He meandered through the mix of people on the streets, carriages and chairs passing down the centre of the road, street sellers and hawkers propping up its edges. There were few people of quality walking the thoroughfare, no doubt preferring to be dropped at their destinations, thus avoiding the dirty streets.
There were those of the middling sort passing by Avers, their clothes plainer, and expressions ones of purpose as they strode along. They would not be walking purposelessly through pretty gardens today or sitting aimlessly in cafés. No, they would be in the law courts, the merchants’ guilds, moving the mechanisms of economy that allowed the country’s nobility to live in leisure off the third estate—the peasants and professionals in French Society.
Still, today was different. Avers did have a purpose beyond amusement and he must focus if he wished to aid Wakeford.
“Eau de vie!” The street seller’s cry—let out with sudden shrillness as he passed—caused Avers to jerk in his step and almost stumble into the path of an oncoming carriage.
He shot the hawker an unimpressed frown. The old woman stared expectantly at him from beneath a floppy white cap. Her bird-like features twitched, eyes darting, as she tried to determine whether the gentleman’s initial start would give way to a sale.
She jerked a cup of drink towards him, the gesture showering a little of the water and brandy concoction on the knee of her rough woollen dress.
“Eau de vie!” she said again.
Avers suspected, had she not had a basket of jars with identical looking liquid perched precariously on her knees, she might have pressed her sale home by forcing the cup up into his face.
“Non, merci,” he replied, touching the handle of his cane to the brim of his hat.
The streets were punctuated with pedlars, either those with stationary stalls like this woman, or water-bearers and kindling sellers going from house to house.
The woman, no doubt unused to being acknowledged, took this as encouragement. “Oui, monsieur. C’est bon eau de vie. It gives life,” she said in broken English, clearly identifying Avers’ accent.
She removed the tray of jars from her lap and came forward, offering the glass again. Avers stepped back, knocking into a water bearer behind him, causing the man’s full buckets to slosh water out from under their lids and soak his stocking.
“Imbécile!” the angry young man cried.
“Pardon,” Avers said, righting himself and smiling affably at the cross water bearer who clearly hadn’t seen it was a gentleman of quality he was cursing. “For your troubles.” Drawing a silver coin from his pocket, Avers dropped it into the man’s waistcoat.
“And no more of your distractions,” he commanded, turning back to the eau de vie seller and holding up a restraining hand.
The old woman threw her free arm up in the air, exasperated, and then without pause tossed off the now half-cup of eau du vie herself, causing Avers to laugh heartily as he turned on his way.
At the west entrance to the Jardin des Tuileries, Avers took the curving Fer à Cheval path towards the octagonal lake. Maintaining an easy pace as he followed the edge of the Bassin Octogonal, its fountain defying gravity and pattering across the broad waters, he meandered through the mix of people already promenading in the mid-morning sun.
Up ahead, towards the central path, were a series of street performers and sellers. There were more of the quality here. Riders passed by and open-topped carriages displayed their fashionably adorned aristocratic contents for Society to see. Expensive silks milled about, extravagant millinery stood out in the crowd, and most noticeable of all, the loud, entitled voices of the nobility rang out, as if every passer-by might be interested in what they had to say.
While last night was a time to build his credibility within Society, today he was on the hunt for his prey, and no greetings and niceties were necessary. He picked up the pace a little, making it past swells in the crowd where they gathered around one performer or another. At that moment, Avers heard the sound of a woman arguing, the words cutting through the focus he had on his destination.
The confrontation was in rapid-fire French, and he might have lost attention quickly, had not the voice sounded familiar.
“You are a thief, sir,” the woman snapped. “Last week they were half the price.”
Avers slowed his pace subconsciously, and began scanning the crowd. He was almost certain he recognised that voice.
“I shall pay you no more than two sous.” An indignant little bark punctuated this statement.
“I will not be moved,” the truculent seller responded.
Avers caught sight of him. Stout and thunder-faced, he wore breeches, a linen jacket and a faded white shirt, tied with a jaunty red cravat at odds with its wearer’s humour. In his hand was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and bound with string, and he was using it to gesture ferociously at the woman who accosted him.
A dark-haired woman with elfin features.
“Do not be such a stubborn, vieille chèvre,” the woman replied, now in a weary tone, rolling her eyes with the words. “I have no time for your stupidity.”
The man did indeed look like an old goat with his bandy legs and grizzled grey beard. The corner of Avers mouth twitched as he halted beside Mademoiselle Cadeaux. The dog growled as he spotted Avers’ approach, following his advance with intent little eyes.
“Be quiet you impertinent brute,” Avers commanded in an amused voice, reaching out his gloved hand to pull gently at one of the dog’s ears.
“Mademoiselle Cadeaux?” he queried as the dark-haired woman’s gaze dropped to her dog and saw the sudden adoration in the animal’s face at being petted.
The shadow of surprise moved across her features before she turned back, drawing breath, seemingly intent on continuing her battle despite the interruption.
“Trouble?” Avers asked, a lazy smile unfurling on his lips. “The Duke of Tremaine—I believe we met at Madame Pertuis’ salon three night’s since.”
His persistence drew Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s eyes back towards him and in them he beheld undisguised suspicion. It was almost a full minute before she replied, and Avers almost felt intimidated. Almost.
“Bonjour, Your Grace,” she said at last, inclining her head. “You will excuse me.” She turned immediately back to the vendor who still held provokingly before her the brown parcel she desired.
“Are you finished being stupid? My Lutin will have his biscuits and you will have no more than two sous!”
“C’est impossible!” cried the man angrily. “The liver alone has doubled in price. I can let you have them for no less than four sous.” Putting the parcel back in his cart, he made ready to move off.
At that point, Avers stepped forward. “Allow me,” he said gallantly, taking out four copper coins and offering them to the man.
The vendor looked delighted, immediately taking on deferential tones and exchanging the parcel for the money, tugging his forelock at Avers and moving off. Though that was not before one final glare at the woman who had defied him.
Avers turned, holding out the parcel to Mademoiselle Cadeaux, but rather than finding a grateful expression upon the woman’s face, she looked incensed.
How interesting.
