These devils are up to some mischief, Marciac thought to himself.
He wasn’t close enough to hear them and he sought in vain a means of approaching them discreetly at street level. He spied a balcony, climbed to it, and then up onto the roofs and then, silently, his left hand holding the scabbard of his sword so it would not knock into anything, he passed from one house to another. His movements were fluid and assured. The gaps that he sometimes had to stride across did not frighten him. He crouched down and finally crawled forward before completing his journey at the tiled roof edge.
“It’s on rue de la Fontaine,” the one-eyed man with a Spanish accent was saying. “You’ll recognise the house, won’t you…? The girl is alone, so you won’t run into any problems. And don’t forget that we need her alive.”
“You’re not coming, Savelda?” asked one of the thugs.
“No. I have better things to do. Don’t fail me.”
Without waiting for a reply, the man in black spurred his horse and left, while Marciac, still undetected, abandoned his observation post.
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-”