CHAPTER 15
A W alk on Rotten Row
Moths danced in the candlelight or died in the flame. Strolling troubadours played tired music on badly strung mandolins, cheap guitars, and a leaky accordion. Couples strolled through light spilling from hotel windows. Empty curricles and cabriolets for hire parked beneath glowing street lamps. A crowd of sailors gathered at the end of the boulevard.
The distant quay was ablaze with torches as men unloaded barrels from the frigate for the line of waiting drays. Reflecting ship lanterns made spindly shadows of its spars against the sky. The moon hung with stars might spark Robert's memory some other time.
He ate alone at a sidewalk table. His beefsteak was grilled with mushrooms sauteed in burgundy wine. The earlier course of swordfish might have been enough to eat, but he never could resist a decent steak, and it was too late now to reconsider the blancmange he had ordered for dessert.
He had a weakness for a good blancmange, even though he knew it could never compare to Molly's. The girl had a gift when it came to finding her way around in a kitchen. He was a lucky man to have a seat at her table; not many men could say the same about their wife. Her talents exceeded a capability to fill the lonely night, and even fewer would maintain that sentiment, especially as years slipped by. He counted himself among but a handful of men who agreed they would never regret the day they found their bride.
The ship's captain ventured down to the quay. Robert could not see him, but the men working around the gangplank stopped to pay attention. That he was an important man was apparent in the way they held their obeisance until after he passed. Robert was down to his last morsel before the man's outline emerged briefly in the streetlight at the end of the wharf. The captain climbed into a barouche hitched to white horses, remarkable for their spectral appearance in the dark.
The waiter appeared to exchange his plate for custard piled high with berry compote. Robert had no idea what he planned to do with it; the cup of coffee that the man poured looked more appealing.
"C'est tout, monsieur?" "Qui, merci."
The waiter took his tray away. Robert realized belatedly that he scrubbed his upper lip with the napkin. It was an unnecessary habit for a man without a mustache. He dumped cream into his coffee and stirred it deliberately while tasting one of the berries. The barouche wheeled onto the boulevard as the ghostly horses assumed earthly form and filled the night with the clatter of their hooves. The coffee was brewed strong in Marseille, and its flavor was not disappointing. There was nothing like a good cup of coffee on the Mediterranean coast. It blended well with the blancmange, although the compote was too sweet.
The doorman spotted the barouche before it stopped. The entrance splintered into a maze of activity. Glass doors split as the manager emerged. Lackeys spilled past with lamps to light the street before the carriage opened. The ship's captain sent everyone away with a word.
Darkness returned, but the manager hovered at the entrance. The captain stepped onto the shadowed curb. His silhouette was tall and lean, but instead of carrying himself with the rigidity associated the discipline of his station, he moved with fluid ease. The lining of his cape flowed crimson in the lamplight when he touched his cane to the walkway. He wore a low-crowned topper, instead of the bicorn of his rank. A lackey had a light ready when he paused with a cigar.
Robert did not remember finishing his blancmange. He pushed the plate aside with the back of his hand in exchange for his coffee. Did the ship's captain expect him to rise with his approach? If so, he was disappointed. Robert did not meet his eyes until the man sat down opposite him.
He was younger than Robert had expected, and not bad- looking. Intelligent eyes considered Robert from beneath expressive brows. If Robert did not know better, he might mistake this man for his father, the notorious Count of Mandelieu, but that would have been years earlier, when Robert was a younger man himself. The fleet of ships belonging to the count's Cyclops Freight Line had increased over the years, but Robert doubted the man sitting opposite did little more than ride his father's coattails.
"Vous devez ttre Robert Peltier."
"And you are Claude Rouget."
He directed a puff of cigar smoke between them, but laughed gently. "Vicomt» Rouget."
Robert accepted the correction impassively; the title of viscount meant little these days. "Pardon."
"You've eaten, yes? The food here is good, no?"
His father would beget an idiot. Robert sipped his coffee and returned the cup to its plate. "Yes."
"Oh, how nice."
He had expected something more substantial. Apparently, the weather changed with the times. The other's cigar, combined with Robert's satiated appetite, made him long for a pipe, but he was in no position to relax yet. His waiter scurried close to refill his coffee when he approached with a tulip glass of cognac for the guest.
"Sante} eh?"
"A votre." Robert's reply drew a narrowed focus when the viscount tasted his drink.
"You're a carefree man," Claude Rouget decided. The crowd of sailors had moved to the shadows across the street. The younger version of the Count of Mandelieu was perhaps not so different after all. "You may have guessed I've been sent with an apology. You see, my father is out of the country at the moment . . . You understand."
If the younger man had intended for Robert to find his insincerity engaging, it missed its mark. "Yes, of course." "Otherwise, he would have been delighted to see you.
Imagine his surprise to learn that after all this time, you'd returned to France."
"One can imagine." Robert had not expected a fanfare of welcome. The viscount's gaze failed to weigh as heavily as the younger man might have liked, but it was enough to achieve its purpose.
Viscount Rouget made up his mind not to vacillate. "I understand you are not the only one making an unprecedented return to France."
"Even pilgrims come home whenever they may."
Claude's smile was cold. "There's a reason Frenchmen emigrate to foreign lands."
"Times change."
"And history remains."
"It depends on who's writing it."
The viscount laughed appreciatively. "Touche, Monsieur Peltier." He enjoyed a generous swallow of his drink and a satisfied drag on his cigar. Its smoke ran out with his sympathy. "Ah, but what is done is done, is it not? At least, that is what they say . . . and in the case of our friend, it is already too late." The enjoyable dinner he had just finished turned, regrettably, to stone upon the viscount's insinuation. "How so?"
Rouget chuckled amiably. "At last I have your attention." He sipped from the tulip glass and waved his cigar vaguely. "You may relax-it's just a reminder of what's at stake."
Only dead men lost their tempers, but Robert came close, goaded by the viscount's youthful insolence. He hid his defiance in his coffee cup. The apple sitting opposite had not fallen far from his father's tree. The sailors on the dark side of the boulevard held counsel silently.
"Don't worry-it's too early to tell. In fact, it's not yet been received, but the wheels are in motion. So as they say, quello che sara} sara-what will be, will be-and we'll see what comes of it, eh?"
Robert would not give him the satisfaction of asking questions to inflate his self-infatuation. He finished his coffee and boldly signaled for his check, but did not miss the quick shift in the younger Claude's attention, which gave the waiter permission to approach.
"It's a pity you are leaving, when you've only so recently arrived."
Robert dropped a coin on the waiter's tray. "Don't let it bother you. I've never cared much for Marseille."
The younger Claude laughed, and one glance at the door pulled out a handful of help to clean up the place. Finishing his cognac deliberately, he rose as Robert prepared to leave. "It's a pity, but not everyone