The Mistrau had chosen January to rear its unpredictable head, sending icy blasts and hailstones into Marseilles, a city that normally enjoyed clement weather. Such was the strength of the wind that even the sturdy boughs of the sycamore and beech trees among which Baudet hid swayed and bent over his head. The relentless rain penetrated the leafy canopy, lashing down on his shoulders like punitive bolts from an angry god in the heavens. Regardless of his discomfort, he returned, as he had determined, day after day in the forlorn hope of catching a glimpse of Aldessa that would reveal exactly where she lived. He was grateful to have sustenance from the glass flask that Madame Dizier ensured, at breakfast time, was replenished with her best brandy. Although Baudet offered to pay her, she ref
