Next Morning Moreau stood in front of his childhood home with his hands in his coat pockets, looking across the narrow square this body used to play in.
The same crooked bench sat near the tree.
The same green shutter creaked open across the street when the wind hit it right.
"Still standing," he muttered.
Renaud stepped beside him, adjusting his coat collar. "You really grew up here?"
Moreau nodded slowly.
"I expected something a little more… I don't know. Marble floors, wine cellars, cigars in every drawer."
"Not everyone's a Versailles brat, Renaud."
Renaud snorted. "Fair. But after that dinner last night, I'm pretty sure your mother could feed an entire garrison with just a pot of stew."
"She always overcooked when I came home. Said it was her way of keeping me longer."
"Well, it's working. I'd fake a stomach injury to stay here another night."
Moreau grinned. "Come on. I want you to meet someone."