Chapitre Trente-Cinq

Le Fusil de Dufour

Beatrice

Tonight was the night. Beatrice needed to deal with the repulsive Gaëtan Dufour and silence his rumor-mongering tongue. Lucilla had given her the greatest weapon for defeating such a foe, but that wasn't the only weapon Beatrice carried to this duel.

She'd followed the lech's instructions perfectly and found herself outside a small home, far removed from the nearest town. Beatrice could tell at a glance that Gaëtan had not decorated this home with his own so-called artwork. Iron sculptures of swans and cranes decorated the front lawn, their great wings shifting with the breeze. The walls were covered with small, golden ornaments in the shapes of serpents with the heads of lions; clearly artwork from the far east.

Beatrice walked down the cobblestone path leading to the front door. The ground was uneven beneath her feet, creating the sensation that she was ever-so-slowly falling towards the house. Was she plummeting into Gaëtan's trap?

She stopped for a second and adjusted her skirts, her hands brushing against both the loaded pistol strapped to one of her legs and the stiletto dagger strapped to her other. It helped her to know that if this whole thing turned sour, she could at least defend herself.

At the door she took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and knocked. On her third knock Gaëtan opened.

He's been waiting by the door this whole time...

"Good evening, Duchess Renart," he said in a tone that mocked both flattery and formality. He held the door for her and ushered her into the house, clearly eager to get to the deed to which Beatrice had already agreed. She rolled her shoulders, trying to suppress the ice climbing up her spine.

"Lord Dufour," she said. As he was closing the door she looked around the room for a strategic position. If she remained standing he would try to initiate the act with her and likely reach for the laces on the back of her bodice. Should she sit down? Not on the couch. If she did, he would take the seat next to her and she'd be cornered.

A rocking chair! Perfect! She took her seat and crossed her legs, locking one knee over the other.

For a moment, the look on his face told her that she'd taken him off-guard.

But that disgusting smile soon returned to his face, and he said, "Make yourself comfortable. I'll fetch us a bottle of wine."

With him out of the room, Beatrice took stock of all assets and liabilities. As far as she could tell, there was only one door in and out of this house, and that was at the front. If he wanted to prevent her from leaving he could easily block that. And after he heard what she had to say, she wasn't certain he wouldn't be foolish enough to try to kill her.

She wished she'd brought Fitzroy along for this, but in order to bring him along she'd need to tell him what this was all about. She didn't know for sure if the spymaster already knew what she and Leon had done, but in the off-chance that he did not know, she wanted to keep him in the dark as long as she could.

No assassin to come to her rescue; she would need to be her own hero.

So, what else was in this room? A rifle above the hearth. Antique, by the look of it. No way of knowing whether or not it was loaded. She'd have to keep an eye on that. Beside the fireplace was a poker, another thing she'd have to keep in mind.

In the mirror on the far wall, Beatrice could see that there was a great window behind her. Big enough for her to get through? Yes, but she'd probably need to break it first, and if Gaëtan was pursuing her and he was smart about it, he'd get to her horse before she could by simply exiting the front door.

Gaëtan returned with two empty glasses and a bottle of white wine. He set down the glasses on a table between the rocking chair and the couch, uncorked the wine, and poured for both of them.

"Thank you," said Beatrice, taking the glass in her hand. Could she trust this was not poison? He'd poured both from the same bottle, a bottle previously unopened. Yet, Beatrice couldn't be sure there hadn't been some poison in the glass itself.

He raised his glass to her, as if toasting to something, though he never actually said a word. Beatrice raised her glass in turn and brought it to her lips.

He's watching to see if I'll drink...

Long ago, Lucien had taught Beatrice a trick, a way to appear as if one were drinking without imbibing a single drop. With the glass pressed to her closed lips, she swallowed her own saliva with an audible gulp. That seemed to satisfy the pig, because he took a drink from his own glass and reclined on the couch.

"So, I wanted to speak with you first," said Beatrice, placing her glass down on the table.

