Page 17 of A Column of Fire

He thanked heaven for fools such as Bertrand.

Slowly but surely, as Bertrand worked his way down the bottle of wine, Pierre introduced into their chat the unique buying opportunity.

It was different every time. Today he invented a stupid German – the fool in the story was always a foreigner – who had inherited some jewels from an aunt and wanted to sell them to Pierre for fifty livres, not realizing that they were worth hundreds. Pierre did not have fifty livres, he told Bertrand, but anyone who did could multiply his money by ten. The story did not have to be very plausible, but the telling of it was crucial. Pierre had to appear reluctant to let Bertrand get involved, nervous of the idea of Bertrand buying the jewels, perturbed by Bertrand’s suggestion that Pierre should take fifty livres of Bertrand’s winnings and go away and make the purchase on Bertrand’s behalf.

Bertrand was begging Pierre to take his money, and Pierre was getting ready to pocket the cash and disappear from Bertrand’s life for ever, when the Widow Bauchene walked in.

Pierre tried to stay calm.

Paris was a city of three hundred thousand people, and he had thought there was no great danger of running into any of his past victims by accident, especially as he was careful to stay away from their usual haunts. This was very bad luck.

He turned his face away, but he was not quick enough, and she spotted him. ‘You!’ she screeched, pointing.

Pierre could have killed her.

She was an attractive woman of forty with a broad smile and a generous body. Pierre was half her age, but he had seduced her willingly. In return, she had enthusiastically taught him ways of making love that were new to him, and – more importantly – loaned him money whenever he asked.

When the thrill of the affair had begun to wear off, she had got fed up with giving him money. At that point a married woman would have cut her losses, said goodbye, and told herself she had learned a costly lesson. A wife could not expose Pierre’s dishonesty, because that would involve confessing her adultery. But a widow was different, Pierre had realized when Madame Bauchene turned against him. She had complained loud and long to anyone who would listen.

Could he prevent her from arousing suspicion in Bertrand? It would be difficult, but he had done more unlikely things.

He had to get her out of the tavern as fast as possible.

In a low tone he said to Bertrand: ‘This poor woman is completely mad.’ Then he stood up, bowed, and said in a tone of icy politeness: ‘Madame Bauchene, I am at your service, as always.’

‘In that case, give me the hundred and twelve livres you owe me.’

That was bad. Pierre wanted desperately to glance at Bertrand and measure his reaction, but that would betray his own anxiety, and he forced himself not to look. ‘I will bring the money to you tomorrow morning, if you care to name the place.’

Bertrand said drunkenly: ‘You told me you didn’t have even fifty livres!’

This was getting worse.

Madame Bauchene said: ‘Why tomorrow? What’s wrong with now?’

Pierre strove to maintain an air of unconcern. ‘Who carries that much gold in his purse?’

‘You’re a good liar,’ said the widow, ‘but you can’t fool me any longer.’

Pierre heard Bertrand give a grunt of surprise. He was beginning to understand.

Pierre kept trying all the same. He stood very upright and looked offended. ‘Madame, I am Pierre Aumande de Guise. You may perhaps recognize the name of my family. Kindly be assured that our honour does not permit deception.’

At the table by the door, one of the men-at-arms drinking toasts to ‘Calais française’ raised his head and looked hard at Pierre. The man had lost most of his right ear in some fight, Pierre saw. Pierre suffered a moment of unease, but had to concentrate on the widow.

She said: ‘I don’t know about your name, but I know you have no honour, you young rogue. I want my money.’

‘You shall have it, I assure you.’

‘Take me to your home now, then.’

‘I cannot oblige you, I fear. My mother, Madame de Châteauneuf, would not consider you a suitable guest.’

‘Your mother isn’t Madame de anything,’ said the widow scornfully.

Bertrand said: ‘I thought you were a student living in college.’ He was sounding less drunk by the minute.

It was over, Pierre realized. He had lost his chance with Bertrand. He rounded on the young man. ‘Oh, go to hell,’ he said furiously. He turned back to Madame Bauchene. He felt a pang of regret for her warm, heavy body and her cheerful lasciviousness; then he hardened his heart. ‘You, too,’ he said to her.