by Pierre Pevel
When the goatskin flask was empty, Marciac threw it into a corner of the chamber and waited for the judge to calm down and submit to him. Only then did he relax his hold slightly, in order to signify to his victim that he was making the right decision. Cousty finally became still, with the sheets twisted around his naked legs. He rolled his immense, fearful eyes. His gasping breath lifted his bony chest and made greasy bubbles form at his nostrils. He squinted, trying to make out the Gascon’s face in the light of the sole candle placed on a table beside the bed. He was certain he had extinguished that candle before going to sleep, as he did every night.
‘I took care of your servant. So you and I are on our own, in effect. You can call out, but it will serve no purpose except to make me angry, because I hate it when people yell. Do you want me to be angry?’
The judge shook his head. The Gascon’s breath stank of alcohol and his eyes had that disturbed gleam that comes with drunkenness. Yet he seemed to be in control of himself, which made the situation even more worrying.
‘That’s just as well. Because otherwise, I will take that candle over there and bring the flame close to your face and hair that I’ve just soaked in naphta. And you know what will happen then, don’t you?’
Cousty nodded slowly, convinced that he was at the mercy of a dangerous madman. Unable to move his head, his eyes strained toward the side when Marciac reached out with his free hand to seize the candlestick and brought it nearer. The judge’s panic-stricken gaze tracked the movements of the flame.
‘Now,’ continued the Gascon, ‘I am going to take my hand from your mouth. Will you be good?’
Still unable to tear his eyes away from the flame, the judge nodded. Then he breathed more freely, in both the literal and figurative sense, as Marciac withdrew his hand and moved the candle to a slightly safer distance.
The judge then recognised the Gascon’s face in the light.
‘I … I know you,’ he said, out of sheer surprise.
Marciac looked at him with an extremely perplexed air.
‘Firstly,’ he replied, ‘I strongly doubt that. Secondly, if it is true, telling me so would be an act of the greatest stupidity, don’t you think? Because it might incite me to do you a very evil turn.’ Cousty stayed silent. ‘So let us return to the matter at hand. I am going to ask you questions and you will answer them. At the first refusal or the first lie, I will set fire to your head as if it were a big packet of tow. Have you understood me?’
Thoroughly frightened, the judge promised and he kept his word.
So much so that only few instants later, Marciac was pushing him out of the chamber and forcing him down the stairs.
‘And now?’ the Gascon demanded when they reached the bottom of the steps.
Cousty pointed to a recess in the entry hall, just beneath the stairs. Marciac brought him there and, without letting go, watched him press two stones at the same time on the bare wall.
A secret passage opened with a click.
‘Who knows of this place?’
‘No one.’
‘No one. Really? Not even your lackey?’
The judge saw the slap to the back of his skull coming, but could do nothing to avoid it.
‘My … My brothers!’ he hastened to say. ‘My brother acolytes know!’
‘Your …?’ The Gascon considered the trembling, scrawny sixty-year-old man he held by the collar. Words failed him, which was rare. ‘No, nothing. You go first.’
Steps spiralled downward. They descended them in the dark, before the judge opened the door to a vaulted chamber dimly lit by red solaire stones. Bare flagstones covered the floor. On the walls hung black drapes decorated with golden draconic runes, one of which was often repeated. Marciac recognised it because it featured on the banners flying over the ruins where, two months previously, the vicomtesse de Malicorne had summoned her followers to a grandiose ceremony which would have led, without the Blades’ intervention, to the founding of the Black Claw’s first lodge in France. It was the rune of the secret society.
Marciac shoved Cousty again, roughly. The judge tripped forward, fell down, and decided to remain on the floor. The Gascon examined the contents of the chamber slowly and carefully: the black candles waiting to be lit on their large candelabra, the diverse ritual objects, the fat grimoire on a lectern, the altar covered with a scarlet cloth.
Unmasked and vanquished, the vicomtesse de Malicorne had disappeared. More or less willing and zealous servants of the Black Claw, the supporters she had converted had been for the most part either arrested or dispersed. But it was thought that some had managed to slip through the net and that they continued to practise their ‘religion’, which was nothing other than a perverse cult obsessed with black draconic magic.
Cousty was evidently one of them.
