Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I)

by David George Clarke

  Chapter 12 : 1677

  Gisèle Prideaux slipped silently through the door in the high garden wall into the pitch darkness of the alley. She strained her ears for any sound, but all she could hear was her heart pounding. She pulled her cloak tightly around her and crept slowly towards the street. She paused. Before stepping into the light from the torches burning high on the walls, she touched the hilt of the knife in her belt. Reassured by its presence, she hurried along the street and darted down another alley. The streets were the dangerous parts, places she might be spotted by one of the squads of militia still searching Marseille four nights after the killings. Searching for her and the three men.

  She was about to break cover to cross the next street when a sixth sense stopped her. She held her breath and listened. Two militiamen were heading in her direction. She pressed back into a doorway, forcing herself to breathe slowly and silently. The men were complaining noisily about the extra hours they had been ordered to spend patrolling.

  “What’s the point? Those murdering scum will be long gone. Steal some horses and head inland to the hills, that’s what they’ll’ve done. Only a fool would stay. It’s not as if we don’t know who they are. One step from their hidey holes and we’d have ‘em.”

  “Me,” said the other, “I hope they’re still around. I’d like to catch that Prideaux girl lurkin’ in some dark alley. I’d enjoy forcing her to confess.”

  He laughed lewdly and thrust his pelvis forward a few times.

  “Mind, if we catch her, we’d better get our fill of her first before we turn her in. Once the officers get hold of her, she’ll be passed around their mess for days before she’s given back. She’ll just be a lump of battered meat by then.”

  Gisèle shuddered. But the militiamen’s talk encouraged her. If they were still searching, they hadn’t caught Henri, Michel or their father, Philippe, since they too had left the house. She waited until they’d gone and ran to the last alley.

  She stopped in the shadows near the far end and forced herself to relax. She didn’t hear him approach and she jumped as he whispered close to her ear.

  “Gisèle!”

  “Henri,” she sighed in relief, leaning back onto him. “Any sign of him?”

  “No. The bells have yet to ring.”

  “The others?”

  “Safe. They’re where we agreed and waiting for your performance.”

  She smiled grimly to herself. Turning in the darkness, she caught a glint from his pale grey eyes. “Can you hear my heart thumping? You must be able to.”

  “Not over the noise of mine.”

  She’d found the man, Louis Brochard, the previous day and followed him. She had wanted to kill him there and then but Philippe had forbidden it. Now it was time.

  The cathedral bells chimed and Henri felt Gisèle tense as he held her shoulders. She removed her cloak and undid the tie at the top of her blouse, slipping the short sleeves down over her shoulders.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  He turned his head towards her. “It’s time, cherie. For God’s sake be careful.”

  “I’m not sure God would look kindly on us tonight, Henri.” She kissed him once, hard on the lips, and was gone into the street.

  A door slammed and she heard the man spit noisily into the gutter. A shudder went through her and she wondered if she could go through with it. Then she thought of Arlette. She crossed herself and leaned back against the wall. She was only a few feet away from the alley where Michel and Philippe stood in wait, but it seemed like a mile. She raised one knee and pressed her foot against the wall, hitching up her skirt to show her thigh. She pulled her blouse down a little more and turned her head downwards, casting a shadow over her face in case he recognised her.

  She tried to say something to attract his attention, something coarse she knew a whore would say, but her throat had frozen in fear. She needn’t have worried – the man had seen her and was now strutting towards her with a leer on his sweaty face.

  “Well, wot have we here? You’re new, ain’tcha darlin’? Not seen your pretty little face around here before.”

  He was very close and she could smell his foul breath as he leaned over her. She thought she was going to vomit.

  “I’ll give yer two, since you’re a nice fresh little piece.” He grasped one of her breasts. “Yeah, very nice and fresh.”

  She pushed his hand away. “Keep yer hands to yerself, mister, until I seen yer money. And it’ll be five. I got me pride.”

  The man laughed, coughed hard and spat on the ground. “So, you’re a fiery one. I like ‘em when they fight a bit. I’ll give you five darlin’ but you better wriggle nice for me.” He pushed himself up against her.

