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watering the eau-de-vie, the scoundrel, and charging such a price for it. This is much richer.”
    “This is rare excellent stuff. My bailiff at the Hall got it for me.”
    “What are the ladies wearing nowadays? They must be at a loss with no new styles from Paris to copy, hein?”
    Neither gentleman was much help to her in this sartorial question, but once her food arrived, she forgot clothing and dug in to consume an astonishing amount of bread and meat, with a compliment on every bite, and a million wishes that Mama and Édouard could share it. Her meal done, she pushed the tray aside and said, “I am très fatigu é e. I shall retire now. Tomorrow I must see Henri, Papa. He is still in London, Henri Mérigot?”
    “Yes, he is still here.”
    “He is well? You see him often?”
    “Not so very often, but he is here and well.”
    “Mama particularly asked me to see him, to tell him she is safe.”
    “Who is this Henri Mérigot?” Degan asked.
    “A close relative of my mama’s,” Minou told him. She directed a level stare at her father as she said this. Almost an accusing look. It was known Harlock had no love for his French connections. This, Degan supposed, was the reason for some little feeling of rancor between the father and daughter at the mention of the man’s name.
    “I shall write him a note tomorrow asking him to call on me. You permit?” She phrased it as a question, but it sounded strangely like a command. Harlock nodded in agreement. “Till I have some clothing, I cannot go about town. You will send a modiste to me with materials, Papa?”
    “Yes, my dear. I will take care of it first thing in the morning. Run along to bed now, and don’t worry your head about a thing. I shall manage it all. Come and kiss me goodnight.”
    She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Oh—I forgot!” she said suddenly, and held out her hand to him. On her left hand a small pearl ring sat. “Mama said to show you this ring, in case you did not believe I am me. She said you would remember it from Lyons. You remember, Papa?”
    Harlock rubbed the little pearl, the first present to his wife when they were courting. “I remember it,” he said in an unsteady voice. “She kept it, eh?”
    “Yes, it was not worth selling,” Minou said practically. Her diamonds and emeralds are sold, but a little pearl would lot bring much. A couple of loaves of maggoty bread perhaps.” She glanced at the tray, where a slice of bread was all that remained of her dinner. She picked it up jealously and went from the room, after curtsying to Lord Degan. Before she was out the door, she was already nibbling on the dry bread, and finding it delicious.
     

Chapter Three
     
    Lord Degan and Lord Harlock sat long over their drinks, discussing the surprising turn events had taken. In his state of perturbation, Degan even sipped a glass of the infamous brandy, finding it very strong and unpleasant. They marveled to each other about the sort of life Marie and the children would have had these past years, being in the notorious Conciergerie, the black hole of Paris.
    Degan was deeply disturbed as to what effect her experiences must have had on a young female of genteel birth, for of course the ring proved the girl was Lady Céleste. Harlock pooh-poohed it, saying Degan could see for himself the girl was in high gig, and certainly her looks had not gone off. “Pretty as a picture; very like her mama at the same age.”
    “She is attractive in her physical appearance, in a certain loud, French fashion, but there are some bad habits that you want to correct, John. Well, brandy for one thing, and using language unfit for a lady, to say nothing of scampering about with smugglers and worse. That gown she had made up—how the deuce did she do it, anyway?”
    “She is half French,” Harlock explained. “They’re all modistes at heart, the Frenchies. Marie the same. She could make a bonnet out of a flower basket. Well, she did, in