Judging by the look on his face, this simple move had put power back into her own hands. He'd be forced to talk first, even bargain, if he had any hope of getting what he wanted here. "Certainly, my lady," he said.

"I just thought, if we're going to become lovers, even secret ones, we ought to know each other a little better," said Beatrice, giving him a playful grin.

"Oh?" said Gaëtan, grinning back. "Were you planning on meeting with me more than once?"

"I haven't decided yet," said Beatrice, tracing one finger along the lip of her glass. "It all depends on how well you satisfy me."

Gaëtan chuckled. "Then I can guarantee we'll be lovers for years to come."

Good. He'd taken the bait. Beatrice tilted her head downward and looked up at him from just below her eyelids; a trick she'd been taught early on to make her face appear sultrier. Judging by the look on his face and the fidgeting of his free hand it was working.

"Then I would know more about my lover," she said, accentuating the last word. "I understand that a few years ago you joined some merchant friends of yours on their ship?"

"That's true." Gaëtan looked up and off to the right, reminiscing about the trip.

"I hear you sailed all the way to Shinar and back," said Beatrice.

"We did, yes," said Gaëtan. "Ah, that was a great time. Listening to the sailors' shanties, enjoying the cool ocean breeze, even the storms were exciting!" Gaëtan leaned in closer, on the edge of the sofa cushions. "I once saved one of those sailors from drowning!"

"Really?" Beatrice's face lit up as she feigned interest in his nostalgic, and likely exaggerated, tale.

"Yes!" Gaëtan said. "It was in the middle of a terrible storm. A hurricane, I believe. He fell overboard and everyone around me was panicking, but I kept a level head. I grabbed a rope from the mast, tied it around my waist, and jumped in after him." Gaëtan stood from the sofa and began to pace as he regaled her with his heroic tale. "The water was dark and cold. The moment I hit I was sure I was about to die, even with the rope attached. But I grabbed hold of the sailor, held him close to me, and prayed to Lyr for the strength to survive. Then, with one arm around the sailor and the other on the rope, I pulled us back onto the ship. To this day, that sailor says he owes me his life!"

Beatrice couldn't help but think this entire tale had been completely reversed, except she couldn't imagine Gaëtan having enough honor to tell a sailor he owed him anything. Even so, she smiled and nodded. "Very brave of you! But... love, what I'm dying to know is, how was Shinar?"

Gaëtan shrugged. "It's a beautiful kingdom, but it's nothing so majestic as it is here! Though, they have access to all sorts of drugs there, some far more powerful than opium!"

"Oh, what a delightful land of sin," said Beatrice, picking up her glass again. The simple gesture gave him such hope. Already, he had a victorious look in his eyes.

Excellent, this would keep him talking just a little longer. He'd have no idea he was walking right into her trap. "I understand Shinar women are more beautiful even than Salian women."

Gaëtan laughed. "Most of the time that is true, but no Shinar beauty could ever outshine you, my lady."

"Oh, you flatterer!" Beatrice said with a giggle. She raised the glass to her lips again and pretended to drink. With every gesture she was starting to feel like a pianist. With every move she hit a new key and found herself pleased at the song she was playing. "But I want to hear more about those ladies."

Gaëtan looked confused. "What do you mean?"

Beatrice leaned in and tilted her head to one side, showing off her long, slender neck. When he leaned in closer she breathed the words, "I want to hear about the most risqué, taboo thing you did with any of these ladies." She licked her teeth as her sentence ended. Surely, he was not so dense as to miss that hint.

Gaëtan then proceeded to tell a disgusting story that made Beatrice cringe inside and clasp her wine glass so tightly she thought for sure it would shatter. But Beatrice let him finish, all the while her sultry grin never leaving her face.

"Is that how you caught the Hyksos Disease?" Beatrice blurted out.

All satisfaction and any sign of victory fled from Gaëtan's face, like soldiers quitting a battlefield.

Beatrice's face turned stern, and she stood from the rocking chair and violently smashed her wine glass into the fireplace. The fire fizzled, popped, and turned the white wine into steam. Gaëtan jumped back from her and stumbled into the sofa.

