The Nostradamus prophecies

29

‘Captain Calque? Please sit down. And you, too, Lieutenant.’

Calque collapsed gratefully on to one of the three large sofas set around the fireplace. Then he levered himself back-up while the Countess sat down.

Macron, who had at first been tempted to perch on the arm of one of the sofas and dangle the soles of his painful feet in the air, thought better of it and joined him.

‘Would you both like some coffee?’

‘That’s quite all right.’

‘I shall order some for myself then. I always have coffee at this hour.’

Calque looked like a man who had forgotten to buy his lottery ticket and whose numbers had just flashed up on the television screen.

‘Are you sure you won’t join me?’

‘Well. Now that you mention it.’

‘Excellent. Milouins, a pot of coffee for three, please. And bring some madeleines.’

‘Yes, Madame.’ The footman backed out of the room.

Macron made another incredulous face but Calque refused to meet his eyes.

‘This is our summer house, Captain. In the nineteenth century it used to be our winter house, but everything changes, does it not? Now people seek out the sun. The hotter the better, no?’

Calque felt like blowing out his cheeks, but didn’t. He felt like a cigarette, but suspected that he might simply set off a hidden smoke alarm – or trigger a ruckus about ashtrays – if he gave in to his craving. He resolved to forgo both and not subject himself to any more stress than was strictly necessary. ‘I wanted to ask you something, Madame. Purely as a matter of record. About your husband’s titles.’

‘My son’s titles.’

‘Ah. Yes. Your son’s titles. Simple curiosity. Your son is a Pair de France, is he not?’

‘Yes. That is correct.’

‘But I understood there to be only twelve Pairs de France. Please correct me if I am wrong.’ He held up his fingers. ‘The Archbishop of Reims, who traditionally conducted the Royal crowning. The Bishops of Laon, Langres, Beauvais, Chalons and Noyons, who, respectively, anointed the King and bore his sceptre, his mantle, his ring and his belt. And then there were the Dukes of Normandy, Burgundy and Aquitaine (also known as Guyenne). The Duke of Burgundy bore the crown and fastened the belt. Normandy held the first square banner, with Guyenne holding the second. Finally there were the Counts: Champagne, Flanders and Toulouse. Toulouse carried the spurs, Flanders the sword and Champagne the Royal Standard. Am I not correct?’

‘Extraordinarily so. One would think that you had just this minute looked these names up in a book and memorised them.’

Calque fl ushed. He could feel the blood churning through his damaged nose.

‘No, Madame. Captain Calque really does know his stuff.’

Calque gave Macron an incredulous stare. Good God. Were we talking class solidarity here? That had to be the answer. There could be no other possible reason for Macron to defend him so sedulously and in so public a manner. Calque inclined his head in genuine appreciation. He must remember to make more of an effort with Macron. Encourage him more. Calque even felt the vestige of a slight affection clouding his habitual irritation at Macron’s youthful brashness. ‘And so we come to your husband’s family, Madame. Forgive me.

But I still don’t understand. This would surely make them the thirteenth Pair? But no record of such a Pair exists, as far as I am aware. What would your husband’s ancestor have carried during the Coronation?’

‘He wouldn’t have carried anything, Captain. He would have protected.’

‘Protected? Protected from whom?’

The Countess smiled. ‘From the Devil, of course.’