The Cardinal's Blades

23

Laincourt emerged, dirty and unshaven, from Le Chatelet at nightfall. His clothes, hat, and sword had been returned to him, but his guards had relieved him of the contents of his purse. That did not surprise him and he had not sought to make a complaint. Honesty was not one of the criteria in the selection of gaolers. Nor was it demanded of the archers in the city watch or among the lower ranks of those who served the king’s justice. Clerks, halberdiers, scriveners, and turnkeys, all of them found ways of supplementing their ordinary pay.

His stay in prison had left him in a weakened state.

His back, his kidneys, and his neck ached. A migraine lanced through his temples with each beat of his heart. His eyes glittered in pain. He felt the beginning of a fever coming on and dreamed of finding a good bed. He was not hungry.

From Le Chatelet, he could easily reach rue de la Ferronnerie by walking a short distance up rue Saint-Denis. But he knew that his apartment there had been visited-and no doubt ransacked-by the cardinal’s men. Perhaps those assigned with this task even wore the cape. They would have arrived by horseback, broken down the door, made a great deal of noise, and alerted the entire neighbourhood to their activities as they kept the curious at bay. No doubt his neighbours were talking of nothing else right now. Laincourt did not fear their attention. There was nothing to attach him to rue de la Ferronnerie anymore, since Ensign Laincourt of His Eminence’s Guards no longer existed.

He rented another dwelling in secret, where he kept the only possessions that had any importance to him: his books. Despite everything, he resolved not to go there at once and, by way of rue de la Tisseranderie, he went to a square near the Saint-Jean cemetery instead. Out of fear of being followed he made various detours, taking obscure passages and crossing a maze of backyards.

This was the ancient heart of Paris, formed of winding alleys where the sun never shone, where the stinking air stagnated, and where vermin thrived. There was muck everywhere, and in thicker layers than anywhere else. It covered the paving stones, was smeared on the walls, spattered pedestrians’ clothing, and stuck to their soles. Black and foul, it was a mixture of turds and droppings, earth and sand, rot and garbage, of manure, of waste from latrines, of organic residues from the activities of butchers, tanners, and skinners. It never completely dried, ate away at cloth fabrics, and did not even spare leather. According to one very old French proverb, “Pox from Rouen and muck from Paris can only be removed by cutting away the piece.” To protect their stockings and breeches pedestrians were forced to wear tall boots. Others travelled by carriage, or in sedan chairs, or, according to their means, on the back of a horse, a mule, or… a man. When they did their rounds, the few dustmen in Paris only managed to collect a certain amount before dumping their carts at one of the nine rubbish tips, or voieries, situated outside the city. The peasants from the surrounding areas knew the value of Parisian muck, however. They came each day to harvest it and spread it on their fields. Parisians couldn’t help noticing that these tips were cleaner than the capital itself.

Laincourt pushed a tavern door open and entered an atmosphere thick with smoke from pipes and poor-quality candles made of tallow. The place was dirty, foul-smelling, and sordid. All of the customers were silent and despondent, seeming to be crushed by the weight of the same contagious sadness. An old man was playing a melancholy air on a hurdy-gurdy. Dressed in moth-eaten rags and wearing a miserable-looking hat whose folded brim at the front boasted a bedraggled feather, he had a gaunt, one-eyed dragonnet sitting on his shoulder, attached to a leash.

Laincourt took a seat at a table and found himself served, without asking, with a goblet filled with a vile cheap wine. He wet his lips, refrained from grimacing at the taste, and forced himself to drink the rest in order to buck himself up. The hurdy-gurdy man soon ceased playing, to the general indifference of his audience, and came to sit in front of Laincourt.

“You’re a sorry sight, boy.”

“You’ll have to pay for the wine. I don’t have a brass sou to my name.”

The old man nodded.

“How do matters stand?” he asked.

“I was arrested yesterday and released today.”

“Did you see the cardinal?”

“At Le Chatelet, in the presence of Saint-Georges and a secretary who noted everything down. The match has begun.”

“It’s a match in a dangerous game, boy. And you don’t even know all the rules.”

“I didn’t have any other choice.”

“Of course you did! And there may still be time to-”

“You know that’s impossible.”

The hurdy-gurdy player stared into Laincourt’s eyes, then looked away and sighed.

The dragonnet leaped from his master’s shoulder onto the table. It lay down, stretched out its neck, and scratched playfully at a pile of wax that had solidified on the grimy wood.

“I see you are determined to see this whole affair through to the end, boy. But it will cost you, believe me… Sooner or later, you will be caught between the cardinal and the Black Claw, as between the hammer and the anvil. And nothing you-”

“Who is Captain La Fargue?”

The question caught the old man short.

“La Fargue,” Laincourt insisted. “Do you know who he is?”

“Where… where did you hear this name?”

“He reappeared at the Palais-Cardinal.”

“Really? When was this?”

“The other night. His Eminence received him… Well?”

The hurdy-gurdy player waiting before saying, as if with regret: “It’s an old story.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know all the details.”

Laincourt grew all the more impatient as he didn’t know the reasons for such reluctance.

“I’m not in the mood to drag this out of you. You’re supposed to keep me informed and serve me, aren’t you?”

But the other man still seemed hesitant.

“Tell me everything you know!” ordered the young man, raising his voice.

“Yes, yes… All right…”

The hurdy-gurdy player drank some wine, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and, giving Laincourt a reproachful look, said: “A while ago, La Fargue commanded a group of men who-”

“-carried out secret missions for the cardinal, yes. This much, I already know.”

“They were called the Cardinal’s Blades. There were no more than ten of them. Some would say they did the cardinal’s dirty work for him. Personally, I would say that they were both soldiers and spies. And at times, it’s true, assassins-”

“‘Assassins’?”

The hurdy-gurdy player made a face.

“The word is perhaps a little strong. But not all of France’s enemies fight on the fields of battle, nor do all of them advance to the beat of drum and preceded by a banner… I don’t need to tell you that wars can also be waged behind the stage and that many deaths take place there.”

“And for there to be deaths, someone has to cause them…”

“Exactly. But I remain convinced that the Blades have saved more lives than they have taken. Sometimes you have to cut off a hand to preserve the arm and the man that comes with it.”

“What happened at the siege of La Rochelle?”

Once again surprised, but now on guard, the old man lifted an eyebrow at Laincourt.

“If you’re asking that question, boy, then you know the answer…”

“I’m listening to you.”

“The Blades were given a mission that, no doubt, was meant to hasten the end of the siege. But don’t ask me the nature of it… Whatever it was, La Fargue was betrayed.”

“By whom?”

“By one of his own men, by a Blade… The mission failed and another Blade lost his life there. As for the traitor, he managed to flee… And as for the siege, you know how it ended. The dam that prevented the besieged forces in the town from being reinforced by sea suddenly broke, the king had to recall his armies rather than risk the financial ruin of the realm, and La Rochelle became a Protestant republic.”

“And after that?”

“After that, there was no longer any question of the Blades.”

“Until today… What do the Blades have to do with the Black Claw?”

“Nothing. Not to my knowledge, at least.”

The dragonnet had fallen asleep. He snored softly.

“La Fargue’s return no doubt signals the return of the Blades,” Laincourt declared in a low voice. “It must have something to do with me.”

“That’s by no means certain. The cardinal always has several irons in his fire.”

“Be that as it may, I would prefer not to have to watch my flanks as well as my rear…”

“Then you chose the wrong path, boy… entirely the wrong path…”

Later, as Laincourt ventured back out into the night, a black dragonnet with golden eyes discreetly took flight from a roof nearby.