The Cardinal's Blades

28

As was his habit, the young marquis de Gagniere dined at home, early and alone. An immutable ritual governed even the tiniest details of the meal, from the perfect presentation of the table to the silence imposed on the servants, as they presented a series of dishes prepared by a famous and talented rotisseur who was accustomed to the tastes of the most demanding of his customers. The crockery laid out on the immaculate linen tablecloth was all made of vermeil, the glasses and decanters were all crystal, the cutlery silver. So luxuriously dressed that he would dazzle at court, Gagniere ate with a fork according to an Italian fashion which had not yet become commonplace in France. He cut small, equal pieces which he chewed slowly, emotionless and stiff, his gaze always directed straight ahead, and pausing between each dish he placed his hands flat to either side of the plate. When he drank he took care to wipe his mouth and moustache in order to avoid dirtying the edge of the glass.

He had finished a slice of pheasant pie when a lackey, taking advantage of one of the pauses between dishes, murmured a few words into his ear. The marquis listened without betraying any emotion or moving a muscle. Then he nodded.

A little later, Malencontre entered.

His manner was defeated; he was filthy and bedraggled, stank like a stable, had his hair stuck to his face and his left hand trussed up in a grimy bandage.

Gagniere accorded him one clinical glance.

“I gather,” he said, “that all did not go according to plan.”

A stuffed quail was placed before him, which he proceeded to meticulously carve up.

“Your men?” he asked him.

“Dead. All of them. Killed to a man.”

“By one man?”

“Not just any man! It was Leprat. I recognised his rapier.”

Gagniere lifted a morsel of quail to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

“Monsieur Leprat,” he said to himself. “Monsieur Leprat and his famous ivory rapier…”

“A musketeer!” insisted Malencontre as though that justified his failure. “And one of the best!”

“Did you think the king would entrust his secret dispatches to comical lackeys…?”

“No, but-”

“The letter?”

“He still has it.”

The marquis finished his quail while Malencontre watched his expressionless young face in silence. Then, having crossed his fork and spoon on his plate, he rang a small bell and said: “You can go, Malencontre. And take proper care of your hand; you’ll be less useful to me without it.”

A lackey entered to serve him, and the assassin, in leaving, passed a servant who carried a sealed missive on a plate. He presented it to Gagniere, who carefully unsealed and opened it.

It was written in the vicomtesse de Malicorne’s hand.

Your man has failed. The courier will arrive at the Saint-Denis gate before midnight. The letter must not reach the Louvre.

The marquis refolded the paper and allowed himself one last mouthful of wine.

At the same moment Leprat, travelling alone, was riding into the sunset on a dusty and empty road.

Lying against his heart, in the folds of his shirt, beneath his dust, sweat, and dried bloodstained doublet, he carried a secret piece of diplomatic mail which he had sworn to defend even at the cost of his life. Exhausted and wounded, weakened by the illness which patiently ate away at him, he galloped toward Paris and nightfall, unaware of the dangers which awaited him.