Louisa Rawlings Read Online Free PDF Page A

her.”  
    “I told you, she’s a widow. I’ll bed her first, to see if she’s worth the trouble. Besides, she has an ill-tempered brother. I fear I shall need to win him over as well.”  
    “Then begin at once, in God’s name!”  
    “No. There’s still the matter of your supper. And François’, too. That’s more important. Here. Take the four louis now and go to a dressmaker. I’m off to see my kitchen wench. We’ll meet here at six.” He turned to François, who had been watching him with rapt devotion. “What are you doing here, when the sun is shining? Is there not a pageboy who would enjoy a game of bowls in the kitchen garden?”  
    The boy nodded his head vigorously and grinned at the prospect.  
    “No,” said Rouge firmly. “Not all afternoon, François. You must spend at least an hour with your lessons. I promised your mother, when you came to our employ.”  
    “Oh, Marie-Rouge! Let the boy be. I never liked my lessons.” Tintin’s large brown eyes were filled with supplication. He draped a protective arm about François’ shoulders.  
    Relenting, Rouge began to laugh. “What am I to do with you? Do you never think of the morrow? Very well. Off to your games. Both of you. I’ll see you at six of the clock.”  
    She spent the rest of the afternoon with a dressmaker in the town outside the palace, haggling over the cost of her new finery. In the end, softened by Rouge’s effusive flattery, the couturière agreed to throw in a pair of pink kid gloves for the price of the petticoat and trim. When Rouge returned to her father’s garret room, she found that Tintin’s serving wench had already laid out a sumptuous feast, and was demanding a kiss from him as a prelude to future delights. Tintin shrugged helplessly to Rouge, kissed the maid twice, pinched her on the bottom for good measure, and sent her—squealing with happiness—back to her kitchen.  
    “Till later, my sweet.” He affected the face of a martyr. “Come, Rouge. Sit you down and enjoy what your dear father has bartered his manhood for!”  
    Rouge surveyed the table laden with bowls and platters of the most appetizing food her hungry eyes had ever beheld. “So much food! Either the girl’s a fool, Tintin, or you have promised her the moon!”  
    He cast his eyes heavenward and sighed. “A lingering visit to the land of amour. But I shall endure for you, my child.”  
    She giggled and pulled a chair up to the table. “I think you had better eat a great deal yourself, Tintin. You’ll need the strength!”  
    Chrétien put aside his brown wig, scratched his own short brown curls—now graying at the temples—and removed his plush coat. He motioned for François to sit beside him and share in their feast, then piled his own plate with a fine fillet of beef, a roasted hen, a galantine of chicken. “Alas! No wine. I shall give her one kiss less for that, the little baggage!”  
    François jumped up from his place. “If you will, monsieur…” He burrowed in a small cupboard and produced a straw-covered bottle. “I didn’t play at bowls for the sport alone!”  
    Rouge sighed. "Gambling! Name of God, Tintin, are you leading the boy down your wicked path?”  
    “I think it rather clever of him. Where did the pageboy get the wine, François?”  
    The young eyes were innocent beneath their shock of yellow hair. “He stole it, the blackguard! Half a dozen jugs, that he tried to sell me. Of course I refused to buy stolen goods!”  
    “Naturellement!”  
    “But you didn’t mind suggesting a wager…” said Rouge.  
    François looked hurt. “I won it honestly.”  
    “And the pageboy?”  
    “He made the mistake of offering a bottle to the valet of the man from whom he had stolen the wine. The last I saw of him, he was taking a cane across his bare bum!”  
    “Now, by heaven,” said Rouge, “I’ll promise you the same, if you don’t mend your ways!” She turned to her father. “He’s