It was a massive old residence built in a severe architectural style, entirely out of grey stone, which a strict Huguenot had commissioned according to his specifications, following the massacre on the least clay of Saint-Barthelemy in 1572. It evoked the ancient fortified manors which still survive in some parts of the French countryside, whose walls are veritable ramparts and whose windows can be used as embrasures. A high wall separated the courtyard from the street. To the right, as one entered, rose the scabby, windowless wall of the neighbouring building. Opposite the gates were two coach doors leading into the stables, which were topped by a hay loft. Finally, to the left, the main building stood at an angle. Flanked by a turret and a dovecote, it comprised a tier of tiny attic windows embedded in its slate rooftop, two rows of stone-mullioned windows looking on to the courtyard, a protruding study, and a ground floor which could be reached by a short flight of steps.
Abandoning his horse Marciac climbed these steps, turned toward his companions who had remained behind, and declared with affected pomposity: "And so we have returned to Hotel de I'Epervier, the House of the Sparrowhawk, which, as you can see, has lost none of its charms. . . . Damn!" he added in a lower tone. "This place is even more sinister than I recalled, which I hardly believed possible. ..."
"This house has served us well in the past," declared the captain. "And it will serve again. Besides, we are all familiar with it."
Having closed the pedestrian door again, the person who had granted them admission now came to join them.
The old man limped on a wooden leg. Small, skinny, dishevelled, he had bushy eyebrows and his bald head was surrounded with a crown of long thin yellowish white hair.
"Good evening, monsieur," he said to La Fargue, holding a large bunch of keys out to him.
"Good evening, Guibot. Thank you."
"Monsieur Guibot?" interrupted Marciac, coming closer. "Monsieur (iuibot, is it really you?"
"Indeed, monsieur, it's me."
"I thought I recognised' your voice but . . . have you really been guarding these sorry stones for the past five years?"
The man reacted as though someone had insulted his family: "Sorry stones, monsieur? Perhaps this house is not very cheerful and no doubt you
will find, here and there, a few cobwebs and some dust, but I assure you that her roof, her structure, her walls, and her floors are solid. Her chimneys draw well. Her cellars and stables are vast. And of course, there is always the small door at the bottom of the garden which leads to a dead-end alley which—"
"And her?" Almades interrupted. "Who is she?"
A young woman in an apron and white bonnet hovered on the threshold to the main building. Plump and blonde, with blue eyes, she smiled timidly while wringing her hands.
"This is Nai's," Guibot explained. "Your cook."
"What about madame Lourdin?" inquired Marciac.
"She passed away last year, monsieur. Nai's is her niece."
"Is she a good cook?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Can she hold her tongue?" asked La Fargue, who had his own sense of priorities.
"She is, so to speak, mute, captain."
"What do you mean, 'so to speak'?"
"She is so timid and bashful that she almost never utters a word."
"That's not exactly the same thing. . . ."
Nai's hesitated to approach, and La Fargue was about to beckon her closer when the knocker on the carriage gate was heard again. It took everyone by surprise and even made the young girl jump.
"It's him," Guibot announced with a hint of worry in his voice.
The captain nodded, his silver hair touching the collar of his grey doublet.
"Let him in, monsieur Guibot."
"'Him'?" asked the Gascon while the porter obeyed. "Who is 'he'?"
"Him," said the captain lifted his chin toward the gentleman who entered the courtyard leading a bay horse by the bridle.
Somewhere between forty-five and fifty years old, he was tall, thin, and pale, patently smug and self-assured, dressed in a crimson doublet and black breeches.
Marciac recognised him even before he caught sight of the man's well-groomed moustache and the scar on his temple.
"Rochefort."
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