Chapter Twenty-One: Tuteur
Gaspard had returned to the house with some small notion of accomplishment. A meeting with the Cardinal could be the key to finally concluding the business Elle had in Paris. True, he would be sad to see the woman leave once again, but he would rather see her leave Paris cheerfully for the ocean that she so craved, than be responsible for causing her even one jot of sadness by insisting that she stay.
He would fair well enough on his own. He had done so well enough before now.
Gaspard felt a smirk cross his lips in reminiscence as he thought back on that fateful day. He was newly arrived in Paris, ambition and optimism setting his sharp young features aglow. He had been travelling for days and had hoped to get to Paris in time to see the man in charge of the Red Guard. Alas, he had been waylaid a while in a village to the south east: an incident involving a would-be bandit, a lame horse and a violent proposition for the one Gaspard rode at the time. Being young and headstrong, he had defended the already exhausted mare with great fervour. Fortunately, he had triumphed in the altercation, earning himself only a black eye in the process.
After a trying day and his spirits somewhat dampened with the lateness of the hour, he had been grateful for the warmth and hospitality of L'auberge de Renard. He had first met the little girl as she had approached the door to greet him. He had been intrigued by her even then, but it was not until her mother had greeted him, that he became completely enthralled with the little family. He was even welcomed by the master of the establishment, who seemed an upright man who doted unconditionally on his wife and daughter. Gaspard had spent the night in good company.
At some point in the evening, during the hours spent playing the little girl at chess (and losing almost as often as he won) or joking with her father or smiling gratefully at her mother for the poultice she had tenderly applied to his swollen socket, he realised that he would be quite contented with the city of Paris. Even if he should fail in his current objective of joining the Red Guard, he would be glad to remain. Especially if friends like these could be found so easily.
Over the months that followed, he became fast friends with the Beaufortes. They delighted in his triumphs and comforted his miseries and he was ever eager to repay them in kind. He found himself deeply saddened when the day came for his initiation into the folds of the Red Guard and he was given a bed in the compound. They parted ways amicably and he gave them a fat purse of coin in payment for their continued friendship and support. In return, he received a carved wooden chess piece (a dun coloured knight hewn from an oddment of wood) from the child and a small package containing food, wine and a poultice or two from the little girls' parents.
It was years until he next saw them and it had not been a joyous occasion.
Gaspard gave a shake of his head, shrugged off his heavy woollen mantle and put such memories from his mind. He felt his brow crease at the lack of light around him and he could not help but to call out for the two women who should have been present. First, he called for the servant woman, an edge to his tone that denoted disapproval; it was simply unacceptable to come home to darkness. When he heard no reply, he called for Elle, a cold fear constricting his heart when this also remained unanswered.
Panicked, he threw himself at the stairs, checked each upstairs room in turn. A chill void greeted him at each door and he hurriedly sought his old flintlock from the dresser in his bedchamber, almost cursing when he discovered it missing.
Gingerly, he descended the staircase, pausing a moment at the last step, listening for any movements. A shadow shifted in his peripherals, slowly and with no small amount of confidence. To his surprise, it did not attack him, but rather addressed him in a tone of sardonic civility.
'The Captain wishes you join 'im in le salon, Monsieur Renaud.'
'Very well…' He acquiesced, affecting nonchalance, '…conduire sur.'
He half imagined the man (for he was certain that was the gender of the shadow) tilting his head at him in disbelief because, despite this instruction, he made no effort to move.
In the end, Gaspard had no choice but to proceed to the lounge, the unseen man in tow.
There were two things that lifted his spirits as he came upon the designated chamber: one, was that the fire had been lit in the hearth, granting him the ability to finally see and comprehend the situation. And two, that Elle was nowhere to be found.
The shadow conveyed him across the threshold with a short shove and Gaspard took the opportunity to continue this trajectory and stop only when he had reached a spot by the mantelpiece. He scrutinised the scene before him in an instant, his honed mind (albeit a little rusty with the disuse of retirement) gathering significant titbits of information from whence it could.
There was a man reclining upon the chaise to the left hand side of the room; a spry sort of fellow with a muscular frame and a poised demeanour. He was bedecked in faded fabrics and scuffed leathers. A wide brimmed, feathered hat rested on his lap, leaving his head of greasy black waves bare and flattened at the top. He didn't know why, but Gaspard imagined a bandanna tied around his crown, perhaps one of a pale red to match his half-unbuttoned shirt. The man was gloveless and the fingers of his right hand tangled themselves possessively in the silver strands of hair belonging to Gaspard's servant.
She, in turn, was propped up against the leg of the chaise longue, fading in and out of consciousness. No doubt at the behest of the deep gash above her left eyebrow, currently turning her ashen skin a vibrant sticky red.
Gaspard turned to gaze from the woman to his impromptu shadow at the sound of the lounge door creaking shut. He took a further moment to study him and found the man to be of a brutish stature, bald and seemingly unacquainted with the convention of wearing a shirt under one's jacket. He had also, for some reason, seen fit to tie a twisted scarf above his brow, though this appeared superfluous since it did nothing to protect his shining dome. Somewhat unsurprisingly, the pistol Renaud had been searching for swung at the man's belt.
Despite the palpable tension in the room and the discomfort that foretold the imminence of attack, the former Red Guard was pleased that there were not more of these men present. Though the bald man looked a brute, he reckoned he could probably best one of the two before they overpowered him. By then, someone might hear the struggle and go for help.
