father’s arm. ‘Let’s have another cup of wine and watch the play,’ he said. ‘In a minute Carnal Concupiscence comes on.’
Philbert and his entourage reached the door.
Swithin stared angrily at Bart for a long moment. He seemed to have forgotten whom he was supposed to be mad at.
The Cobleys left the room and the big oak door slammed shut behind them.
Swithin shouted: ‘On with the play!’
The actors resumed.
2
Pierre Aumande made his living by relieving Parisians of their excess cash, a task that became easier on days like today, when they were celebrating.
All Paris was rejoicing. A French army had conquered Calais, taking the city back from the English barbarians who had somehow stolen it two hundred years ago. In every taproom in the capital men were drinking the health of Scarface, the duke of Guise, the great general who had erased the ancient stain on the nation’s pride.
The tavern of St Étienne, in the neighbourhood called Les Halles, was no exception. At one end of the room a small crowd of young men played dice, toasting Scarface every time someone won. By the door was a table of men-at-arms celebrating as if they had taken Calais themselves. In a corner a prostitute had passed out at a table, hair soaking in a puddle of wine.
Such festivities presented golden opportunities to a man such as Pierre.
He was a student at the Sorbonne university. He told his fellows that he got a generous allowance from his parents back home in the Champagne region. In fact, his father gave him nothing. His mother had spent her life-savings on a new outfit of clothes for him to wear to Paris, and now she was penniless. It was assumed that he would support himself by clerical work such as copying legal documents, as many students did. But Pierre’s openhanded spending on the pleasures of the city was paid for by other means. Today he was wearing a fashionable doublet in blue cloth slashed to show the white silk lining beneath: such clothes could not be paid for even by a year of copying documents.
He was watching the game of dice. The gamblers were the sons of prosperous citizens, he guessed; jewellers and lawyers and builders. One of them, Bertrand, was cleaning up. At first Pierre suspected that Bertrand was a trickster just like himself, and observed carefully, trying to figure out how the dodge was done. But eventually he decided there was no scam. Bertrand was simply enjoying a run of luck.
And that gave Pierre his chance.
When Bertrand had won a little more than fifty livres his friends left the tavern with empty pockets. Bertrand called for a bottle of wine and a round of cheese, and at that point Pierre moved in.
‘My grandfather’s cousin was lucky, like you,’ he said in the tone of relaxed amiability that had served him well in the past. ‘When he gambled, he won. He fought at Marignano and survived.’ Pierre was making this up as he went along. ‘He married a poor girl, because she was beautiful and he loved her, then she inherited a mill from an uncle. His son became a bishop.’
‘I’m not always lucky.’
Bertrand was not completely stupid, Pierre thought, but he was probably dumb enough. ‘I bet there was a girl who seemed not to like you until one day she kissed you.’ Most men had this experience during their adolescence, he had found.
But Bertrand thought Pierre’s insight was amazing. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Clothilde – how did you know?’
‘I told you, you’re lucky.’ He leaned closer and spoke in a lower voice, as if confiding a secret. ‘One day, when my grandfather’s cousin was old, a beggar told him the secret of his good fortune.’
Bertrand could not resist. ‘What was it?’
‘The beggar said to him: “When your mother was expecting you, she gave a penny to me – and that’s why you’ve been lucky all your life.” It’s the truth.’
Bertrand looked disappointed.
Pierre raised a finger in the air, like a conjurer about to perform a magic trick.
Philbert and his entourage reached the door.
Swithin stared angrily at Bart for a long moment. He seemed to have forgotten whom he was supposed to be mad at.
The Cobleys left the room and the big oak door slammed shut behind them.
Swithin shouted: ‘On with the play!’
The actors resumed.
2
Pierre Aumande made his living by relieving Parisians of their excess cash, a task that became easier on days like today, when they were celebrating.
All Paris was rejoicing. A French army had conquered Calais, taking the city back from the English barbarians who had somehow stolen it two hundred years ago. In every taproom in the capital men were drinking the health of Scarface, the duke of Guise, the great general who had erased the ancient stain on the nation’s pride.
The tavern of St Étienne, in the neighbourhood called Les Halles, was no exception. At one end of the room a small crowd of young men played dice, toasting Scarface every time someone won. By the door was a table of men-at-arms celebrating as if they had taken Calais themselves. In a corner a prostitute had passed out at a table, hair soaking in a puddle of wine.
Such festivities presented golden opportunities to a man such as Pierre.
He was a student at the Sorbonne university. He told his fellows that he got a generous allowance from his parents back home in the Champagne region. In fact, his father gave him nothing. His mother had spent her life-savings on a new outfit of clothes for him to wear to Paris, and now she was penniless. It was assumed that he would support himself by clerical work such as copying legal documents, as many students did. But Pierre’s openhanded spending on the pleasures of the city was paid for by other means. Today he was wearing a fashionable doublet in blue cloth slashed to show the white silk lining beneath: such clothes could not be paid for even by a year of copying documents.
He was watching the game of dice. The gamblers were the sons of prosperous citizens, he guessed; jewellers and lawyers and builders. One of them, Bertrand, was cleaning up. At first Pierre suspected that Bertrand was a trickster just like himself, and observed carefully, trying to figure out how the dodge was done. But eventually he decided there was no scam. Bertrand was simply enjoying a run of luck.
And that gave Pierre his chance.
When Bertrand had won a little more than fifty livres his friends left the tavern with empty pockets. Bertrand called for a bottle of wine and a round of cheese, and at that point Pierre moved in.
‘My grandfather’s cousin was lucky, like you,’ he said in the tone of relaxed amiability that had served him well in the past. ‘When he gambled, he won. He fought at Marignano and survived.’ Pierre was making this up as he went along. ‘He married a poor girl, because she was beautiful and he loved her, then she inherited a mill from an uncle. His son became a bishop.’
‘I’m not always lucky.’
Bertrand was not completely stupid, Pierre thought, but he was probably dumb enough. ‘I bet there was a girl who seemed not to like you until one day she kissed you.’ Most men had this experience during their adolescence, he had found.
But Bertrand thought Pierre’s insight was amazing. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Clothilde – how did you know?’
‘I told you, you’re lucky.’ He leaned closer and spoke in a lower voice, as if confiding a secret. ‘One day, when my grandfather’s cousin was old, a beggar told him the secret of his good fortune.’
Bertrand could not resist. ‘What was it?’
‘The beggar said to him: “When your mother was expecting you, she gave a penny to me – and that’s why you’ve been lucky all your life.” It’s the truth.’
Bertrand looked disappointed.
Pierre raised a finger in the air, like a conjurer about to perform a magic trick.
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