The poisoned chalice

I do not sit in judgement. I just report things as they are, not as they should be. Indeed, to be perfectly honest, I always felt sorry for the likes of Millet: their lives were an eternal nightmare, waiting for the traitor or paid informer to turn them in.
    I wanted to see who Millet was meeting. Certain men did approach his table but he summarily dismissed them. (There goes my chaplain again. 'Did any approach you?' he sneers. Well, I've never claimed to be an Adonis. Yes, one did approach me, and no, contrary to my chaplain's opinion, he wasn't blind, just as drunk as a bishop's donkey!) An hour passed. I had to be careful I didn't become tipsy for the drink was heavy and rich.
    At last a young man came in, covered from head to toe in a long, black cloak, the hood pulled well forward. He sauntered up to Millet. Our young Horatio smiled at him and the stranger sat down. He pulled back his hood and I gasped. You see, I have an excellent memory for faces and I was sure I had glimpsed the man amongst Vauban's entourage at Fontainebleau. Millet and he talked for a while then rose and left the tavern. I followed a few minutes later but, when I reached the darkened alleyway beyond, they had disappeared and, despite my curses and hurrying to and fro, I had lost them. I stumbled round the church of Holy Innocents for a while but my search was fruitless so I decided to fulfil the second part of my master's instructions.
    Now, if you have read the earlier instalment of my memoirs, you will recall that the previous year I'd spent some time in Paris as the enforced guest of the Maillotins, or 'Club-Men' as they called themselves. They were the bottom layer of Parisian society who constantly plotted and conspired to bring about a bloody revolution and create God's kingdom here, where justice and prosperity would reign and the meek would surely inherit the earth. Of course, they were idiots or dreamers. As far as I can see, the only earth the meek inherit is a shallow hole in the likes of Holy Innocents graveyard, and even then the dogs make sure they don't have that for long. Now, I had become friendly with the Maillotins, especially two of their leaders, Capote and Broussac. Capote had died, choking his life out on the gallows of Montfaucon. I hoped Broussac had not yet received his just reward as I slipped like a cat along the dark, foul, smelly alleyways of Paris to the tavern where he and his court of whores always assembled.
    I was not disappointed. Broussac was in the same corner, drinking himself stupid, surrounded by some of the most loud-mouthed harridans of the city. At first he didn't recognise me, but isn't silver wonderful? I produced two coins and Broussac's red, beery, dark-whiskered face broke into a gap-toothed grin and those wicked eyes danced with merriment.
    'Of course,' he bellowed, throwing one smelly arm round my neck and planting wine-drenched kisses on my cheeks. 'Ladies,' he shouted, 'may I present Master Roger Shallot, the only good Goddamn – the only man who was hanged at Montfaucon and survived to tell the tale!'
    I told the noisy bastard to shut his mouth as I did not want to be arrested by the Provosts as a spy. Another piece of silver was produced. Broussac became as sober as a priest, ordered a fresh jug of wine, two of the establishment's cleaner cups, and a table far enough away from any would-be eavesdropper.
    'Listen, Broussac,' I began. 'Forget old times. Here's a coin. Answer one question: the attack on Maubisson, did the Maillotins organise it?' Broussac grabbed the coin.
    'No,' he replied. 'We did not. We never leave the streets of Paris. But, for another coin, I can tell you who did.'
    I flicked a further piece of silver across the table. Broussac clutched it and it disappeared in a twinkling of an eye. I don't know how he did it, whether he had purses in his sleeves: one minute he had it in his hairy paw, the next it was gone. 'Well, come on,' I demanded. 'Who the hell did?' 'Look around you, Monsieur.' 'That's no answer.' He saw my hand go to my knife.
    'Now, now,' he purred like some benevolent cat. 'Come on, old friend, what are you going to do? Draw on poor Broussac? If you do, you'll never leave this tavern alive. As it is, you still might not!'
    I looked around. In the poor light of the smelly, tallow candles, every customer resembled a rat on two legs. Their thin, pallid or yellowing faces, greedy looks and sharp glances proved Broussac right and I cursed myself. I was in the