‘Good morning, Vicomte,’ Henry called out instead. ‘I trust you enjoyed the accommodation and facilities? The burlesque was fine, was it not?’
‘Not altogether,’ d’Arche replied coldly. ‘Yet I am prepared to put such things aside for the sake of expediency. Until, that is, we are once more within a compass in which your behaviour may be called to account in the proper fashion.’
‘Splendid, splendid,’ Henry answered, entirely ignoring the threat. ‘So, then, you know the district – what do you advise?’
‘Yonder,’ d’Arche replied with a nod to the west, ‘is the city of Tours. We have little choice but to pass through it, as the Loire and Cher join some small way beyond and thus we are on a peninsula.’
‘What of disguising ourselves as nobility and simply driving boldly through?’ Henry suggested.
‘Me? Wear the garb of a peasant?’ d’Arche said, with a shudder of distaste. ‘Never; I would rather hang.’
‘As well you may,’ Henry answered.
‘It grates sufficiently to have to flee from a rabble,’ d’Arche continued, ‘without being forced to impersonate them. No, I may withdraw, but I do so as I am, a vicomte. No, with the treachery of so many supposedly noble Touranjou, our sole concern is that I might be recognised. Therefore I shall feign sleep, with your hat over my face, if you would be good enough to allow me its use.’
‘A fair suggestion,’ Henry answered, ‘which I will accept for want of a better. First, however, I am of a mind to visit the cellar and avail ourselves of a few select bottles. Eloise, my darling, perhaps you would come and assist my choice?’
‘Very well,’ Eloise answered with a coy look. ‘Natalie, Peggy, see to the landau.’
‘I also shall accompany you,’ d’Arche stated. ‘To ensure that you choose only the best of whatever may remain.’
Henry responded with a grunt, having intended at the least to explore the impressive depth of cleavage Eloise was displaying in her now somewhat shrunken vermilion gown. Evidently, he reasoned, the Vicomte d’Arche was no more inclined to face reality in his erotic endeavours than in real life. Shrugging off his annoyance, he made for the cellar steps, closely followed by d’Arche and Eloise.
Wrinkling his nose against the pervading smell of ruined wine, Henry ducked beneath an arch and made for the far side ahead of his companions, only to stop dead in his tracks. A sound had caught his ears, a sound that could only be a human snore. Holding himself absolutely still, he peered into the darkness.
With mounting horror, he realised that a pale oval he had thought merely a reflection was in fact a face, a great bearded face that he had last seen as he pulled a sack down over its features – Jean Faugres. Moving with agonising care, he stepped backwards out of the tunnel, putting his finger to his lips in a frantic gesture as soon as he came in clear sight of Eloise and the Vicomte d’Arche.
‘It’s that devil Faugres!’ he whispered hoarsely in response to their puzzled looks. ‘He’s asleep in the tunnel!’
‘Kill him, before he wakes!’ Eloise answered in a terrified hiss.
‘What, in cold blood?’ Henry demanded. ‘Just go, will you, you bloodthirsty bitch?’
‘The demoiselle is right,’ d’Arche stated. ‘Kill the filthy brute!’
‘Be assured he would do the same to you,’ Eloise added.
‘I don’t have anything to kill him with; and besides, I feel sure I saw him stir!’ Henry protested, making for the stairs.
They emerged from the cellar to find Gurney in the act of helping Natalie to board the landau. Henry ran over and explained the situation, to which Gurney responded with a curt nod.
‘Get up,’ Henry ordered Eloise. ‘We’re going.’
Eloise hesitated only a moment, but d’Arche did not follow.
‘Damn it man, get up!’ Henry exclaimed.
‘No,’ d’Arche replied. ‘This man has threatened the person of the demoiselle. If you dare not confront him, even when sleeping, then lend me your pistols and I myself will do what honour demands.’
‘We leave, now!’ Henry hissed between clenched teeth.
‘Sir –’ d’Arche began, in his most pompous tone, only to be cut off by the slam of the cellar door.