‘Where?’ Marciac asked brusquely. ‘Where is she?’
From the floor, the judge pointed a shaking finger towards the altar.
The Gascon frowned, then understood and hurried forward. He lifted up the cloth covering the altar, revealing a black wrought iron box whose sides were pierced with a few triangular holes. The box had a door with a latch. Marciac crouched down to open it and was struck by the sharp scent of urine before he made out the form of Manon, naked and trembling, her cheeks stained with tears and dirt, huddled at the bottom.
He reached out a hand to her.
‘It’s me, Manon. It’s me. Marciac.’
Marciac had to use tender words and careful gestures to coax her out. Manon had recognised him, but the remnants of the terror provoked by everything she had been subjected to in this room, which had almost driven her mad, still gripped her and prevented her from trusting him. Finally, she rushed into the Gascon’s arms and clung to him, bursting into sobs. He wanted to comfort her, but hesitated out of fear that the touch of male hands had become odious to her. He finally stretched out an arm to grab the altar cloth and wrapped it around her.
She let him.
‘You,’ Marciac said to Cousty over the young woman’s shoulder. ‘Into the box.’
Still kneeling on the floor, the judge took on a worried and incredulous expression.
‘What? But …’
‘Into that box. Now.’
‘But I—’
‘Don’t make me force you in there.’
The Gascon’s gaze was terrifying.
Defeated, humiliated, the judge obeyed and crawled into the wrought iron box on all fours. Marciac kicked the door closed and allowed the latch to fall into place of its own accord. Then he lifted Manon and carried her as one might carry a child, the young girl putting her arms around his neck and, soothed, resting her head against his chest.
In his cubby-hole, Cousty placed an eye against an air hole. And seeing the Gascon leaving, he called out in a miserable voice:
‘When will you come back to free me?’
‘Did I say I was ever coming back?’ retorted Marciac without turning round.
‘But … But you must! My man doesn’t know about this place! No one does! They can’t even find the entrance!’
‘And I imagine that you’ve made sure that no one can hear any screaming that goes on here, haven’t you?’
‘Mercy! You must come back! I’ll … I’ll die in here!’
‘What a shame.’
Marciac continued to walk away at a slow but resolute pace.
‘I KNOW WHO YOU ARE!’ the judge shouted. ‘I KNOW!’
‘That doesn’t worry me any more now than it did before …’
‘I REMEMBER!’ added Cousty in desperation. ‘YOU WERE THERE, THAT NIGHT! YOU WERE WITH THOSE ONES WHO ATTACKED US, WHO STOPPED THE VICOMTESSE’S CEREMONY! I … I SAW YOU!’
Manon in his arms, the Gascon arrived at the small staircase.
‘THE ENERGY OF THE DRAGON WAS DISPERSING! EVERYONE WANTED TO FLEE AND I WAS RUNNING TOWARD THE STABLE WHEN … IT WAS YOU!’
‘SO?’
‘LET ME LIVE AND I’LL HELP YOU! I’LL TELL Y
OU EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT THE BLACK CLAW! I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING ABOUT ITS SECRET SUPPORTERS! EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT LA MALICORNE!’
His curiosity aroused, Marciac halted.
‘La Malicorne? She disappeared without a trace … Goodbye, Cousty.’
‘SHE HAS RETURNED! LA MALICORNE! SHE WANTS US TO CALL HER THE DEMOISELLE, BUT IT’S HER! LA MALICORNE HAS RETURNED!’
The judge believed all was lost and his voice broke down in sobs.
But Marciac was thinking.
4
Agnès had barely found the strength to remove her boots before she fell asleep. So she woke fully dressed and lying sideways on her bed. The first rays of the morning sun came in through the open window. Birds twittered and Paris was beginning to stir. Life started early in summer. It was only just past six o’clock.
The young baronne de Vaudreuil got up and stretched. Her sleep had been deep but was still haunted, as she had dreamed again of the great black dragon with a sparkling jewel upon its brow, and once again seen Paris disappear in the flames and the cries.
Worried, she leaned at her window. She closed her eyes.
Forced herself to breathe calmly.
The Hôtel de l’Épervier was waking, peacefully, along with the rest of the great city and its faubourgs.
