Read Online Black Gold by Charles O'Brien - Free Book Online Page B

eyes wary, searching their faces. He asked if they would like a quick tour of the shop. With a slight bow, the colonel replied that he and his adjutant would be delighted.
    A dozen men were busy at work in a large, well-lighted room, speaking French for the most part. Some operated lathes and drills, producing gun barrels. Others carved and polished wooden stocks, while a few cut and engraved brass fittings. “Let me show you samples of our firearms.” Cartier opened a wall cabinet to rows of short fowling pieces. In another cabinet stood long sharpshooting rifles. In a third lay racks of pistols. “Business is good. My men can hardly keep up with the demand.”
    â€œLast year at Wimbledon, I fired one of the pistols you gave to your granddaughter. A beautiful weapon,” Saint-Martin remarked. “How do you achieve such perfection?”
    â€œI still have friends in Normandy who help me select the very best apprentices. I train them myself and when they become expert, I pay them well. That’s my secret!” His manner had relaxed as he walked through the shop, exchanging words with his men. He clearly enjoyed their respect.
    As they were passing by a stack of canes, Georges asked if he could study them while Monsieur André and the colonel visited privately. “I suspect they contain hidden weapons.”
    â€œIndeed! Devilishly clever ones—stilettos, swords, pistols, even a mace. They are much in demand among gentlemen who walk in the city at night.” Cartier signaled a young man nearby polishing a cane. “He’ll show you how they work.”
    As Cartier led the colonel out of the shop, he smiled for the first time. “We can talk better upstairs where many of the workers live. I keep a couple of rooms for myself. Sometimes I work late at night or the weather is bad.”
    One of his rooms served as a simply furnished parlor. Cartier sat his guest at a table and offered him cider. “You must excuse my manners, Colonel. You noticed a lack of warmth in my welcome. I never thought I’d shake the hand of a French policeman. As we fled from Normandy, your troopers were biting at our heels.” He paused, stared into his glass, as if recalling a faded memory. He sighed. “That was many years ago, and times have changed. There’s more tolerance. Still, old wounds lie hidden deep in our souls and bleed when we least expect them to.”
    â€œI understand,” said Saint-Martin gently. “No offense taken.”
    â€œAnnie’s told me how you cleared the name of Antoine Dubois last year. She’s grateful. Counts you as her friend.” He gazed intently at Saint-Martin, as if struggling toward a decision. “An unusual young woman, don’t you agree? I’ve encouraged her to be her own person. But that sets her apart from most other people, exposes her to loneliness. She needs a true friend and, may I presume to say, not just a husband.”
    â€œI share your opinion,” Saint-Martin remarked. “I’ve tried to be that friend and consider myself privileged.”
    Cartier’s features softened, his eyes moistened. “She’s more precious to me than all of this.” He waved a hand over his business in the rooms below. “Be good to her.”
    That was a grandfather’s benediction, Saint-Martin realized. From the heart. Difficult to make. He felt humbled. “I’ll do my best.”
    The two men finished their cider and rose from the table. “Too bad you’ve missed her,” Cartier remarked. “She’ll be in Bath for a month tutoring a deaf boy.” The old man seemed genuinely sorry.
    â€œOur good fortune,” said Saint-Martin at the door. “Bath is our destination. We shall leave tomorrow and meet her there. Do you have any messages for her?”
    Cartier seemed delighted. He said he would write one and have it delivered to their inn before nightfall, together with