Madame Paillard stilled a moment before she took the letter from me warily, as though it might turn and bite her.
She unfolded the pages and skimmed the words, her cheeks burning a sudden, dark red. Then she marched to the tiny fire that crackled on the hearth, thrust the letter into the flames, and jabbed the paper with a poker until it had quite burned to ash.
Moreau and I watched her in silence. Madame Paillard stabbed the embers a few more times, then she straightened, gazed at the hearth a moment, and calmly returned the poker to its place.
She turned back to us and let out a sigh. “There. That is done. Would you like coffee, Captain Lacey? Perhaps some more of my cook’s excellent pastries?”
The rest of my visit with Moreau and Madame Paillard was congenial, she laughing and jesting with a lightness of heart.
We avoided discussing the case of poor Gallo, who’d paid the ultimate price for his scheming and intimidation, and Signora Ruggeri, who’d nearly paid it as well.
As the afternoon waned, I took my leave, explaining that we would depart for England in a few days.
Madame Paillard once more showered me with kisses and thanks, encouraging me and also Donata to write and to visit whenever we had the mind to.
Moreau walked out with me, he too now leaning on a walking stick. Bartholomew had cleaned and polished mine after its time in the river, and its wood and brass gleamed like new.
“Lacey.” Moreau faced me on the doorstep. “You have done me many a good turn since you arrived in Lyon, and this after I had done you only a terrible one. If we had known each other before the war, I might have called you friend.”
“Then it would have been awkward when we met in the woods in Spain,” I said in a light voice. “You’d might have felt obliged to kill me to prove your loyalty to France.”
He answered my feeble humor with a faint smile. “I am glad it did not have to come to that. But now, I would like to call you friend. I will not force you to think of me as such in return.”
“Nonsense.” I held out my hand. “As I have said many a time now, encounters in war are different from encounters in peace. I am pleased to consider you a friend, Moreau.”
He hesitated, then clasped my hand, his grip even more certain than before. “Be well, mon ami.”
He then towed me a step forward and kissed me on both cheeks without shame. Though I could not bring myself to return the gesture, I wrung his hand harder, appreciating his sentiment.
“Au revoir, Colonel,” I said to him when we released each other. “I will write, as Madame Paillard requested.”
“Au revoir, Captain. Bon voyage.”
We studied each other for a moment longer, two gentlemen regarding each other stoically in the street.
I gave him a nod, which he returned, then I turned and strode away, my walking stick ringing on pavement that returned the heat of the summer sun.
Brewster fell into step with me when I reached the end of the lane. “I’ll miss their cook, I will.”
“We might return one day, Brewster.”
“Huh. Not if that trip is like this one. You do have a way of finding trouble, guv.”
“I find as much at home, so where I am scarcely matters, does it?”
Brewster only grunted in return. “You finished cozying up to your old enemy?”
“Enemies no longer, I am pleased to say.”
Brewster shook his head as we made our way to the plaza. “I’ve given up trying to understand you. I think I never will.”
“Never mind, Brewster. Let us have a cup of wine and ease our cares, shall we?”
“As long as it’s ale instead, I’ll not argue.”
We turned for Beaumont’s tavern, I determined to enjoy my last repasts there.
The next morning, when I walked down the hill to Beaumont’s for my coffee and breakfast, I found Fernand Devere waiting for me.
