"They were a rough lot," Moreau said. He shrugged again. "Still, Doctor Jacques has friends from all walks of life, no? Not my sort, though. Not my sort at all. They would all grow silent whenever I approached their table, as though afraid that I would overhear their conversation."
"What did they look like? Perhaps I know them."
"They were all large men," Moreau said. "All except one, who was very slight and thin. About like so," Moreau said, indicating his own chest level. "Three of them were dark, rough-looking, as I said. One was bald. Him I remember very well. He was a bull, that one, a giant of a man. They didn't speak much, at least, not to me, but they were not French, that much was certain."
"They did not know the language," Hunter said.
"Oh, no, they knew the language very well," Moreau said, "but they learned it elsewhere. They had some sort of accent, but I could not place it."
"What about the fifth man?" Hunter said. "The slight one?"
"Ah, yes, him. I thought he was a girl, at first." Moreau chuckled. "It was a bit embarrassing. I called him 'mademoiselle' and it seemed to amuse the others and it was only then that I saw he was a man. A very young man, no more than a boy, really. Some boys, in their youthfulness, well…"
"Yes, I understand," said Hunter. "And some young girls look like young boys sometimes, especially if they are not wearing dresses."
"Quite so," Moreau said, visibly relieved. "Still, this one… he wore his hair quite long, much longer than is the fashion. And it was like spun gold, Monsieur. Most unsettling. His French, now, was flawless. A real gentleman, that one. I heard Doctor Jacques call him 'Adrian.' " Moreau lowered his voice. "An English name, no?"
"Could be," said Hunter. "I know no one by that name. This all sounds very mysterious, Moreau."
Moreau looked around, then leaned closer to Hunter. "Tell me, Monsieur," he said, "Doctor Jacques… I have never known him to, that is, he has no… political leanings, has he?"
"I don't know," said Hunter. "What makes you say a thing like that?"
Moreau shrugged again. "One learns a thing or two in this business, Monsieur. After all, you must admit, it does look strange. Five strangers, four of whom are decidedly not French and the fifth with an English-sounding name, all speaking in low voices in the corner…"
"I see what you mean," said Hunter. "But political intrigue? That does not sound like the Jacques Benoit I know."
"One never knows for sure, Monsieur," Moreau said. "Intrigue seems to be the watchword of the day. I would hate to learn that Doctor Jacques was in some sort of trouble."
"So would I, Moreau. So would I. Listen, if you should see him before I do, tell him that I'm staying at the Luxembourg. Ask him to come and see me on a matter of some importance."
"I will, Monsieur Laporte. And if you should see him first, you tell him that he has friends who will stand by him, eh? If there is trouble, you tell him to come to old Moreau."
Hunter looked at Moreau and smiled. The burly Frenchman had a face that looked like old leather and broad shoulders that suggested a previous trade more strenuous than being a tavernkeeper. If there would be trouble, Jack would do well to have someone like Moreau beside him.
"I'll tell him," Hunter said.
He left the tavern feeling very worried. Something was definitely wrong. Jack Bennett had disappeared without leaving behind any message whatsoever. With Jack, that sort of thing simply didn't happen, unless those men had something to do with it and he had not had time to leave a message. But then, according to Moreau, those men had been with Jack for at least a week and they would not have known the signals that Hunter and Jack had arranged between themselves. Jack should have been able to leave word if something out of the ordinary had occurred. But he hadn't.
Those "friends from Flanders" made Hunter nervous. Jack didn't have any friends in Flanders that he knew of. Then there was Moreau's description of them. Large. Spoke French excellently, but with an accent that Moreau, an ex-seaman, could not place. Perhaps it was because it was an accent unknown to this time.
"Where are you, Doc?" Hunter mumbled. "What have you gotten yourself into?"
He was so preoccupied, he didn't notice that he was being followed.
Andre realized that she owed Hunter a great deal, but there was a limit to any obligation. She had promised Hunter
that she would learn to act like a lady, but she had never promised him to play that role continuously. Nor had she promised him to, as he had said it, "stay put" in their apartments.
He had brought her to another time, to another world, and he expected her to stay in their hotel unless told otherwise. Yes, she owed him a great deal, but she did not owe him blind, unquestioning obedience. He had developed a tendency to order her around and she didn't like it. She understood that he was only being protective, because he knew much and she knew little of this time, because he was in his element and she was in an alien environment. Still, that did not make her confinement easier to bear. She felt herself dependent upon Hunter and she didn't like having to depend on anyone. She never had. She liked feeling caged up even less.
In the 12th century, at least, she had known the rules. In England, she had been able to make her way alone. Hunter had spent many hours with her, teaching her to speak 17th-century French. The task was made easier by her knowledge of the Norman tongue, but it had proved bothersome when Hunter would not speak to her in any other language. He had explained that they would be in 17th-century Paris for an indefinite amount of time and that it was of paramount importance for her to know the language. Surprisingly, even though the constant repetition and the boring drills were tiresome, she had discovered that learning a new language came easily to her, far more easily than learning "the gentle art of acting like a lady," and only slightly less easily than learning how to use a rapier. Already, Hunter was no match for her. Her progress had astonished even him. Yet what was the point in knowing all these things if she was to be denied the opportunity to put them into practice? What was the use in learning how to act like a 17th-century Parisienne if she remained constantly within the walls of the Luxembourg Hotel, seeing no one, going nowhere?
"A lady never wanders through the streets of Paris unescorted," Hunter had said.
Well, perhaps a lady didn't. But then, she had never promised him that she would be a lady all the time.
She had inquired as to the whereabouts of the nearest tailor and the carriage took her to an exclusive little shop, patronized only by the wealthier citizens of Paris. The tailor had readily accepted her explanation that she was buying a surprise birthday present for her little brother, who was almost exactly the same size as herself. He had summoned a seamstress to measure her, telling Andre that when she presented the suit to her little brother, he would be more than happy to perform any necessary alterations free of charge. If the tailor or the seamstress were surprised at her unusual height and dimensions, they kept their comments to themselves. If the lady had arms and shoulders like a laborer's, that was no concern of theirs, especially since she didn't even remark upon the price.