'Ah! Gaspard, at last!' chuckled the reclining man, addressing the former Red Guard as if they were firm friends.
Gaspard allowed his brow to furrow and he gave a laugh of his own, 'Pardonnez-Moi, but I don't believe we have met, Monsieur…'
'Captain.' The stranger corrected sharply, an involuntary spasm in his hands summoning a groan from the old woman on the floor. This, in turn, beckoned a grimace from Gaspard and a gloating smile from the so called captain.
'Captain…'
'Perrault.'
Renaud blinked slowly, trying to remember if he had heard the name previously, at all. His memory could glean nothing.
'And you're quite right; we've not met before.'
With this, the captain released the woman in his grasp with a short and sharp shove. She hit the floor with a whimper and took the opportunity to make a laboured escape on her elbows and stomach to a corner of the room wherein she might be forgotten if she stayed quiet enough.
Gaspard watched the action apprehensively, relief sweeping over him when Perrault made no move to punish it. Instead, he placed the hat atop his head and stood to face the former Red Guard.
'I am…let's say… a friend of a friend.'
Perrault approached Gaspard, each step gloating and cocksure. He fought hard the urge to step back at the increased proximity.
'Well, in that case, I'll be happy to help you in any way I can.' Renaud offered, ignoring the prickling sensation on the back of his neck, warning him against this foolish tactic.
Perrault responded with a laugh, clapped a hand on Gaspard's shoulder and goaded the man at the door to follow his example. The brute offered a little huff of a laugh, but then regained his composure, fixing Gaspard with dissuading brown orbs.
'Glad to hear it, Gaspard! I'm sure you'll be most helpful.'
'Bien sur. What is it you need? A room for the night? Some supper?' He fought back a grimace, faltering under the captain's expectant gaze, 'You might have to wait a while for my servant to recover herself, but I'm sure-'
He was abruptly interrupted by the feeling of chill metal pressed against his neck. His eyes flicked sideways, taking in the sudden murderous tint to Perrault's features. His jovial smirk had vanished and there was now a furious glint in his dark eyes.
'I grow impatient, so I'll ask outright…where is she?'
'Who?'
'Don't test me.'
Gaspard swallowed, the edged of the blade grating as he did so. He set his brow, gave an instinctive shake of his head, felt the tiniest scratch open up at his throat.
'I don't know where she is. She said she was leaving Paris.'
This was not the right answer it seemed and Gaspard found himself suddenly thrust against the bookcase, Perrault's hand curling around his windpipe. His own hands grasped at the claw, but his frantic attempts at self-preservation seemed to do nothing but further annoy his attacker.
'Don't think me ignorant, Monsieur Renaud. I know all about you.' Perrault paused a moment at a choked protestation from Gaspard. He rewarded him with the sudden constriction of his fingers. 'I hope you don't think that I would be so indolent as to not interrogate your poor unfortunate orphan about every little detail of her past.'
Gaspard could feel his pulse behind his eyes as he struggled to maintain consciousness. His mind was reeling. He still couldn't fully understand this man. Elle had never mentioned a Capitaine Perrault before and, even though he had not seen her in years, he was sure she would not have kept such a thing as this 'interrogation' from him. His stomach knotted as the full implications of the word suddenly dawned on him. Bile rose in his constricted throat and he gurgled in disgust at the man before him.
Please no…not her…the poor girl…
'She didn't get it at first, but after a while she learned her lesson. You see, I'm a very good teach-'
The captain suddenly buckled with a grunt, releasing the former Red Guard, winded by the sudden knee in his crotch. Gaspard bent double too, gulping in rapid mouthfuls of air in an attempt to recover himself before the brute reached him. He fought to his feet and wavered on the spot for a moment before gathering his senses and lunging for the Captain on the floor. He was met with a flurry of fists, but managed to close his own fingers around Perrault's throat.
Gaspard was so bent on choking the life from Capitaine Perrault that he had quite forgotten the bald man by the door. In fact, his memory was only jogged when a sound like thunder echoed around the chamber and a tiny molten pellet parted the skin at his back and embedded itself in his torso. His hands fell away from the captain's throat and he sat back on his haunches. There was a warmth at his back and this eked its way across his skin, saturating his shirt with each slowing beat of his heart.
Perrault scrambled backwards, his hands testing the flesh at his neck for bruises. He was half aware of Gaspard's attempt at a contemptuous scowl in his direction, but in a mind to add insult to injury, he fixed his gaze elsewhere and stood.
After a second or two more, Gaspard spluttered his last breath and fell forwards, where the blood from his fatal wound surmounted his sides and saturated the plush fibres beneath him.
Perrault heaved a sigh in frustration, reached out and plucked the pistol from his comrade's meaty palm.
'What did you go and do that for?' he chided bitterly, casting the flintlock to the floor in a rage.
The brute opened his mouth to speak, but Perrault had other ideas. He took a breath, brought his forefingers up to his temples and closed his eyes.
'I grow weary of this…' He avowed, trying to think on something else he might do now that Gaspard was no longer of any use to him.
His eyes snapped open, the hands flew from his head and he all-at-once pivoted, turning narrowed eyes and a triumphant smile to the old woman in the corner.
She cowered beneath his gaze and he steadily approached her, his smile widening subconsciously.