  “Christ, mister, not here,” she said, taking the five franc coin and looking up into his face, her eyes burning with hatred. She saw the scar that ran from above the bridge of his nose down one cheek to the corner of his mouth. An image from four nights earlier of this same foul face flashed across her mind, a face that had looked her in the eye for a fleeting moment as he stood back from Arlette, the knife in his hand dripping her blood. She would never forget that face.

  He grinned and grabbed her arm, pushing her towards the alley.

  “Bit shy are we, darlin’? You’d better be good or I’ll take that coin back.”

  She knew she had to get at least ten feet down the alley, past the deep doorway where Michel was hiding. She tried to walk on but he had hold of her shoulder.

  “This’ll do, it’s dark enough here.”

  She reached behind and grabbed at his crotch, finding he was already hard. “Bit further, there’s a nice comfy spot down here,” she spat through her teeth as she pulled him along.

  “This’ll do,” he said. “Right, down on yer knees.”

  He was aware of Gisèle letting go of him, but he couldn’t see her in the darkness.

  “Open wide, darlin,” he grunted, reaching out for her head but not finding it.

  “You’re the one who’s going to open wide.”

  The man spun round to the voice and saw the silhouette of a tall figure against the light from the street. He reached for the knife at his belt, but a firm hand took hold of his wrist from behind him and twisted it up his back. He struggled but his arm was wrenched harder and he yelped with pain.

  “Wot the fuck! You lit’le slut, I’ll rip yer —”

  “You’ll be doing nothing to her or any other woman. Ever again.” Philippe’s voice was quiet and cold.

  The man felt a shiver run through him.

  “Look, I ain’t got no money, so wot d’yer want? Yer can have this little slut, take her. She’s only a tramp. You two boys can have some fun.”

  “It’s three,” said Henri as he entered the alley from the street. “And you should be careful what you say, you murdering bastard, or I’ll make your death a lingering one.”

  “Wot the fuck you talkin’ about? You think three against one is fair? Wot d’you lot want?”

  It was Philippe who answered. “Think back to four nights ago when you killed Arlette. Was that fair, when you stabbed her out of temper? Killed her without a second thought?”

  For a moment, the man didn’t understand. Then he remembered.

  “That was an accident. She got in me way.”

  “The first wound maybe, but the thrust that killed her was pure malice. A woman had spoilt your fun and you killed her without a second thought.”

  “And you’d already killed her son.” It was Michel’s voice that now came at him from the darkness.

  “Wot’s he to you?” The man was defiant.

  “He was my half-brother,” said Michel. “And the woman you murdered was my mother.”

  The man was silent but his eyes were darting around, trying to gauge where his attackers were in the darkness of the alley. The grip on his wrist had been released and he was standing with his back against the alley wall. As he moved a hand to reach for his knife, he caught a glint of l
ight from the pale grey eyes of the man who had been behind him and then he caught the glint of steel as it flashed past the man’s side. There was a whispered cry of “Bastard!” and Gisèle’s knife sank into his chest.

  As he slumped to his knees, he heard the sound of three swords being drawn and saw the flash of more steel. But as the three blades pierced his body, a blackness descended on him and he felt nothing more.

  Henri turned to Gisèle. Her hands were pressed against her open mouth, her face a mask of horror.

  “Gisèle, it’s over,” he said. “It had to be done. Now we must go.”

  Michel moved to the alley entrance to check the street. He signalled to them that it was clear. They were going to the harbour where they would board one of Jacques Bognard’s ships. The arrangements had been made. They were leaving on the next tide.

  Philippe Laurent stood against the starboard rail of the ship, staring into the gently rolling waters, but the beauty of the full moon reflecting off the silver sea was lost on him. The ship’s captain and Philippe’s friend of the last thirty-three years, Jacques Bognard, walked up to him.

  “Philippe, you should try to get some sleep.”

  “I’m not interested in sleep tonight, Jacques.”

  “I understand, my friend. These last few days have been more than any man should have to bear.”

  Philippe turned to him. “Jacques, I… We couldn’t have… completed everything without you.”

  Jacques smiled warmly, holding out his arms. He was a large, muscular man, some five inches taller than Philippe. His almost black eyes always had humour in them, reflecting the confidence that came with knowing he could handle himself well in any of the threatening situations that frequently arose on a ship. He was sixty-one, the same age Philippe was claiming and like Philippe, he looked nothing like his years. His skin, although weather-beaten from years at sea, was smooth. He claimed this was the result of his wife Mathilde’s wonderful cooking padding out his body and smoothing the creases.

