Almades mulled this over, keeping his silence while rwisting his signet ring around, over and over, in series of threes. Memories, not all of which were happy, flooded into his mind. Then he gave his current surroundings a long sweeping glance.
"You'll need to buy me a horse," he said finally.
15
In Paris, the vicomte d'Orvand's coach left Marciac, as he requested, on rue Grenouillere, or more precisely, in front of a small, cosy house which had no real distinguishing features compared to the rest except that it was known to locals as Les Petites Grenouilles ("the Little Frogs"). Being familiar with the neighbourhood, the Gascon knew he would find the front door closed at this hour of the afternoon. So he went around to the rear and climbed over a wall, before crossing an attractive garden and entering the house through a low door.
He walked soundlessly into the kitchen where a very plump woman dressed in a skirt, apron, and white bonnet had her back turned to him. He approached her on tiptoe and surprised her with a sound kiss on the cheek.
"Monsieur Nicolas! Where did you spring from? You almost scared me to death!"
"Another kiss, to win your forgiveness?"
"Be off, monsieur. You know very well that I have passed the age where such gallantries—"
"Really? And what about that handsome, strapping carpenter who curls his moustaches on the doorstep every time you go to the market?"
"I don't know of whom you speak," replied the blushing cook.
"Now, now . . . where are the young ladies?"
"In the next room."
Moments later Marciac made his appearance in a bright and elegantly furnished room, where he immediately attracted the notice of four pretty young ladies who were sitting about in casual dress. The first was an ample blonde; the second was a slim brunette; the third was a mischievous redhead; and the last was a Jewish beauty with green eyes and dusky skin. The blonde read from a book while the brunette embroidered and chattered with the other two.
Armed with his most roguish smile, Marciac bowed, doffed his hat with a flourish, and exclaimed: "Greetings, mesdemoiselles! How are my charming little frogs?"
He was welcomed with fervent cries of joy.
"Monsieur Nicolas!"
"How are you—?"
"It's been so long—!"
"Do you know how much we've missed you—?"
"We were worried—!"
The eager young women, relieving Marciac of his hat and sword, made him sit on a divan.
"Are you thirsty?" asked one of them.
"Hungry?" asked another.
"Desire anything else?" asked the most daring of the lot.
Marciac, delighted, accepted both a glass of wine and the demonstrations of affection that were lavished upon him with such good grace. Teasing fingers roamed over his chest and toyed with his shirt collar.
"So, monsieur Nicolas, what do you have to recount for us after all this time?"
"Oh, not much, I'm afraid. . . ."
The young women made a show of profound disappointment.
"... merely that I fought a duel today!"
This news produced rapture.
"A duel? Tell us! Tell us!" the redhead cried, clapping her hands.
"Before anything else, I must describe my adversary, because he was rather formidable—"
"Who was he? Did you kill him?"
"Patience, patience. ... If memory serves me, I believe he was almost four measures tall."
A measure was equal to two metres. They laughed.
"You're mocking us!"
"Not at all!" Marciac protested in a joyful tone. "He even had six arms."
More laughter.
"And to complete his portrait, I should add that this demon came straight from hell, had horns, and breathed fire from both his mouth and his ars—"
"And just what is going on here?" demanded a voice which rang with authority.
A heavy silence fell. Everyone froze, while the temperature in the room seemed to fall by several degrees. Marciac, like some Levantine pasha in the midst of his harem, found himself caught with one little frog on his right, one to his left, another kneeling at his feet, and the last perched on his knee.
He attempted a smile, which only worsened the delicate situation in which he had been surprised.
Gabrielle had just made her entrance.
She had shimmering strawberry-blonde hair and was one of those women who are less striking for their beauty—however great—than for their imperious presence. A gown of silk and satin emphasised the perfection of her skin and the spark of her royal blue eyes. Tiny wrinkles had begun to appear at the corners of her eyelids over the passing years—lines which usually denote experience, as well as a certain penchant for laughter.
But Gabrielle neither laughed, nor even smiled.
Icily, she took in each detail of the Gascon from head to toe, as though he were a muddy dog who threatened to ruin her carpets.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to pay my respects to your little frogs."
"Have you?"
"Uh . . . yes."
"Then you can go. Goodbye."
She turned on her heels.