by Pierre Pevel
“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.
“In fact, monsieur, I was looking for you.”
Marciac hastened to pull out a chair for the young woman and sat in front of her attentively.
“I am listening, madame.”
“I beg you, call me Cécile,” she said in a timid voice.
“Very well … Cécile.”
“I want, first, to thank you. Without you, last night …”
“Forget that, Cécile. You are now safe within these walls.”
“Indeed, but I know nothing of you and your friends. I cannot help but ask questions which no one will answer for me.”
She put on a desolate expression that was almost heartbreaking to see.
The Gascon took her hand. She did not withdraw it. Had she leaned forward slightly to encourage him? Marciac presumed so and was amused by this little game.
“By paths I cannot reveal to you without betraying secrets that are not mine to divulge,” he explained, “my friends and myself have been led to meet you. Nevertheless, rest assured that we are your allies and that your enemies are also our own. In fact, anything that you can tell us will aid your cause, whatever that may be. Have faith in us. And if that is too difficult for you, have faith in me.…”
“But I have already told madame de Vaudreuil everything,” Cécile replied sulkily.
“In that case, you have no further cause for concern, because we will take care of the rest. I swear to you that if the thing is humanly possible, we will find your sister Chantal.”
“My profound thanks, monsieur.”
“I am entirely at your service.”
“Truly, monsieur?”
He looked deeply into her eyes, this time taking delicate hold of both her hands, with his fingertips.
“Most assuredly,” he said.
“Then, perhaps …”
Leaving her sentence unfinished, she turned away, as if she already regretted having said too much. The Gascon pretended to fall into her snare: “I beg you, Cécile. Speak. Ask what you will of me.”
From beneath her eyelashes, she gave him a timid glance whose effectiveness she had no doubt tested in the past.
“I should like, monsieur, for you to accompany me to my home.”
“Now?”
“Yes. I left there some personal effects that I miss and should like to recover.”
“That would be most
imprudent, Cécile.…”
“Please, monsieur.”
“On the other hand, tell me what you lack and I shall go fetch them for you.”
“It concerns personal effects that a woman cannot go long without.… Or speak about to a man.…”
“Ah … well, see about that with the baronne. Or with Naïs.… Be that as it may, it is out of the question for you to return to your home. The danger is still too great.”
The young woman realised that she would not win this argument. Defeated, she nodded sadly and said: “Yes. No doubt you are right.”
“And I’m sincerely sorry, Cécile.”
She rose, thanked him one last time, indicated that she was returning to her room, and left the kitchen.
Marciac remained pensive and still for a moment.
Then he asked: “What do you make of that?”
Agnès emerged from behind the door where she had been standing for some time now. She had witnessed the conversation without being seen or heard by Cécile. But the Gascon had noticed her presence, she knew.
“She almost tried everything,” Agnès said. “For a moment, I even thought you might fall for it.”
“You do me an injustice.”
“Nevertheless, the demoiselle seems most promising.”
“What do you think she wants to collect from her home?”
“I don’t know, but I shall go and see.”
“Alone?”
“Someone needs to stay here, and neither Leprat nor old Guibot will prevent Cécile from giving us the slip.”
“At least take Ballardieu with you.”
“He’s not here.”
“Wait for him.”
“No time.”
8
Wearing a blue silk and satin gown, with a grey mother-of-pearl unicorn pinned close to her neckline, the vicomtesse de Malicorne was amusing herself by feeding her dragonnet. From a vermilion and silver plate, she was tossing bloody shreds of meat one by one to the little reptile, who plucked them out of the air from his perch and gulped them down. It was a superb animal with gleaming black scales and shared an intimate bond with its mistress. She had sometimes been seen talking to it as if it were an accomplice, a confidant, perhaps even a friend. But the strangest thing was that the dragonnet understood her; a glow of intelligence would pass through its golden eyes before it flew off with a flap of its wings, usually on some nocturnal mission.
When the marquis de Gagnière entered the salon, the young and pretty vicomtesse set down the plate of meat, licking—delicately but with relish—the tips of her slim fingers. She did not accord much attention to the visitor, however, pretending to be interested only in her sated pet.
“Savelda has just returned from the little house in the orchard,” Gagnière announced.
“The refuge of the so-called chevalier d’Ireban?”
“Yes. Castilla finally talked.”
“And?”
“Our Spanish brothers were mistaken.”
The young woman’s glance shifted from the dragonnet to the elegant marquis. The news he had just delivered obviously delighted him: a satisfied smile caused his thin lips to quirk upward.
Among all the more or less well-intentioned individuals who served the Black Claw, rare were those who did so knowingly. Those who did were known as affiliates. But, generally unaware of the exact nature of their missions, they took their orders from initiates, who occupied the highest rank to which anyone without the blood of dragons running in their veins might aspire. An aristocratic adventurer without land or fortune, Castilla was one of these affiliates whose loyalty had not yet been firmly established. Therefore he had hitherto only been given missions that one wished not to see fail, but which did not require full knowledge of their purpose to be carried out. Intelligent, competent, and capable of taking initiatives, he had never given cause for complaint.
