Louisa Rawlings Read Online Free

furiously into Tintin’s brass-bound trunk, tossing clothing to left and right. He looked up as they entered, wild eyes bulging in his face. “There you are, Tournières!” he squeaked. “You rogue! Son of a dog! Kin to a mountebank!”  
    Chrétien smiled mildly, but his eyes were cold. “What seems to be amiss, Monsieur Lorgues, that you make so free with my belongings?”  
    His finger poking the air, Lorgues pointed at Rouge’s father. “There, and there and there! You dare to wear that coat, that waistcoat, those breeches—when they are not yet paid for?” He whirled about and indicated a half-finished suit of Chinese-red brocade that he had just pulled from the trunk. “And then to order a new suit for Monseigneur’s festivities…oh, the impudence! I trusted you, monsieur! You came to me, trading on your cousin Desportes’s name for credit. And every time I send you a bill, you have another story for me! Must I then shame you by collecting from your patron Desportes?”  
    “You will surely die of apoplexy, Monsieur Lorgues. But then perhaps your fits of temper—alas, my friend!—have already weakened your brain. Else you would surely recall that I promised to pay you all that I owed you this very day!”  
    “I remember no such thing,” growled Lorgues.  
    Tintin looked astonished. “Then you don’t remember that I also promised you an extra two louis d’or for your patience! Fortunately for you, I am honest enough to recall it to your mind.”  
    Lorgues began to smile, the redness of his face subsiding. “An extra eight crowns! Ah, yes! Of course I remember now.”  
    “Good! Then if you will be so kind as to finish the fitting of the red brocade…we can settle our accounts afterward.”  
    The happy prospect of the extra coins he was to pocket transformed Lorgues. All the while he marked and pinned the garment he kept up a stream of chatter, swearing that he had misjudged Tournières, who was surely a generous and kind patron, a man of noble spirit. Rouge offered suggestions from time to time—a bit of braid here, a cocarde of ribbon there—while François bustled about the room, making order of the chaos.  
    At last the fitting was done. As Tintin changed into the suit he had worn before, Monsieur Lorgues turned to Rouge. “And you, mademoiselle, daughter to this most noble gentleman…it would be my honor to serve you,” he purred. “I am a fine tailor of stays for ladies. And my wife is a skilled mantua maker. I have no doubt she could fashion you a most handsome grand habit , or a becoming robe de chambre for your leisure hours. Something in pale rose, perhaps, to accent your fine coloring.”  
    “How kind of you, Monsieur Lorgues. I shall consider it. When I’ve decided what I should like, you will most certainly get my trade.”  
    Lorgues rubbed his hands together in anticipation of further business. “When you’re ready, Mademoiselle de Tournières, you have only to send your maid around to my shop in town.”  
    “Of course.” Rouge smiled, her face betraying nothing. Her maid. Name of God! What would he think were he to know that she had been unable to bring her maid Emilie to Versailles because the cost of the public coach was too great? All the time they had been here, she had pretended to be expecting the girl at any moment; between François’ help, and the occasional palace maid who was pleased to help her, she was served well enough. To ease her conscience, in lieu of payment she managed to give little gifts to the maids—a lace handkerchief, a length of silk ribbon, a pair of gloves. She could hardly spare them out of her own meager wardrobe, but it couldn’t be helped.  
    Monsieur Lorgues carefully folded the half-finished suit over one arm, pulled his bill from his pocket, and turned to Tintin. His friendly manner had become a smirking obsequiousness. “Now, monsieur le marquis, if you would care to settle your accounts… The suit you are