The King's Evil

houses built with a grey stone which was stained by time. The city's characteristic stink rose up to attack his nostrils and he put a hand to his face as he picked his way through the milling crowd.

The sense of being lost in a labyrinth became stronger than ever.

Arnaud Bastiat owned a fine house in the Faubourg St Germain. Alone in the room which served as a library and study, he sat at his table, lost in contemplation. The book which lay open before him was unnoticed and the booming of the nearby church clock went unheard.

Bastiat was a rotund man of middle years with a pale face which was pierced by two intelligent blue eyes and a high forehead which was covered in a network of veins. Lank grey hair hung to his shoulders, complemented by a small grey beard. Dressed largely in black, he had white cuffs and a white lace collar which spread its intricate pattern across his barrel chest. When his servant knocked and entered, it took Arnaud Bastiat a while to become fully aware of his presence. The servant, a compact young man with a dark moustache, stood there in silence until his master spoke.

'Yes, Marcel?'

'You have a visitor, monsieur,' said the man.

'I am expecting no callers this evening. Who is it?'

'A young man from England.'

'From England?' said the other guardedly. 'Did he give a name?'

'Christopher Redmayne.'

'I do not know him. What business can he have with me?'

'He did not come in search of you, monsieur.'

'Oh?'

'The person he seeks is Mademoiselle Oilier.'

Bastiat sat back in surprise and stroked his beard. He signalled that the visitor was to be brought in then rose from his chair, closing the book gently before walking around the table. When Christopher entered, his host was standing in the middle of the room, composed but alert, his eyes and ears now attuned to what was in front of him. Introductions were made and each man tried to weigh up the other as they spoke in French.

'You have come all the way from England?' began Bastiat.

'Yes, monsieur. A long journey but an unavoidable one.'

'Why is that?'

'I must see Mademoiselle Oilier at the earliest opportunity.'

'And your reason?'

'That is a matter between myself and the young lady.' 'What brought you to this address?'

'It was the one given in a letter which Mademoiselle Oilier sent to a mutual friend of ours.'

'Have you seen this letter?'

'I carry it with me,' said Christopher, tapping his pocket.

'May I look at it?'

'No, Monsieur Bastiat. It is of a very private nature. I will only show it to Mademoiselle Oilier to establish my credentials.'

A lengthy pause. 'This mutual friend,' said Bastiat at length. 'Are you able to tell me his name?'

'I am afraid not.'

'Then it is a gentleman of whom we speak?'

'My tidings are for Mademoiselle Oilier.'

'May I at least know your relation to this mutual friend?'

'I was employed by him as his architect.'

'An architect? An exalted position for a messenger.'

Christopher tired of his probing. 'The message I bring is of the most urgent nature, monsieur,' he said. 'I implore you to tell me where I can find the young lady.'

'Mademoiselle Oilier does not live here.'

'So I deduce.'

'But she could be sent for in an emergency.'

'I believe that this qualifies as an emergency.'

'Why?'

'I am sure that the young lady will tell you in due course.'

Bastiat raked him with a shrewd gaze then moved to the door.

'Excuse me one moment, monsieur.'

Christopher noted that he went out to speak to the servant instead of summoning him and giving him instructions in front of the visitor. Evidently, a private warning was being sent to Marie Louise Oilier and Christopher wished that he could hear what it was. He took advantage of his host's brief absence to look at some of the books which filled the shelves. Bastiat was clearly a studious man. Before the other returned, Christopher was just in time to observe that the volume which lay on the table was an edition of the Bible.

'Mademoiselle Oilier will be here soon,' said Bastiat.

'Thank you, monsieur.'

'I take it that you will have no objection if I am present during your conversation with her?'

Christopher was adamant. 'I object most strongly,' he said, 'and I suspect that the young lady will do likewise when she realises the nature of what I have to reveal to her.'

'But I am her uncle, Monsieur Redmayne.'

'Were you her father, I would still bar you from the room.'

'Then your message must be of a very delicate nature.'

'It is.'

'Can you give me no hint of its content?'

'None, monsieur.'

Bastiat continued to fish for information but Christopher would not be drawn. Having braved a taxing journey, he was not going to spill his news into the wrong pair of ears. Besides, he was there to listen as well as to inform and he sensed that he would learn far more from Marie Louise Oilier if they were alone than if her uncle were in attendance. Bastiat was a quiet, softly-spoken man but he exuded an authority which was bound to have an influence on his niece. The size of the house suggested that its owner was a man of some means but it was not clear what profession he followed. He did not look to Christopher like a person who lived on inherited wealth. There was an air of diligence about him. He was also very circumspect. Probing for detail about his visitor, Bastiat gave away almost nothing about himself.

It was twenty minutes before the servant returned and tapped on the door. Bastiat excused himself again and Christopher could hear him conversing in a low voice with someone in the hall. When he reappeared, he brought in Mademoiselle Oilier and performed the introductions, lingering until his niece was seated and assuring her that she only had to call if she wished to summon him.

Left alone with the newcomer, Christopher needed time to adjust his thoughts because Marie Louise Oilier bore no resemblance whatsoever to the person of his expectations.

Penelope Northcott had made a judgement about her based on a rough portrait which she had seen but Christopher realised that no artist could possibly have conveyed her essence in a sketch. Marie Louise Oilier had the kind of striking beauty which was all the more potent for being unaware of itself. She was a tall, slender, almost frail young lady with a fair complexion and fair hair which was trained in a mass of short curls all over her head. The blue and white stripes on her dress accentuated her height and poise. Its bodice was long and tight-fitting and the low decolletage was encircled with lace frills. The full skirt was closely gathered in pleats at the waist then hung to the ground. On her head was a lawn cap with a standing frill in front and long lappets falling behind the shoulders.

The two things which struck Christopher most were the softness of her skin and her aura of innocence. Marie Louise Oilier was not the coquette whom he thought he saw on a first reading of her letters. She was much nearer to the victim who seemed to emerge from a closer perusal of them. Yet she was not timid or submissive. Framed in