The Cardinal's Blades (31 page)

“There’s a room up there with a chest full of clothing for both a man and a woman. And there are theatre face paints.”

“Let’s look in the cellar,” decided the captain.

They opened the small door, went down some stone stairs, and there, in the dim light, found Castilla half naked and bloody, still suspended by his wrists, having been left to perish in the blaze that was beginning to ravage the entire house. At his feet lay the heavy chain that had served to torture him.

La Fargue supported his weight while Almades cut him down. Then they carried him, hastily crossing the ground floor where flames were already licking at the walls and attacking the ceilings. They stretched the unfortunate wretch out on the grass at a safe distance from the house.

Castilla was agitated, moaning and mumbling in spite of his weakened state. Something urgent was forcing him to call upon his last reserves of strength. La Fargue leaned over him and brought his ear close to the man’s swollen lips.

“What is he saying?” inquired Almades.

“I don’t know exactly,” answered the captain, straightening up on his knees. “Something like … ‘garanegra’?”

“
Garra negra
,” murmured the Spaniard, recognising his mother tongue.

La Fargue shot him an intrigued look.

“The Black Claw,” Almades translated.

6

It didn’t take Saint-Lucq long to spot Ballardieu.

His instinct, initially, had led him to suspect that he was being watched from rue des Moineaux as he left the Gaget Messenger Service. To confirm this, the half-blood entered a bakery nearby. When he reappeared in the street he was nibbling innocently on a little tart, but took the opportunity to survey his surroundings from behind the red lenses of his spectacles. Without seeming to do so, he took careful note of Ballardieu’s round, weathered face among the ordinary passersby.

The presence of the old soldier surprised him but was not a cause for worry. Obviously, Ballardieu had latched onto his trail after following Naïs, the servant from the Hôtel de l’Épervier. This could only be at Agnès’s request. All that remained was to find out why.

The previous evening, on returning from a delicate mission, Saint-Lucq had learned both that the Blades had resumed service and that he would be rejoining them under the direct command of La Fargue. The captain, however, had wished to keep the half-blood in reserve and it was agreed that he would await his orders at the Gaget Messenger Service. This idea had not displeased him. It indicated that the captain wished to keep a card up his sleeve, and that he was to be this card. But to be played against whom, and to what end? Did La Fargue mistrust someone within the Palais-Cardinal, or even among the Blades themselves? Saint-Lucq had not deemed it necessary to ask the question. Nevertheless, there was something fishy going on and Agnès de Vaudreuil, evidently, had not taken long to come to the same conclusion. Hence the appearance of Ballardieu on the half-blood’s heels.

With La Fargue’s letter in his pocket, thanks to Naïs, Saint-Lucq proceeded at a steady, tranquil pace as far as the quays along the Seine, which he then followed upstream. Then, by way of the Pont Neuf and the elegant Place Dauphine, he arrived at the Palais de la Cité. He had concluded that he needed to shake Ballardieu from his tail without seeming to do it on purpose, in order not to arouse his suspicions and, above all, those of Agnès, who seemed to be dancing a strange
pas de deux
with La Fargue. The half-blood’s loyalty was to his captain first, and the Palais de la Cité was ideally suited for an impromptu game of hide-and-seek. At one time the seat of royal power, it was now, among other things, the most important court of law in the French kingdom, housing fourteen of the twenty-nine jurisdictions in Paris within a jumble of buildings dating back to the Middle Ages.

Saint-Lucq entered via rue de la Barillerie, and then through a gate flanked by two turrets. Beyond were two courtyards to either side of the Sainte-Chapelle. The courtyard on the left was that of the Chamber of Accounts: full of horses, carriages, and shops spilling over from the neighbouring streets, its walls were hung with signboards displaying the names and portraits of criminals at large. The Mai courtyard lay to the right, giving access to a staircase and then a gallery leading to the Salle des Pas Perdus. This immense, high-ceilinged, dusty, and noisy waiting room had been rebuilt in stone after a fire in 1618. It was swarming with people—lawyers, prosecutors, and clients who chattered and argued, often shouting and sometimes even coming to blows in a heated atmosphere aggravated by all the legal chicanery. But the plaintiffs and the men of law in their long black robes were not the only individuals haunting the place. It was also invaded by a multitude of curious onlookers and customers of the two hundred and twenty-four shops which occupied the galleries and passageways within the Palais. All sorts of trifles were sold in these small shops whose keepers called out to potential buyers: silks, velvets, lace, bibelots, jewellery, fans, precious stones, hats, gloves, cravats, books, and paintings. They were favoured as meeting places; elegant ladies strolled here, and handsome messieurs gave the glad eye to all of them.

