wearing—a handsome plush, if I do say so myself!—is fifteen louis. The new one is twenty. That will be thirty-five gold louis, not…ahem…not counting the two extra louis I was promised for my pains.” He laughed nervously. “I do confess it now, monsieur. I had forgot you promised it to me. Thanks be to your honesty!” He crossed himself piously. “I should never have remembered it. My wife says I’ve become as forgetful as an old woman.”
Tintin shook his head. “Pish tush! You’re a splendid fellow and a superb tailor, may I be cursed if you’re not.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Here you are, my good man. Seventeen louis.”
“ Seventeen , monsieur?”
“Yes. Fifteen for the plush, and two as the tip I promised you. I keep my word, monsieur.”
“But…but you said you’d pay it all!”
“Surely you misunderstood. I said I’d pay you all I owed. I shan’t owe you the twenty louis until the new suit is finished.”
Lorgues’s face had begun to purple again. “Rogue! Liar!”
Tintin looked pained. “But you agreed, monsieur! Not half an hour ago! Is it not so, Rouge?”
It was all Rouge could do to keep a straight face. For surely Tintin was a master of devilment! The fiction of the promised tip—to mollify Lorgues, and now the game (that she was expected to abet) to keep from paying for the red brocade until it was absolutely necessary. She nodded earnestly. “Yes, Monsieur Lorgues. I heard you agree. With my own ears.” She sighed. “Alas! Your poor memory. You must not tell your wife how you are failing. It would distress her so.”
The tailor looked confused, glancing from one solemn face to the other. “Is it so? Truly? Mon Dieu !”He pulled out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Very well. Twenty louis d’or when the suit is delivered.” He bowed in salute. “Your servant, monsieur le marquis.”
“A moment,” said Tournières. Rouge was familiar enough with her father’s voice to recognize the hard edge that had crept in. “There’s one more matter to be settled. You boxed my servant’s ears. He’s a gentle lad, not deserving of such treatment.” He raised his hand, stilling Lorgues’s protest. “I have assured the boy that you will make amends. A sol or two for a sweetmeat should cheer him. If you please…”
Lorgues hesitated, then shrugged. He fished out a small copper coin and tossed it to François, who bit it skeptically and beamed. “Here you are, mon gars ,” said Lorgues with a magnanimous wave of the hand.
“And now, you will beg the boy’s pardon.” Tintin’s voice had become colder still.
“Eh? What? Not I, monsieur!”
Tournières continued to smile. “My sword arm has not lost its skill, you fat pig. You will beg the boy’s pardon, or they will be making salt pork of your hide.”
Lorgues began to stammer. “I…I meant no harm, you understand.”
“His pardon.”
Trembling, the tailor nodded. “You will please to forgive me, boy.” He was out the door before François had even acknowledged the apology.
Chrétien began to laugh. “Now, let us hope he doesn’t decide to stitch the legs of my breeches together!”
Rouge giggled. “You improvise a wicked tale, Tintin! You will have him believing that day is night! But the red brocade looks wonderful. It suits you to a hair. The king himself will admire you, I have no doubt.”
“’Tis a pity you return to Sans-Souci this week. Monseigneur’s fête promises to be a merry affair, with plays and music, good food and wine.”
“It’s all for the best, Tintin, I… Damn! I’d quite forgot!”
“Now, plague take me, it must be serious, if you begin to blaspheme!”
“I can’t go home before the party! Like a fool I told the king that I wished to retire to Sans-Souci within the week. He flew into a rage and commanded my attendance at the fête.”
“It