Henry turned as a great shaggy head emerged from the stairwell. Faugres was rubbing his eyes and blinking in the bright morning light, but as he climbed from the stairwell he focused on Henry and the others and his expression turned from vague puzzlement to rage. Henry grabbed up a pistol and swung round, pointing it directly at the giant’s chest. Faugres paused, glaring at Henry but not daring to come on.
As d’Arche scrambled hastily into the landau behind him, Henry obtained his first chance to take in the appearance of Jean Faugres in the light of day. It was not an opportunity in which he took any pleasure. A good head taller than himself, Faugres’s body bulged with muscle that the ludicrously ill-fitting clothing only served to enhance. Nor did the giant’s face show any fear, but only hatred and contempt. A little whimper of dread from either Eloise or Natalie confirmed that he was not alone in his trepidation, but also served to stiffen his resolve.
Reaching behind him and keeping the pistol firmly trained on Faugres, Henry groped for the landau’s door. A hand found his, a hand that seemed impossibly small when compared with Faugres’ great, mauling fists. He moved back, found the running board with his foot and stepped up, only then finding that it was Natalie who had guided him. Faugres took a step forward and Henry stiffened his pistol arm as Natalie pulled the door of the landau shut.
He heard the smack of Gurney’s whip and the landau began to move. Faugres stood glaring, his great fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. As the landau accelerated, Henry felt a flood of relief. He laughed, as much from nervousness as anything but still managing to convey a note of derision. Faugres raised a fist and took another step forward, then began to lope slowly after the landau. Henry pulled up his arm, very deliberately took aim, put pressure to the trigger and then stopped as Faugres suddenly hurled himself to the side.
Henry laughed, adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger. For just an instant real terror showed on the giant’s face, and then an overriding fury as the hammer clicked home against its rest.
‘No charge, Jean my boy!’ Henry called out as they clattered away down the drive. ‘No ball, either!’
Faugres leapt roaring to his feet, but the landau was moving fast and now Henry’s laughter was genuinely derisive. Eloise’s mocking, silvery tones joined his deeper ones as they swept away and he gave the giant a final insulting hand gesture as the curve of the low cliff cut off their view. Henry was still laughing as they reached the road that led along the river, a humour born as much from relief as from the memory of Jean Faugres’s expression.
Tours appeared as they rounded a bluff, a great jumble of houses around a high-walled centre. Within a few minutes, the road had become fully lined with houses on their left and presently they swung away from the river towards the gates of the city proper. A good number of people were already abroad, yet each appeared intent on their own business and none spared more than a curious glance for the landau and its occupants. Following instructions relayed from the vicomte via Eloise, Gurney steered the landau through the outer city, turning left to find the river Cher.
Todd Gurney guided the landau on to the bridge approach, only to find a queue of vehicles stretching most of the way across. Standing in his stirrups, he made out a squat octagonal building, beside which stood two men in uniform of a rich blue with muskets slung over their shoulders. One was speaking to the driver of a wain laden with apples, while the other looked on with an officious expression. As Gurney slowed the landau, a third man stepped from the small building and looked down the line of vehicles, more or less directly at the landau.
He remained still, aware that any unusual action could only draw the attention of the guards. Three choices presented themselves; to turn back, to try and bluff their way through what was evidently some
sort of check point, or –
Gurney clapped his knees into the flanks of the carthorse even as he pulled the reins to steer out of the line of vehicles. The team responded, eager to run. Startled people began to turn to look at them as the landau accelerated and then one of the guards was pointing and calling something. Another dashed forward into the open lane to bar their way, raising his hat in a commanding gesture as he did so. Gurney yelled to the horses, ignoring questioning calls from his passengers as they thundered across the wide bridge.
The expression of the man in the road changed from command to terror as he realised that the approaching carriage had no intention of stopping. For a moment, he stood stupefied, even as his colleagues scrambled for their muskets. Then, an instant before he went down under the hooves of the two greys, he leapt to the side and flattened himself against the high wheel of the apple cart.
A yell sounded after them as they tore past the guards, its meaning clear to Gurney, despite being in French. He paid no attention, but pulled hard on the reins, angling the carthorse towards the road side. The beast responded, the others following. A crack sounded behind him, then another and a musket ball whistled over his head.
