Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 24

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His servant followed De Mariat out into the street, carrying a valise on one shoulder. Behind them came two porters, each loaded down with a sizable portmanteau. The weather had been cool now for two days and a brisk breeze reached them from the river but the effort entailed in the downhill walk to the Quay des Barques was sufficient to cover the King’s officer’s face with perspiration.

“It’s good we are starting back,” said De Mariat, stopping and pointing to a pair of Indians on the other side of the street. One of them wore a small breechclout and the other had no vestige of clothing to mitigate his nakedness. “To a man of sense and taste the habits of this country are deplorable.”

The town seemed to be filled with sound. The streets were crowded with people who talked and laughed and sang and from the lower town came the jubilant ringing of bells. De Mariat stopped before a tavern and asked the landlord, who was standing in the door, “Is this plaguy place enjoying a celebration of some kind?”

The boniface came forward, wiping his hands on the canvas apron tied about his middle. “Yes, m’sieur,” he said, his eyes crackling with excitement. “D’Iberville leaves today. He goes to win us more victories. Is it any wonder, then, that we are noisy? That great M’sieur Pierre deserves a send-off worthy of the King himself.”

De Mariat grunted and went on. The landlord winked at the two porters and said under his breath, “That prying, snooping nose of a pig!”

The servant lengthened his stride until he was close to his master’s shoulder. “I have word for you,” he said. “About the—the one you pointed out to me.”

“You mean the ... ?”

“Yes, master. The lady.”

“Not so loud, simpleton! Do you think I want everyone in the town to know my affairs? Come closer. No, no, a full stride behind. Do you think I’m inviting you to share my bed and sup with my spoon? I can hear you now if you have to whisper.”

“Master,” said the servant, “she’s the same one. The widow who’s being sent back to France. She leaves today, master, and sails from Quebec on the same boat as you.”

A gratified look took possession of the official’s tallowy face. “How very convenient! If I had set the wheels to turning myself, the results couldn’t have been more satisfactory.” He glanced over his shoulder at the servant. “What else? You have more news for me. I can tell by the gleam in your eye, you sly fox.”

“The lady has money,” whispered the servant. “She had none before and was making a living as a seamstress. Now she’s buying things in the stores. New hats and shawls and shoes, master. And veils and silks for dresses. It’s being said about town ...”

“Yes, yes! Speak up. These are not State secrets you’re telling me. There’s no need to hem and haw like a state envoy.”

“It’s said she’s been given money to go away; it must be so, master, because she’s spending with a free hand. It’s said in the taverns that she intends to play the lady when she gets to Paris. Why else would she want such fine things as she’s laying by?”

“And she has the official permit to return to France?”

“Yes, master. And it takes influence to get one. Influence in high places. These are points much discussed in the taverns.”

De Mariat made no comment for several moments but continued to plod along, planting his splayed feet down firmly as though matters of world-wide importance hinged on each step.

“So!” he said to himself. “My good Charles is seeing to it that the pretty widow is removed out of reach of the young brother. Very wise of him! He doesn’t want this pert little hen taking away one of his sturdy fighting cocks.” He grunted with a sense of complete satisfaction and fumbled a small piece of silver out of a waistcoat pocket. He held this up and addressed the servant. “You’ve done well, François. So well that I suspect you consider yourself entitled to the reward I promised you. Do you see this coin? It’s yours. Unless”—a hopeful gleam appeared in his eyes—“you prefer some other kind of payment. I will give you a promise instead that the next dine you are guilty of an error I’ll remit your punishment.”

“The money, if you please, master.”

His master was not pleased. He held out the coin on the palm of his hand with a look of the keenest regret. It was a small coin indeed and not worthy of so much ado at a change in its ownership. “Very well,” said De Mariat, and tossed the money in the air. The servant had to jump out into the street to catch it and very nearly dropped the valise in doing so.

They had reached the waterfront by this time. The river barges, eight in all (the larger the number, the less danger there was of Indian attacks), which were to start for Quebec within the hour were anchored beyond the Pied du Courant and canoes were being used to take the passengers out to them. It was clear that D’Iberville had not yet put in an appearance, for there was an air of expectancy about the crowds which filled all the space leading to the wharves. While waiting for their hero to appear the onlookers were contenting themselves with a close scrutiny of the other passengers arriving to take their places in the canoes.

“Look, master!” The servant pointed in the direction of the chief target of the public gaze, a young woman standing at the head of the water-steps. She was dressed in a gray traveling cloak and in place of a hat was wearing a thin shawl of the same color over her head. She was accompanied by a middle-aged woman who appeared to be serving her in the capacity of maid, and an unusual number of bags were piled up on the cobblestones beside her.

“It’s the one, master. See how they stare at her!”

Joseph de Mariat was staring himself, but in the opposite direction. His eyes had singled out a young man in a sober brown coat who stood well back of the crowd. The young man was staring, with an air of the most complete melancholy, at the young woman in the gray cloak.

De Mariat called the attention of his man to the unhappy onlooker. “Is that the one they call the Sieur de Bienville?” he asked in a whisper.

“Yes, master.” The servant had accompanied his employer to Longueuil and had made good use of his time while there. “That’s M’sieur Jean-Baptiste, the clever one. He’s the eighth. He leaves next week.”

De Mariat nodded his head. “You are lazy, François, and a great liar. Although I’ve never caught you with your fingers in my pockets, I suspect you of being a thief. But at the same time you have your good points. As a getter of information, useful and otherwise, you have no equal.... Does it seem to you that the Sieur de Bienville is consumed with grief over the departure of the young woman?”

François gave a quick glance at the pale countenance of the eighth member of the Le Moyne family. “Yes, master. He looks very sad.”

There could be no mistake about that. The Sieur de Bienville was looking very sad.