  “Philippe, you’re my oldest and dearest friend. And I loved Arlette like a sister.” At this, Philippe sagged into Jacques’ chest, his body shaking with grief.

  Jacques sat him down on a sail locker and let him weep.

  After some minutes, Philippe straightened up and ran his hands through his hair. He sighed wearily. “I didn’t imagine four nights ago when we were sitting in my studio that we should be here tonight. That Arlette and Georges would be dead and the boys, Gisèle and I would be fugitives.”

  “We never know what fate has in store for us, old friend. And sometimes she delivers a bitter blow. I wish with all my heart that I hadn’t left so early that night. Maybe things would have been different.”

  Philippe rubbed a medallion hanging round his neck.

  “Arlette gave me this. She said it would bring me luck. I should have bought her one.”

  “It wouldn’t have saved her; that scum was bent on murder. At least he’s now rotting in hell, and good riddance to him.”

  “Would they were both still alive and none of this had been necessary. I have committed murder, Jacques. My sons have committed murder. We shall have to live with that for ever.”

  “I don’t believe that killing such a dog counts as murder. He killed more than a few people in his time and I am sure never felt the slightest twinge of remorse. And don’t think you would have got justice out of the militia. They would happily string you up for the other deaths that night. They were baying for your blood.”

  The first mate came up to Jacques. “Beg your pardon, cap’n, would you like a blanket?”

  “No thanks, Louis, but Monsieur Laurent would appreciate one if he’s going to remain out here on deck.”

  The sailor produced a blanket and Jacques threw it over Philippe’s shoulders.

  “I need to check the watch, Philippe. Try to get some rest.”

  Philippe pulled the blanket tightly round himself. His thoughts drifted back to the evening of four nights ago. Jacques had come to review progress on the latest portrait of his wife, Mathilde, who at seventy-three was still a very good-looking woman, her fine, distinguished features framed by her pure white hair. Jacques had met her soon after his arrival in Marseille in 1643 when she was a childless widow of forty. They had married the following year. Jacques ran a small fleet of trading ships and after the wedding Mathilde had insisted on accompanying him on his trips. Being superstitious about women on boats, he had agreed only because he assumed that one voyage would be enough for her. He couldn’t have been more mistaken. By the third day of the voyage, Mathilde had developed a love of the sea that would remain for the rest of her life.

  Jacques was delighted with the portrait. Philippe’s remarkable talent had never failed to impress him and he had often tried to persuade him to move elsewhere to establish a wider reputation. Philippe had always resisted, saying that although he wasn’t married to Arlette, they were effectively man and wife and that it wouldn’t be fair to take her away from the tavern she loved.

  Philippe had met Arlette and her husband, Pierre, some years after his arrival in Marseille, by which time he had added the strong Marseille dialect to his repertoire. He had been looking for a new studio and was delighted when Pierre had offered him rooms above the tavern he ran in the docks. When Pierre was killed in 1652 in a fight in the tavern, leaving Arlette with a young son, Georges, Philippe immediately offered his help. He loved the tavern’s wild atmosphere and often when he had finished for the night, he would spend two or three hours rapidly sketching or painting one figure after another.

  Arlette’s mother had been a Spanish gypsy and Arlette had inherited her looks and fiery character. She was a strong-willed girl and not afraid to solve an argument with a well-aimed punch.

  After a year, the bond between Arlette and Philippe had developed into more than a friendship, although neither of them was willing to face their feelings head on. One noisy evening as Arlette carried an armful of mugs to a table, a young sailor had put his hand on her thigh and tried to pull her onto his lap. She thumped the mugs onto the table, whirled round and hit him hard on the jaw, knocking him out cold. His friends rounded on her. She smashed a mug into the face of one, but two others grabbed her from behind. Another was raising his fist to strike her when Philippe yelled from the bar. The man turned and as he did was laid out flat by a punch from one of the regulars. Philippe ran from the bar and threw himself at the sailors still gripping Arlette. Arlette struggled free and between them they quickly dispatched them. They took hold of the sailors’ feet, dragged their unconscious bodies to the door and threw them down the steps to the filthy gutters. Arlette leaned back against the doorframe, wiped her forehead with her arm and laughed.