Saint-Lucq had little trouble losing Ballardieu in this populous maze. After wandering about in an apparently innocent fashion, he suddenly found a hiding place and watched from afar as the old soldier hurried straight on. The half-blood quickly left the Palais, feeling quite pleased with himself.

He was then free to return to the mission which La Fargue had entrusted to him. He crossed the Seine by the Petit Pont and went to rue de la Fontaine in the faubourg Saint-Victor. There he found a house that he was supposed to first search and then keep an eye on. It was the dwelling of a young woman—a certain Cécile Grimaux—whom the Blades were protecting after some hired swordsmen had tried to abduct her the previous night. Marciac had foiled their attempt, proof that the years had not changed him in the least and that he was still as gifted as ever at playing the valiant knight rescuing demoiselles in distress. Whatever anyone thought of this, such occasions were rare and when they did present themselves, they always seemed to favour the Gascon.

The house was small, modest, and discreet; on the side facing the street, only the shutters and windows distinguished it from its neighbours on this weekday morning. After a quick and unobtrusive look at the place, Saint-Lucq went around to the rear, into the garden, and found a window that had already been broken into and left open. He entered cautiously, subjected the ground floor to a rigorous examination, found signs of a fight—or at least a violent upheaval—in the stairway, continued up to the next floor, and noted a certain disorder and the wide-open window through which Marciac and his protégée had no doubt made their escape to the rooftops.

Nothing indicated that Cécile’s rooms had been searched. Saint-Lucq therefore performed this task with some hope of success, starting with the more obvious hiding places before narrowing his focus. Fortune smiled upon him. In a jewellery box, among various rings, necklaces, and earrings of no great value, he found a curved nail that caught his interest. He then had only to guess at what this nail might be used to dislodge. As it turned out, it was a small stoneware tile in a corner of the bedroom, beneath a small table which—having been moved too often—had left some faint scuff marks on the floor.

Saint-Lucq sighed upon discovering this cache, half pleased to exhume the handwritten documents within, half disappointed by the trivial ease of this paltry treasure hunt.

He was worth better than this.

7

At the Hôtel de l’Épervier, Marciac had slept for less than two hours when he rejoined Leprat in the main room. The musketeer was still sitting in the same armchair near the fireplace, now gone cold, his wounded leg stretched out before him with his foot propped on a stool. Restless from inactivity, he continued to mope, but at least he had ceased drinking. He was still a little inebriated, however, and feeling drowsy.

Marciac, in contrast, seemed full of energy. He smiled, his eyes shone, and he displayed a vitality and
joie de vivre
that quickly exasperated Leprat. Not to mention the unkempt—but artfully maintained—state of his attire. The Gascon was every bit the perfect gentleman, dressed in a doublet with short basques and a white shirt, with his sword in a baldric and boots made of excellent leather. But he wore it all in a casual manner that betrayed his blind faith in his personal charm and his lucky star. The doublet was unbuttoned from top to bottom, the collar of his shirt gaped open, the sword seemed to weigh nothing, and the boots were desperately in need of a good brushing.

“Come on,” said Marciac in a lively tone as he drew up a chair. “I need to look at your wound and perhaps change the bandage.”

“Now?”

“Well, yes. Were you expected somewhere?”

“Very funny.…”

“Grumble as much as you like, you dismal chap. I have sworn an oath that obliges me to treat you.”

“You? An oath … ? In any case, my leg is doing quite well.”

“Really?”

“I mean to say that it is doing better.”

