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‘Err…naked butts?’ I translated.
Mr Ambrose threw me a look. ‘While sans-culotte does indeed mean “without breeches”, that does not mean they run around with bare posteriors, Mr Linton. It simply means they wear long trousers instead of the breeches which, at one point, used to be the fashion among French aristocrats. These are the poorest of the poor. The most desperate, decrepit people you could find in Paris.’
‘Ah. I see. So…why are we here, exactly?’
‘If you must know, back when I first came to Paris, I was looking for a reasonably-priced place to stay. I ended up here, at Mon
sieur Jacques’ boarding house for the economically disadvantaged. For some reason I cannot explain,’ Mr Ambrose said, glancing down at his ten-year-old mint condition tailcoat with its decorative scuffed sleeves, mended holes and bloodstains, ‘they seemed to assume from my appearance that I was one of them. Since they offered me room and board at a very reasonable price, I saw no reason to disabuse them of their misconception.’
‘Of course not.’
‘You can rest easy, Miss Linton. Dalgliesh will never consider looking for us here. We are as safe as houses constructed by a competent architect.’
‘Unless, of course, these nice people here find out who you really are and decide to slit the throat of the dissembling capitalist pig.’
‘There is that possibility, yes.’
I made a face. ‘Besides, staying out of sight won’t do us any good. We need to find some way to stitch up that wound of yours, and then we’ve got to move! Like you said earlier, by going after a guard we’ve drawn attention to ourselves. Dalgliesh will soon figure out what we need the uniform for, and then he’ll send a messenger to intercept the governor-general. If the messenger reaches him before we do….’
‘True. But don’t worry. Hiding people who don’t want to be found isn’t Jacque’s only specialty.’
Turning to the scraggly Frenchman, Mr Ambrose started speaking rapid, concise French. It was quite amazing how, even when speaking in the language of love, he made everything sound like an ultimatum chiselled in stone. My worried gaze staying on the slowly growing bloodstains in his shirt, which neither Jacques nor any of his guests seemed to find particularly disquieting, I leant closer to Karim.
‘What’s he saying?’
The big bodyguard eyed me for a moment. I could tell he was struggling with whether such an outrageous demand for classified information from a nosy female was worth answering. Finally, he caved.
‘He’s asking for clean bandages and horses.’
I glanced around the room, which appeared to contain only one thing free of dirt: a small spot about three inches above the door lintel. Everything else was covered in various layers of…substances. Even on the cobwebs, there was growing mold. ‘There are clean things in this place?’
‘Apparently.’
Jacques clucked his tongue and nodded at Mr Ambrose’s shot wound in a universal ‘bad luck’ gesture. A few quick words in French followed.
‘He asked who’s after us,’ Karim translated.
Mr Ambrose’s reply was characteristically concise. ‘Des Aristos.’
It suddenly went very quiet in the common room. Even I didn’t need a translation for that one. Jacques’ face, grimmer than before, shifted to sympathy as he placed a hand on Mr Ambrose’s uninjured shoulder and squeezed. A few more quick words of French, and he marched out of the room.
‘He says he’ll bring bandages. He’ll have horses for us in a quarter of an hour,’ Mr Ambrose told us.
‘And what was that last bit?’
‘’Free of charge. Anything for the enemies of the aristocracy.’’
‘You told him we were being hunted by aristocrats!’
‘We are. Remember the “Lord” in “Lord Dalgliesh”? He is an aristocrat, is he not?’
‘Yes, but so are you!’
‘Details, Mr Linton. Details. Besides, as they say: never look a gift horse in the proletarian mouth.’
It was probably better not to look it in the mouth. The horses Jacques provided might have been fast, but pretty they were not. I didn’t want to get a closer look at their dental state. As for the bandages—Mr Ambrose had tried to put those on himself with his one functioning arm. I told him to hold still, and that I would get Karim to knock him over the head if he didn’t do as I said. Amazingly, he did. So I sat there with a bowl of surprisingly clean water and wrapped Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s arm tightly in bandages while Karim saddled our mounts.
‘The minute we get back to the opera house,’ I ground out between clenched teeth, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach, ‘you’re going to call a real doctor, and you’re going to have him look you over, no matter how much it costs, understood?’