  “Well, Philippe Laurent, it’s good to see you have a brawny side.”

  He took a step towards her and brushed her hair from her face. “I learned all my fighting skills from watching you. I now need to learn how to put all that energy into a painting, to portray it.”

  “Do you never think of anything but your work, man?” she replied playfully, as she wiped a smear of blood from beside his eye where one of the sailors had tried to head-butt him.

  He looked into her dark brown eyes and she held his stare. He was holding her waist with both hands and as he tightened his grip, she put both her hands round his head and kissed him fiercely. Breathless, Philippe pulled back.

  “Arlette, I–”

  She stopped him with a finger on his lips. “It’s been more than a year, Philippe,” she said quietly. “I miss Pierre every day and I still love him dearly. But he’s not coming back and I have to move on. I am still young and I have feelings, Philippe. I have desires.” She kissed him again, first gently and then passionately.

  Their relationship moved easily from that of good friends to passionate lovers. Philippe had been in no long-term relationships since Beth died in 1580 and he had resolved that he would never marry again. But within three months of sharing Arlett
e’s bed, he had changed his mind. To his surprise, Arlette refused him, saying that although she loved him with every fibre of her body, she would not marry again. She said she was still angry with God for cutting short her husband’s life and she didn’t want to give Him the opportunity to take away another husband. She reasoned that if they didn’t marry, God would not be tempted to cause her such heartbreak again since taking away a lover wasn’t the same as taking away a husband. Even when eighteen months later she became pregnant, she remained immovable on the subject and rather than fire up her temper, Philippe avoided the subject of marriage thereafter.

  Philippe and Arlette’s son, Henri, was born in late 1655, a second son, Michel, arriving three years later. Both boys had Philippe’s pale grey eyes and both enjoyed perfect health, unlike Georges who caught his fair share of childhood illnesses.

  The difference in the boys didn’t escape Arlette’s attention.

  “Those pale grey eyes of yours must have magical powers,” she often told Philippe. “I didn’t realise it at first, but you are never ill, are you? You never even get a cold. Nothing.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I get pretty hot when you’re around,” he laughed, trying to make light of it.

  “Well, your passion certainly seems to know no bounds,” she smiled, kissing him, “but you must admit it’s strange. I’ve never known anyone who was never ill. And you’re pretty fit, given your age.” She punched his stomach lightly.

  “Well, I’m only forty-five and you work me so hard it’s not surprising that I’m lean.”

  She studied his face. “My God, Philippe, you are forty-five, aren’t you? You’re almost as old now as Pierre was when he was killed, but you look so much younger. You haven’t got a grey hair on your head, nor any wrinkles on your face.”

  “You keep me young, cherie,” smiled Philippe. He wondered, as he often had, if he should tell Arlette, but her gypsy superstitions worried him.

  Gisèle Prideaux had come into their lives in 1670. With similar gypsy origins, her mother and Arlette had been close friends and it was only natural that Arlette took the girl under her wing when her mother died. Gisèle was fifteen at the time, the same age as Henri, and the two had quickly become inseparable.

  By his mid-twenties, Georges was the image of his father and had his mother’s quick temper. When the sailors who started what would be his last fight started to throw their weight around after two hours of heavy drinking, it was natural that Georges went over to them. But despite his size, two of them pushed him away. He pushed back angrily and one of them produced a knife. Arlette, serving at the bar, looked up to see what had caused the sudden silence as the men confronted each other. She sighed when she saw the knife and turned to Michel.

  “Go and get your father. I have a bad feeling about this group.”

  As Michel rushed off, Arlette called out to the men and made her way over to them.

  “Let’s not get overheated boys, just back away from each other and calm down.”

  “Mind yer business.” A man older than the others had staggered to his feet. He spat on the floor and gesticulated drunkenly at her.

  Georges moved towards him but the sailor holding the knife pointed it at him and he stopped, looking warily from him to the older man and back.

  “What’s the matter, flat nose, worried about yer mummy, are you?” the older man laughed derisively at Georges.

  Seeing the sailor with the knife was distracted, Georges grabbed his wrist and twisted it hard, bringing it down onto a table. The knife fell from his hand and slid across the floor. He pushed the man away into his mates, but they shoved him back and he stumbled, falling across the table in front of Georges. As this was happening, the older man had pulled his own knife and lunged at Georges. But instead of stabbing Georges, the knife plunged into the neck of the falling sailor as he crashed across the table. A spurt of blood hit the older man in the face as his unwitting victim screamed in terror.