The shots served to spur the horses, driving them to a headlong gallop of sheer panic. Gurney clung on, hearing a squeal of alarm from one of the girls as they tore down the broad road to leave the bridge and its guards far behind. Slowly, the horses lost their fear, slowing and then once more becoming controllable.
‘I’d not care to do that again, sir,’ Gurney said as the landau finally came to a stop.
‘Nonsense, man,’ Henry answered, ‘a more exhilarating ride I have seldom experienced.’
Jean Faugres strode towards Tours, his burning rage far beyond the point at which he might have cared what the citizens thought of his appearance. One thought alone occupied his mind – vengeance. The derisive laughter of Henry and Eloise still rang in his ears, driving him to a state of fury that was made worse by his inability to pursue the landau. Hunger and discomfort added to his woes, all of which he blamed squarely on Eloise and – to an ever greater extent – Henry Truscott.
In the absence of Henry Truscott, he would have been secure in his house in St Romain, not tramping through the cold Touraine without money, food or even his proper clothes. Also, he would undoubtedly have had his pleasure of Eloise – perhaps many times – and the slut would now be awaiting whatever fate he had chosen to impose upon her.
With the thought of his intentions for Eloise, a new element entered his turbulent thoughts – lust. She had been in her vermilion gown, with the upper surfaces of her plump breasts quivering as she sniggered at him. What bliss, he imagined, to have pulled those fat globes from their restraining velvet, to have heard her cry of shame and defeat as he squeezed them in his hands, to have laid a dog-whip across the big, trembling orbs until their white perfection was criss-crossed with scarlet welts!
He cried out loud with sheer thwarted lust, closing his eyes and clenching his massive fists. A young girl on some morning errand gave him a terrified look and hurried past, then broke into a run.
The city rose before him and rather than cross one or other rivers in futile pursuit of the landau, he entered the old part of the city and was presently stalking down the Rue des Sulots, a street of shabby dwellings known for its cheap wine shops and low-grade brothels. Ignoring the slatternly women, most of whom gave him a wide berth in any case, he made for the street’s end where the houses pressed against the wall of the city.
He hammered at a door, which opened to reveal a petite, rounded woman whose face, although careworn, still showed beauty.
‘Jean!’ she exclaimed as she recognised her visitor.
‘Lucie,’ he responded simply. ‘Still here after fifteen years?’
She responded with a resigned smile and beckoned him forward. Ignoring her questions, he pushed inside and explained his needs, which Lucie accepted with a knowing look and a giggle. They went to an upper room, Faugres chivvying her along and then slamming the door shut as soon as they were inside.
‘Jean! Not so fast!’ she protested as he grabbed her and kissed her fiercely on the mouth.
In answer, he took her by the hair and pressed her to her knees, then held her head firmly in place while he freed his penis from the over-tight breeches.
‘Do as you’re told but resist,’ he instructed. ‘Now get your lips around my cock!’
She obeyed, gulping his cock into her mouth. He held her by the hair, forcing her face into his crotch and listening with delight to the little mewling noises she made as she sucked his cock.
‘That’s right, suck,’ he growled, thinking of not Lucie but Eloise, on her knees with his penis swelling in her mouth.
It was quickly stiff and he pulled back, unwilling to risk ejaculation in her mouth. Still holding her by the hair, he pulled her slowly to her feet, then lowered his face to hers and kissed her. As her mouth opened under his, he put a hand to the bodice of her gown, then, with a sudden violent motion, pushed her back. Lucie fell to the bed, her bodice tearing in his hand to leave both her breasts loose and bare. He laughed and grabbed her ankles, lifting them and wrenching them apart to expose her vulva.
‘Jean!’ she protested.
‘Time I had your cunt, my fine lady,’ he snarled. ‘Come on, fight!’