At least until he had suddenly gone missing.
“‘Mistaken,’ marquis? What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that Castilla was not running away from the Black Claw.”
Castilla’s disappearance had been worrying. Had he betrayed them, and if so, had he taken with him enough secrets to harm the Black Claw? They needed to find him in order to shed light on this affair and, if need be, eliminate him. Their spies discovered that Castilla had left Spain by ship and that he had disembarked at Bordeaux in the company of a certain chevalier d’Ireban—or at least the latter had signed the ship’s register under that name. Had they met during the crossing or were they fleeing together? It mattered little in the short run, for the Black Claw then lost trace of them. From Bordeaux, they could just as easily have travelled by sea to another continent as gone by road to a neighbouring country. But they were soon seen again in Paris. Without delay, the Black Claw in Spain had demanded that madame de Malicorne do everything in her power to track them down. In a capital of five hundred thousand souls, that was all the more difficult as she had other business at hand. Nevertheless, she was in no position to refuse and, against all expectations, she had succeeded where some had perhaps hoped she would fail, her first exploits in France having already provoked jealousy in Madrid.
Castilla being too frequent a visitor to a certain Parisian gambling house, he was the first to be located. Then it was the turn of a young woman he often met, who proved to be none other than the dashing chevalier d’Ireban. No doubt in an effort to remain discreet, she still sometimes disguised herself as a cavalier. But whenever she wore a woman’s dress, she had invented for herself the identity of a modest orphan from Lyon. As soon as it was possible, Gagnière—who also had much else to do—organised the capture of the couple with the assistance of Savelda, a henchman recently arrived from Spain. But the young woman escaped, thanks to a miraculous rescue, while Castilla was taken and tortured.
“Come to the point, marquis. And tell me what secrets Savelda extorted from Castilla last night.”
“As we suspected, Castilla and the lady were lovers. However, it was not the Black Claw they wished to escape by fleeing Spain, but the demoiselle’s father.”
“Am I to understand that we have spent all this time and effort to find two eloping lovers?”
“Yes.”
“And that Castilla never sought to harm us?”
“Never. And perhaps not even to abandon us.”
The vicomtesse stifled a laugh.
“In other circumstances,” she said, “I would be furious. But here we have the means of putting our Spanish brethren in their place and, if necessary, teaching them a lesson in humility. Besides, they won’t be able to deny it when it is their own envoy, Savelda himself, who uncovered the full facts behind this story.”
“I doubt that the more jealous of our rivals will appreciate the irony when the news reaches Madrid,” said Gagnière in an amused tone.
“Henceforth, they will appreciate whatever we choose to serve them.”
Smiling with pleasure, the young vicomtesse de Malicorne dropped into an armchair.
“But who is this father that Castilla wanted to flee from so badly, even when it meant incurring the wrath of the Black Claw?”
“That’s the best part of the story, madame. The father is none other than the comte de Pontevedra.”
The young woman’s eyes sparked with sudden interest.
Pontevedra was a foreign aristocrat with a troubled past who, in less than two years after appearing at court, had become a friend of the comte d’Olivares and a favourite of King Felipe IV, thus winning both fortune and renown in Spain. The man was influential, powerful, and feared. And he was presently in Paris, on a mission as an ambassador extraordinary. For the past week he had been engaged in secret negotiations at the Louvre, no doubt with the aim of fostering a rapprochement between France and Spain.
A rapprochement that the Black Claw did not want at any price.
“Everything now becomes clear,” said the vicomtesse. “At least until the Cardinal’s Blades entered the scene.�
��”
Gagnière forced himself to contain his skepticism on the subject.
His associate’s obstinate tendency to see Richelieu’s agents everywhere was becoming worrisome. Granted, her magic might be informing her of more than she was telling. But it was almost as if there were an old dispute between her and the Blades that obsessed and blinded her.
“Madame …” he started to say in a reasonable tone. “Nothing indicates that—”
“And just who, according to you, rescued Pontevedra’s daughter last night?” she interrupted. “Her saviour did not fall from the Moon, so far as I know. . And he was able enough to carry her off in the face of numerous opponents … ! Courage, audacity, valour: the very mark of the Blades.… What? You still have doubts … ?”
She had become uselessly worked up, as the gentleman’s cautious silence made her realise. In order to calm and perhaps reassure herself, she opened a precious-looking casket set on a table beside her. It contained the Sphère d’me, which she caressed with the tips of her fingers, her eyelids half closed.
She drew in a breath and then carefully explained: “Do me the favour of thinking the matter through. You are the comte de Pontevedra and you know that your daughter has fled to Paris—where she is perhaps under threat from the Black Claw. Now, there is nothing that France would refuse you, given the importance of the negotiations that you are conducting with her. Would you not seek help from the cardinal? And would you not demand that he mobilise his very best men?”
“Yes,” Gagnière admitted reluctantly.
“The very best, meaning the Blades.”