  “Yer’ll pay for that,” screamed the man and lunged across the table again. Georges stepped back out of reach but the man jumped onto the table after him. He was about to launch himself at Georges when Arlette grabbed a bottle and swung it at the man’s knees as hard as she could. It smashed across its target and the man crashed down onto the body of the dying sailor he’d stabbed.

  “You bitch!” he snarled, clawing himself to his feet, his eyes fixed on Arlette. She saw the large scar that ran across his face and was surprised she didn’t recognise him. She thought she knew most of the troublemakers in Marseille.

  Georges rushed forward to grab the man but he wasn’t quick enough. The man saw him out of the corner of his eye and swung his knife round in a large arc, slicing into Georges’ throat. Georges collapsed, clutching at the wound as the blood spurted around his clasping fingers.

  Henri and Gisèle had heard the commotion from a back room and came rushing through in time to see Georges’ fatal stabbing. Henri ran at the group, taking his own knife from his belt and screaming at the top of his voice. As he drew near, the older man lunged at him but succeeded only in stabbing Arlette’s arm as she tried to protect her son.

  The dying sailor’s mates, wanting revenge, decided to make the tavern’s owners pay. One of them kicked a table out of the way from in front of him and with his dagger held high, rushed towards Henri. But he suddenly stopped in his tracks as a knife flew through the air and landed up to its hilt in his chest. He looked down in disbelief, dropped to his knees and died.

  Moments earlier, Michel had run into the room, closely followed by Philippe. Seeing that Henri was in danger, Michel had withdrawn his knife from his belt and in one continuous movement had thrown it at the sailor. Without a pause, he and Philippe advanced on the group, their swords now drawn.

  Realising the odds were now stacked against him, the older man grabbed one of the young sailors and, using him as a barrier, pushed him ahead towards Henri. As they passed the wounded Arlette, the older man shoved the sailor hard, making him stumble forward. Then he turned to Arlette. “Bitch!” he snarled and plunged his knife into her chest. Pulling it out, he looked across the room, a victorious sneer on his face. Then he vaulted over a table, ran for the door and was through it before anyone could react.

  The remainder of the group of young sailors shrank away from the scene, apart from the one the older man had pushed at Henri. In his drunken fury he decided to make a go of it and lunged at Henri. He missed but in sidestepping out of his way, Henri tripped on a fallen chair and fell onto his back. The sailor raised his knife, ready to plunge it into Henri. But that was as far as he got. As his arm reached its highest point, two swords pierced through his body almost as one as Michel and Philippe charged at him.

  As Philippe withdrew his sword from the dead sailor, he heard Gisèle’s urgent cry. “Philippe! Quickly!”

  He rushed to Arlette. She looked up at him through half-closed eyes. “Cheri,” she whispered.

  “Don’t try to talk, Arlette, I’ll fetch a physician.”

  “No, cheri, it’s too late.” She coughed, blood oozing from her mouth.

  “Philippe, my strange, wonderful man …” She died gazing into his eyes.

  The tavern had fallen silent, the customers frozen to the spot. Then suddenly everyone was trying to get out of the door at the same time. Philippe lifted Arlette’s lifeless body and carried it into the back room where he lay it on a table. Henri and Michel followed with Georges’ body. His face haggard with emotion, Philippe grasped the edge of the table and bowed his head.

  “Michel,” he said quietly. “We need some help, and quickly. Go to Jacques’ house. Tell him what’s happened. He will know what to do.”

  He paused and then looked up, his eyes cold. “Did anyone recognise that man?”

  It was Gisèle who voiced what they were all thinking. “No, but I’ll search this town until I find him. And then kill him.”

  Ten minutes later, Jacques arrived with three menservants and two maids.


  “My men will carry the bodies to my house, mon ami,” he urged Philippe. “We don’t want the militia dealing with them. And you must take whatever you need from this house; you cannot come back.”

  He turned to the others.

  “Quickly now, there is no time to waste!” He sent one of the maids with Gisèle and the other with Henri and Michel. He virtually dragged Philippe up the stairs. “Collect your things and what you need of Arlette’s. I’ll get your paintings.”