Lucie began to struggle as he laid his weight on her, jokingly at first and then with more vigour as his penis probed for the hole in between her legs. Faugres rejoiced in her feeble efforts to dislodge him, all the while thinking of how Eloise would react in Lucie’s place, pressed beneath his body with her plump thighs spread and his penis about to be pushed into her helpless cunny. Doubtless she would claw and kick with more vigour, yet as Lucie’s desperate thrashing increased, along with the volume of her screams and curses, he felt something of how he had always imagined it would be.
‘Never, you filthy, low-born dog!’ Lucie screamed as his cock found her hole. ‘No, not that: you’ll not put it in me, you pig! Get off! Get away! Oh, God! No!’
She gave a final wail of despair as he forced his massive cock into her vagina, feeling the muscles clench against him and then give under the pressure. He groaned as his length slid inside her and she responded with a moan of pleasure.
‘Not yet, you fool wench,’ he hissed.
Her sighs immediately gave way to noises of distress and she began to beat her fists against his great chest. He began to fuck her, revelling in her futile struggles and pleading as his cock rammed home again and again inside her. Slowly, her resistance subsided, until she lay on the bed like a broken doll, accepting the filling of her vagina with no more than the occasional whimper.
Faugres continued to pump into her. His eyes were closed, and in his mind it was not the amenable Lucie but an unwilling Eloise on whom he was mounted. He would have caught her, wrenched her titties from her bodice, thrown her legs up to expose her cunt and then mounted her and had her, despite her pathetic attempts to resist him. Finally he would have come, deep in her cunt, only to pull free as he did so and drain the remainder of his sperm over her proud, haughty face.
As his fantasy reached its climax, so did he. He was moving frantically inside Lucie, who had began to groan with pleasure, despite herself, and had her legs pulled up in an attitude that suggested anything but reluctance. She cried out as his cock exploded inside her, clutching him to herself with a desperate energy. He continued to pump, draining both his sperm and his frustration into her until he was spent and could only collapse into her arms. For a long moment, they lay inert, until Lucie protested against his weight.
‘You’re crushing me, Jean,’ she said, pushing at his chest, ‘and I must douche also.’
He rolled off and then sat upright on the bed as she left the room. Lucie gave him a smile and a peculiar look and scampered from the room. Immediately, Faugres rose. Two long strides took him to the corner of the room, where he pulled up a threadbare rug and then a floorboar
d. Groping hastily underneath, his fingers found what he was looking for: a leather bag within which were the rounded shapes of coins.
Ten
Keeping to small lanes and tracks, the landau followed the northern boundary of a great forest declared by d’Arche to be the estate of the Château de Chinon. Beyond, the land became more populous and, with no further evidence of open hostility, Henry was emboldened to follow the principal road along the southern bank of the Loire. They passed close under the magnificent battlements and towers of Saumur and then though the town, raising no more than a hostile glance. Nor was there any further difficulty as they approached the city of Angers; indeed, for the most part, the area seemed remarkably deserted.
‘It would seem that we are past the worst,’ Natalie ventured.
‘What of tonight?’ Eloise asked. ‘Might not an inn be possible?’
‘This is Anjou, we are yet a half-day’s hard ride from the Vendee, where you might be safe,’ d’Arche answered her stiffly. ‘Despite appearances, by all accounts the rabble in Anjou is as bad as that in Touraine, so it would seem wiser to spend the night in some deserted place. A wiser choice by far would be to take the road south to Cholet, and by this evening we might be at the estate of my cousin, the Seigneur de Chavanges, where you might rest in both a comfortable bed and security. But, as you have been so obstinate as to throw in your lot with these Englishmen, you should not complain of any resulting discomfort.’
‘Do not whine so, Donatien,’ she answered him. ‘Neither jealousy nor pique become a man of your rank. Henry, I am tired and hungry, might we not risk an inn?’
‘I’m not sure I care to,’ Henry replied, ‘but the horses are fair spent and in need of fodder, while I’d give a round sum for something other than old cheese – and your damned sausages are enough to pull a man’s teeth. What do you say, Gurney?’
‘Keep the pistols loaded and the nobs out of sight, then visit an inn, that’s what I say,’ Gurney answered. ‘And if milord vicomte is too damn proud to keep low, then he’d best make his own arrangements.’
The Rake Page 20