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“Whose address is this?”
“Vogelsang’s. ’Tis near the Seine. I do not have one for Frey, but you might find him at one of the taverns the mercenaries frequent.”
“Is there any reason to believe Necker himself is involved? I’d rather not kill one of the king’s former ministers even if he is now disfavored.”
“Nay, ’tis thought Necker may know nothing of it. The word is he accepted his change in station, but those who benefitted from his high position did not. They sought to send a message to Vergennes by killing his spy.”
“Thank you, Gaspar. You have served me well.” Jean went to his desk and took a bag of coins from the bottom drawer. “You earned this and I am grateful.”
“Merci.” Gaspar bowed and accepted the coins. “For the little ones. Now, can I meet this new lady of yours?”
“But of course,” said Jean. “And, by the way, that lady will soon be my wife.”
The next day, Jean and Émile set off on horseback to find Vogelsang. The streets of Paris were wet with the rain from the night before. A carriage would have had to fight its way across town, while horses could better maneuver and afforded them a quick escape if need be.
The directions Gaspar had provided Jean led them to the fashionable area of faubourg Saint-Germain near the Seine River. This morning, the river was crowded with small boats. Voices rose from the quay where people, engaged in business of one sort or another, shouted to passersby. Adding to the cacophony of sounds were seagulls shrieking above the banks. A duel amid all of this would not suit.
A short distance away, they dismounted in front of the townhouse, modest for the area, but no less well built. Jean lifted the knocker and dropped it a few times while Émile secured the horses to a post. No groom or footman had appeared.
The door opened and a young maid in mobcap and apron gave them a blank look. Clearly she had expected no visitors. “Messieurs?”
“We are here to see Monsieur Vogelsang. You may tell him Monsieur Donet has come to call.”
She invited them into the entry, a rather dim place with a stone floor and scant windows, then disappeared through a corridor.
Jean checked his pistol and put his hand on the hilt of his sword when the maid returned.
“The master will see you. Please follow me.”
The large room they entered appeared to be a combination of parlor and study. Jean recognized the tall thin man who rose from behind the ornate desk though the wig he wore today was a darker gray and his face not the powdered white it had been at Versailles.
Behind the desk stood two burly henchmen like a pair of andirons flanking a cold fireplace.
“So, ’tis true,” said Vogelsang in a high voice that grated on Jean’s nerves, “there are two of you. I can see now you are not Henri Donet. A brother, peut-être? A twin?” Carefully, he appraised Jean. “So very alike, so easy to kill.” His voice echoed his arrogance for what he obviously considered a trivial matter soon dispensed with.
Jean spoke in a voice his men would have taken as a warning. “You will find, Monsieur Vogelsang, I am nothing like my brother. Henri was the more refined of the comte de Saintonge’s sons. The kinder one. I, on the other hand, have a darker side and a much blacker past.”
Émile smirked at Vogelsang. “Have ye never heard of the pirate Jean Donet?”
The Swiss man narrowed his gaze on Jean. From his expression, Vogelsang clearly knew the name and he feared the man behind it. “You are he?” When Jean nodded, Vogelsang shouted to his henchmen, “Seize him!”
The two andirons lunged forward. Jean and Émile drew their pistols, causing the andirons to pause mid-stride.
“Which one of you guard dogs is Joseph Frey?” Jean asked, his voice edged with loathing.
One of the andirons grimaced and Jean returned him a harsh glower. “You arranged for my brother’s accident?”
“What if I did?” he spit out arrogantly.
Jean didn’t hesitate. He fired his pistol and the man dropped to the ground, a ball through the center of his forehead. Facing Vogelsang, Jean said, “So, now there are two. Not so very many.”
Vogelsang began to shake.
“Did you think we came only to talk?” asked Jean.
“The capitaine is short on patience today,” chimed in Émile.
Vogelsang held out his hand, palm facing Jean, as if to hold back his fury. “Non,” he whimpered. Jean hated cowards who hid behind swaggering bullies.
