Free A Column of Fire by Ken Follett Page B

another. Duke François said: ‘Do you know, I think the rogue might be right.’
    Charles nodded. ‘I’ve known better men who have understood politics less well.’
    Pierre was thrilled. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
    Then Charles lost interest in him, picked up his wine, and said: ‘You’re dismissed.’
    Pierre stepped to the door, then his eye fell on Le Pin. Struck by a thought, he turned back. ‘Your Eminence,’ he said to Charles. ‘When I have the addresses where the Protestants hold their services, should I bring them to you, or hand them to one of your servants?’
    The cardinal paused with his goblet at his lips. ‘Strictly to me in person,’ he said. ‘No exceptions. Off you go.’ He drank.
    Pierre caught the eye of Le Pin and grinned triumphantly. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said, and he went out.
    *
    S YLVIE P ALOT had noticed the attractive young man at the fish market the day before. He was not selling fish: he was too well dressed, in a blue doublet slashed to show the white silk lining. Yesterday she had seen him buy some salmon, but he had done so carelessly, without the keen interest of one who was going to eat what he bought. He had smiled at her several times.
    She found it difficult not to be pleased.
    He was a good-looking man with fair hair and the beginnings of a blond beard. She put his age at twenty, three years older than herself. He had a beguiling air of self-confidence.
    She already had one admirer. Among her parents’ acquaintances were the Mauriac family. Father and son were both short, and played up to it by being cheery wisecracking chaps: the father, Luc, was a charmer, and everyone liked him, which might have been why he was so successful as a cargo broker; but the son, Georges, who was Sylvie’s admirer, was a pale imitation, all poor jokes and clumsy sallies. She really needed him to go away for a couple of years and grow up.
    Her new admirer at the fish market spoke to her for the first time on a cold morning in January. There was snow on the foreshore of the River Seine, and thin layers of ice formed on the water in the fishmongers’ barrels. Winter-hungry gulls circled overhead, crying in frustration at the sight of so much food. The young man said: ‘How can you tell whether a fish is fresh?’
    ‘By the eyes,’ she said. ‘If they’re cloudy, the fish is old. The eyes should be clear.’
    ‘Like yours,’ he said.
    She laughed. At least he was witty. Georges Mauriac just said stupid things like
Have you ever been kissed?
    ‘And pull open the gills,’ she added. ‘They should be pink inside, and wet. Oh, dear.’ Her hand went to her mouth. She had given him the cue for a smutty remark about something else that might be pink inside and wet, and she felt herself blush.
    He looked mildly amused, but said only: ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ She appreciated his tact. He was not like Georges Mauriac, evidently.
    He stood beside her while she bought three small trout, her father’s favourite, and paid one sou and six pennies. He stayed with her as she walked away with the fish in her basket.
    ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
    ‘Pierre Aumande. I know you’re Sylvie Palot.’
    She liked straightforward talk, so she said to him: ‘Have you been watching me?’
    He hesitated, looked embarrassed, and said: ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because you’re so beautiful.’
    Sylvie knew she had a pleasant, open face with clear skin and blue eyes, but she was not sure she was beautiful, so she said: ‘Is that all?’
    ‘You’re very perceptive.’
    So there was something else. She could not help feeling disappointed. It was vain of her to have believed, even for a moment, that he had been bewitched by her beauty. Perhaps she would end up with Georges Mauriac after all. ‘You’d better tell me,’ she said, trying not to reveal her disillusionment.
    ‘Have you ever heard of Erasmus of Rotterdam?’
    Of course she had. Sylvie felt the hairs on her