve reclaimed that document. Not before we’ve put it in a safe place. Get dressed.”
A little later, Bailleux was just finishing dressing when he broke down. He dropped onto the bed, put his face in his hands, and burst into sobs.
“I… I don’t understand,” was all he managed to say.
“What?” said the stone-faced half-blood.
“Why me? Why has all this happened to me…? I’ve led the most orderly of lives. I studied and worked with my father before inheriting his position. I married the daughter of a colleague. I was a good son and I believe I am a good husband. I’m charitable and I pray. I conduct my business with honour and honesty. And in return, I have asked for nothing but to be allowed to live in peace… So why?”
“You opened the wrong testament. And, what is worse, you let that fact be known.”
“But it was my duty as a notary!”
“Undoubtedly.”
“It’s not fair.”
To that, Saint-Lucq did not reply.
From his point of view, there was no fairness in life. There were only strong men and weak ones, the rich and the poor, the wolves and the sheep, the living and the dead. That was how the world was, and how it would always be. Anything else was merely fiction.