“So you aren’t downing bottle after bottle to dull the pain … ?”

“Haven’t you anything better to do than count bottles?”

“Yes. Treat your leg.”

Sighing, Leprat surrendered and with ill grace allowed Marciac to get on with it. In silence, the Gascon unwound the bandage and inspected the edges of the wound, making sure it wasn’t infected. His touch was gentle and precise.

At last, without lifting his eyes toward his patient, he asked: “How long have you known?”

Leprat stiffened, at first surprised and then upset by the question.

“How long have I known what?” he said defensively.

This time, Marciac looked into his eyes. He had a grave, knowing expression that spoke louder than any words. The two men stared at one another for a moment. Then the former musketeer asked: “And you? Since when have you known?”

“Since yesterday,” explained the Gascon. “When I first treated your leg.… I noticed the obatre mixed in with your blood. There was too much for you to be unaware that you have the ranse.”

According to Galen, the Greek physician of ancient times whose theories provided the basis of all Western medicine, human physiology was derived from the equilibrium of four fluids—or humours—that impregnated the organs: blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm. The predominance of each of these humours determines the character of an individual, resulting in sanguine, choleric, melancholic, and phlegmatic temperaments. Everything is for the best when the humours are present in their proper amounts and proportions within the organism. People fall ill whenever one of these humours is in excess or is tainted. Then it becomes necessary to drain off the malignant humour by means of bleeding, enemas, and other purgings.

Avant-gardist for their time, the doctors at the University of Montpellier—where Marciac had studied—believed that the disease transmitted by the dragons came from contamination by a fifth humour peculiar to that race, called obatre. This substance, they claimed, perturbed the balance of human humours, corrupting them one by one and finally reducing victims to the pitiful state observed in terminal cases of ranse. Their colleagues and traditional adversaries at the University of Paris would not hear of any talk about obatre as it was not mentioned by Galen, and his science could not be questioned. And the quarrels between the two schools, although unproductive, went on and on.

“I have been ill for the past two years,” said Leprat.

“Have there been any symptoms of the Great ranse?”

“No. Do you think I would even let you come near me if I thought I was contagious?”

Marciac avoided answering.

“The Great ranse has perhaps not yet set in,” he declared. “Some people live with the lesser version until their death.”

“Or else it will set in and make me a pitiful monster.…”

The Gascon nodded sombrely.

“Where is the rash?” he asked.

“All across my back. Now it’s beginning to spread to my shoulders.”

“Let me see.”

“No. It’s useless. No one can do anything for me.”

As a matter of fact, whether the doctors of Montpellier were wrong or right, whether obatre actually existed or not, the ranse was incurable by any known medicine.

“Do you suffer?”

“Only from fatigue. But I know there will eventually be pain.”

Marciac found he had nothing further to add and redid the bandage on the musketeer’s thigh.

“I should be grateful if …” Leprat started to say.

However, he did not finish.

The Gascon, standing up, addressed a reassuring smile at him.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I never actually took the Hippocratic oath, since I never became a physician, but your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you.”

Then, firmly planted on his legs and smiling again, Marciac declared: “Well! Now I’ll go and make sure that our protégée lacks for nothing. But since Naïs has gone out, I can also make a trip to the kitchen and bring you back anything you like.…”

“No, leave it. I believe I shall sleep for a bit.”

Upon reflection, Marciac told himself that in fact he was somewhat hungry and went to the kitchen. He found it empty, but searched out a dish of pâté and half a loaf from the bread bin, and made himself a small repast at the corner of the table. Leprat’s potentially fatal disease concerned him, but, aware that he could do nothing, he forced himself not to think about it. He could only hope to offer the musketeer some comfort by sharing his secret. If he desired to speak of his illness, he now knew who he could turn to.

The Gascon was drinking straight from a bottle when Cécile entered and greeted him.

“Good morning, monsieur.”

He almost choked, but managed a charming smile instead.

“Good morning, madame. How are you feeling, today? Can I be of service?”

She was looking pale and drawn, but nevertheless remained exceedingly pretty. And perhaps her weakened state and large sad eyes even added to her fragile beauty.