The Blades were gathered .around a meal that wine and enjoyment had prolonged. They were all there. Ballardieu and Marciac were standing on chairs and singing off key. Agnes, radiant, was laughing. Leprat was clapping his hands and joining in on the chorus. And even the austere Almades could not help laughing at the clowning of the first two. The Gascon was playing at being drunk with only a little effort. Sweet Nai's was serving without losing the least bit of their performance. Delighted, old Guibot tapped out the rhythm with his wooden leg.
They seemed happy and La Fargue envied their joy, their carefree attitude, and their youth. He could have been the father of most of them and, in a certain sense, he was.
Or he had been.
In former times, he would have joined in. And he was hesitating over whether or not to do so now when Nai's, in order to pass by, shut the door and left the tired old captain plunged in darkness
He preferred to go to his room without being seen or heard.
Once there, far from the noise and the warmth of the party below, he stretched out, still fully dressed, on his bed, crossed his fingers beneath the back of his neck, and waited, eyes wide open but staring blankly ahead.
Soon the Saint-Germain abbey bell tower tolled midnight.
Then La Fargue got up.
From a small casket, whose key he always kept on his person, he took out a precious silver mirror that he placed before him on a table.
In a meditative pose, with lowered eyelids, he quietly recited a ritual formula in an ancient, dread, and almost forgotten tongue. The mirror which at first sent back nothing but his own reflection responded to the call. Its surface rippled and, slowly, as if emerging from a layer of living mercury, appeared the slightly translucent head of a white dragon with red eyes.
"Good evening, master," said La Fargue.
Ballardieu and Marciac's song: