He was breathing hard through his nose, was red-faced again, and his eyes were glaring dangerously. The other man realised his mistake. Turning slightly pale, he explained that the company owned by Gaget offered customers a postal service using dragonnets, that this service was both rapid and reliable, although somewhat expensive, and . . .
"That's enough, that's enough ..." said Ballardieu, finally releasing the Parisian to go about his business.
He hesitated for a moment over whether or not he should enter and then decided to take up a position at a discreet distance in order to wait and to observe—after all, Nais might go elsewhere next. It wasn't long before the old soldier saw a familiar figure come out of Gaget's establishment.
It was not Nais.
It was Saint-Lucq.
5
La Fargue and Almades had no trouble finding the house Cecile had indicated, which stood at the fringe of the faubourg Saint-Denis where the buildings faded away into open countryside. It was surrounded by an orchard enclosed by a high wall, in the middle of a landscape of fields, pastures, small dwellings, and large vegetable gardens. The spot was charming, peaceful, and bucolic, yet was less than a quarter-league from Paris. There were peasants working in the fields and herds of cows and sheep grazing. To the east, beyond some leafy greenery, the rooftops of the Saint-Louis hospital could be seen.
Along the way they had encountered a band of riders coming in the other direction at full gallop, forcing them to draw aside toward the ditches. In normal circumstances they would have taken little notice of them. But the band was headed by a one-eyed man dressed in black leather who strongly resembled the individual Marciac had surprised the night before, organising the abduction of the young Cecile Grimaux.
"I don't believe in coincidences of this kind," La Fargue had commented as they watched the riders disappear toward Paris.
And, after a meaningful look in reply from Almades, they both promptly spurred their mounts in an effort to arrive at their destination as quickly as possible.
They did not slow down until they reached the gate. It was opened wide onto the path that led straight through the orchard to the house.
"Are your pistols loaded?" asked the old captain.
"Yes."
Riding side by side, all their senses alert, they advanced up the path between rows of blossoming trees. The air was sweet, full of delicate fruity fragrances. A radiant morning sun dispensed a light that was joyfully greeted by birdsong. The foliage around them rustled in the gentle breeze.
There were two men standing in front of the small house. On seeing the riders approaching at a walk, they came forward, curious, craning their necks to see better. They were armed with rapiers and wearing doublets, breeches, and riding boots. One of them had a pistol tucked in the belt that cinched his waist.
"Who goes there?" he challenged in a loud voice.
He took a few more steps, while the other stood back and placed the sun behind him. At the same moment a third man emerged from the doorway to the house and remained close to the threshold. La Fargue and Almades observed these movements with an appreciative eye: the three men were perfectly positioned in case of a fight.
"My name is La Fargue. I've come to visit a friend of mine."
"What friend?"
"The chevalier de Castilla."
"There is no one by that name within."
"Yet this is his dwelling, is it not?"
"No doubt. But he just left."
The man with the pistol was trying to appear at ease. But something was worrying him, as if he was expecting something irremediable to happen at any minute. His companions shared his anxiety: they were in a hurry to finish whatever they were doing and wanted these untimely visitors to turn round and leave.
"Just now?" asked La Fargue.
"Just now."
"I'll wait for him."
"Come back later, instead."
"When?"
"Whenever you please, monsieur."
Almades was leaning forward like a tired rider, his wrists crossed over the pommel of his saddle, hands dangling just a few centimetres from the pistols lodged in his saddle holsters. His glance sweeping out from under the brim of his hat, he observed his potential opponents and knew which of them— taking into account, among other things, the layout of the place—he would have to take on if things went badly. With his index, middle, and ring fingers he idly tapped out a series of three beats.
"I would be obliged," said La Fargue, "if you would inform the chevalier of my visit."
"Consider it done."
"Will you remember my name?"
"La Fargue, was it?"
"That's right."
The hired swordsman at the doorstep was the most nervous of the three. He kept glancing over his shoulder, seeming to watch something going on
inside the house which was likely to be coming out soon. He cleared his throat, no doubt signalling to his accomplices that time was running short.
The man with the pistol understood.
"Very well, messieurs," he said. "Goodbye, then."
La Fargue nodded, smiling, and pinched the felt brim of his hat in farewell.