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 Nai's 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."