  To Philippe it seemed that no more than a few seconds later Jacques was standing at the bedroom door holding a huge pile of portfolios, brushes, books and papers. “Hurry, Philippe! The militia will be here any minute. They’ll delight in stringing you up.”

  Philippe threw what he could onto the bed, gathered up the corners of the blanket and followed Jacques down the stairs. The others had already arrived in the back room. Jacques opened the door that led onto the rear lane, looked cautiously up and down it, and nodded to them to follow.

  As they disappeared into the shadows, they heard the thudding of a squad of militia’s boots descending the hill towards the tavern’s front entrance.

  The following evening, soon after nightfall, they stood in a secluded churchyard on a hill above the town. The priest was an old friend of Jacques and Mathilde who had needed no persuasion to perform the burial rites. Earlier, Philippe had dressed Arlette’s body in her finest gown while Mathilde arranged her hair. When they laid her in her coffin, she looked completely at peace.

  Once the two coffins had been placed in the ground, all the men took turns replacing the earth, after which they stood in silent reflection. Their thoughts were finally interrupted by a sigh from Gisèle. They looked over to her as she pulled her cloak around her.

  “I have business to attend to,” she said quietly. “There is no time to waste in case that brute decides to leave Marseille.”

  “Gisèle, I’ll go with you,” said Henri.

  “No, Henri. They know you too well. I am the one they know least; I can pass through the town with relative ease.” She tried to make the words sound convincing, but she knew that she too would be in great danger.

  “Gisèle,” Philippe’s voice commanded. “If you find him, do nothing. We shall all deal with him together.”

  Gisèle nodded. “I’ll find him,” she said and slipped into the night.

  As the sun rose over the hills of Italy, Jacques walked over to his friend and sat on the sail locker next to him.

  “There is little in this world to match the beauty of a sunrise over those hills when seen from the sea.”

  Philippe followed his gaze and nodded. Another day, he thought. Another day in two hundred and fifty years of days.

  He turned to Jacques and saw him gazing at him with a strange, knowing expression on his face, as if he had read his thoughts.

  “Jacques, I–”

  “I understand, mon ami.”

  If only you did, thought Philippe, realising that he’d almost started to tell him his secret.

  He stood up and stretched. “I think I should take some breakfast and then rest a while.”

  After he had eaten, Philippe went to his cabin where he dozed fitfully for a couple of hours.

  There was a knock on the door. It was Henri.

  “Papa,” he called, “are you awake?”

  He came in and sat down on the bed. He was agitated, playing with his hands. “Papa, have you decided yet where we are going?”

  “Not yet, Henri. We all need to discuss it.”

  He saw the distraction on his son’s face and frowned, trying to read his thoughts.

  “It has been a very difficult time, Henri. There has been so much tension that we have had little chance to think about Maman. I still can’t believe she’s gone. I feel so lost.”

  “We all do, Papa. But at least I have Gisèle. She’s a wonderful girl and she has been so strong. She loved Maman as if she were her own mother.”

  “She was the daughter Maman would always have liked along with the three of you.”

  Henri fell silent, still playing with his hands.

  “There’s something else, Henri, isn’t there?”

  Henri turned his eyes briefly to Philippe’s, and then looked away again, chewing his lip.

  “I don’t know how to say this, Papa.” He paused. “There’s something I … we, Michel and I, have been wanting to discuss with you for some time. The last few days have made me think about it again.”

  Philippe said nothing.

  “Papa. I know Maman was concerned about this as well.”

  Another pause.

  “Papa, are we different, Michel and I? Are you different?”

  “Different?”

  “Well, it’s just that we’ve always been so healthy. You know, never ill. You too, even as you’ve got older. That’s one thing. The other is, well, Papa, you are sixty-one but you don’t look it. And in the fight in the bar and when we were searching for Brochard you seemed so young. Not like a man of your years at all. When I look at you, Papa, you don’t look much older than I do. You certainly don’t look like other men of your age.”

  Philippe touched Henri’s arm gently. “Henri, I’m not even sure there are other men of my age.”

  There was confusion on Henri’s face interwoven with fear.

  “What do you mean, Papa?” he said quietly.

  “Henri, I think perhaps you should fetch Michel. And Gisèle. It’s about time I explained something to you.”