Beatrice moved closer, until she towered over him, and thrust an accusatory finger into his face. "You twisted, evil man!" she said. "Did you think no one noticed the symptoms? You can hide it with lotions and salves all you want, but people have eyes just as they have lips. Word has spread, just as your affliction has!"

Gaëtan's hands trembled as he wiped sweat from his brow. She'd heard that the disease often affected certain parts of the brain as well. That would certainly explain how quickly he'd gone into a panic. Lucilla's gossipmongers had been correct.

Beatrice resumed her verbal onslaught. "You disgusting, vile vermin! Did you intend to spread this disease to every woman you could? How many lovers have you already infected? Do you think their husbands, fathers, and brothers would want to know who it was who sentenced those women to long and agonizing deaths? Their revenge will be the stuff of legend!"

Gaëtan shrunk down into the sofa, his whole body trembling now.

Beatrice couldn't let up, though, not until she was certain he'd been defeated for good. "Do you really think your father, the pitiful Baron Dufour can stand up to the sledge-hammer that will be brought down upon him for your sins? Then there's the matter of excommunication, if your affair with a certain nun were to become common knowledge." Beatrice laughed. "You silly boy! You thought to blackmail me with the fact that Leon and I sometimes look a little too longingly at each other while you carry a burden this delicious? I know enough people to destroy your family's entire legacy by sending no more than one letter."

Gaëtan jumped to his feet and went for the mantle. Beatrice reached for her pistol, but before she could get it out she found herself staring down the musket's barrel. Beatrice winced and Gaëtan pulled the trigger.

Click.

Not loaded.

Gaëtan cursed.

It seemed the holes in his brain had saved Beatrice's life.

She still had a chance.

She raised her pistol, but Gaëtan knocked her hand away with the rifle just as the shot went off.

Beatrice rounded with the stiletto dagger in hand. She cut the back of Gaëtan's forearm, and he dropped the rifle.

Before he could move close enough to reach the poker, she had the tip of the blade under his throat.

For a moment, Beatrice had to catch her breath. She'd had some training with Fitzroy, but she never imagined that if a situation came to this she would prevail.

Once her blood had cooled a little, she pressed the blade closer to Gaëtan's throat. "You idiot! You didn't think I was prepared for you to do that?"

"I... I... I..."

"Stop your stammering and tais-toi!" she shouted. Gaëtan shut his mouth, his eyes fixated on the stiletto. "Now, you listen! I have already written several copies of such a letter. If anything happens to me I have people who will send that letter to dozens of my friends all over the Empire." Beatrice kicked the poker away from his outstretched fingers. "That's one thing about the game you forgot, love." She spat the word out. "The Renarts simply know more people than you do. We have more friends and enemies than you do by far, and every one of them will eat up any gossip we send their way. You have only one way to keep this quiet, and I think you already know what that is."

Beatrice backed away from Gaëtan slowly, keeping her stiletto pointed at him. "This is the disaster hanging over you should anything happen to me. Or, for that matter, if you ever do anything that displeases me ever again. Do you understand?"

"I... I..." Gaëtan was sweating all over, his hands red and shaking.

"Do you understand? Speak!"

"I understand!" Gaëtan yelled.

"Good. Don't ever come near me or my family again." Beatrice slipped the pistol into a sash on her dress and fumbled with the door behind her. Finally, she got it open. "And do not dare follow me!"

"I swear it!" Gaëtan said, his whole body rocking back and forth. "I'll never bother you again."

Beatrice kicked the door shut and ran for her horse. The cool night air was inviting, invigorating. She kicked her heels into her horse's side and galloped away. She'd just fought in a duel with no support whatsoever and won. For as terrible as Le Jeu Fatal often was, there was a certain undeniable thrill to it.

The soothing wind wrapped itself around Beatrice, flowing through the folds of her dress, around her sash, and into her hair, which trailed back behind her. Her grin was so wide that she could feel her earrings against her cheeks as she rode off into the distance, soon to find her way home.