André would soon be opening the stable doors, which always scraped at the end of their path before they touched the wall. Clip-clopping along, his wooden leg striking the courtyard paving stones, master Guibot would come out in his turn to open the gates for the first suppliers. The sound of Naïs’ pretty voice could already be heard rising up the staircase: the timid servant hummed in the mornings when she thought no one was listening. La Fargue would soon be up too. It was also the hour when Marciac sometimes came home, when he had every chance – before, that is – of running into Almades who, having finished his morning exercises, would be performing his ablutions outside, barefoot and bare-chested, whatever the season. Laincourt was no doubt reading and God only knows what Saint-Lucq was doing.
And Ballardieu?
Ballardieu had just died in his sleep.
His exhausted heart had finally ceased to beat.
IV
The Primordial
1
Ballardieu had to be buried the day after his death. The heat prohibited any delay so his funeral was the simplest of ceremonies. It took place at a chapel, in the morning, after which the Blades carried the body to the cemetery under a dazzling sky and a white gold sun. They proceeded at a slow, steady pace, wearing their weapons, La Fargue and Laincourt on the right-hand side of the coffin, Leprat and Marciac on the left.
Agnès de Vaudreuil followed them, wearing black with scarlet gloves, a plume-less felt hat, boots, and her sword by her side. Guibot limped along heavily behind her. Next came Naïs, who sobbed and clutched a small casket against her, and André, who held the young woman by the waist and the elbow to help her walk. Even with the priest and the two choirboys leading the way, they did not make a large group. And those who moved out of the way for this meagre procession, those who watched it pass, those who doffed their hats and crossed themselves before resuming their lives without further disruption, would never know what kind of man Ballardieu had been.
After the priest left, La Fargue, Agnès, and the others gathered in the quiet of the cemetery, beneath the bored gaze of the gravediggers who waited in the shade and took turns drinking from the same bottle. All that remained was to lay the body to rest, which the Blades had decided to take charge of personally. When the moment came, Leprat, Laincourt, and Marciac watched for the sign from their captain, upon which all four set to work in silence. But as they slowly let the ropes slide and the coffin descended into the freshly dug grave, fragile Naïs broke down in sobs again. She gave a hoarse lament and, all strength deserting her, she sank to her knees and dropped her casket, which opened when it struck the ground. André helped the young servant to rise, drew her aside from the others, and did his best to comfort her. Guibot hurried to pick up the items scattered over the ground.
Naïs had felt more than friendship for Ballardieu.
At first intimidated by him, she had then been touched by the kindness and the awkwardness of this old soldier whose heart of gold could be discerned behind the cracks in his rough exterior. She had been drawn to him for precisely that reason, because he would be clumsy perhaps, but also tender and thoughtful. One night she had joined him in his chamber, slipping into his bed before taking off her shirt and snuggling up naked against him. At first, he hadn’t known what to do. And since he didn’t dare try anything, she had been forced to make the first move, murmuring in his ear:
‘You’ll be gentle, won’t you?’
He was her first.
Naïs returned the following night and other nights thereafter. She offered herself to him and made love to him without saying a word, then fell asleep trustingly in his arms. She was always gone in the morning. He didn’t understand it. But he respected her silence and kept the secret, although he wondered about it. Troubled, sometimes he felt guilty at the idea that he was taking advantage of her, of her youth and innocence. Did she love him? If so, she was making a mistake and would soon realise it. And what should he do in the meantime? He’d started to make her little gifts, things she would find in her chamber or on her pillow. It might be a comb, a ribbon, a brooch, or a small mirror that he had bought or won on the Pont Neuf, and usually poorly chosen because he always thought of Naïs as a child.
Nevertheless she cherished these few treasures that Guibot quickly gathered up in the cemetery and returned to her. She took the precious casket and pressed it tightly to her bosom again. Broken, docile, she let Guibot and André take her back to the Hôtel de l’Épervier.
Agnès had not even blinked when Naïs collapsed.
She stood up straight, her features pale and drawn, with dark circles under her eyes and pinched lips. She had not shed a tear or uttered more than three words since Ballardieu’s passing. She had not slept, either. She was alone, prisoner of a pain that had ripped her soul from her body and slowly tore up her insides. Her gestures were slow and her gaze was distant. Everything seemed faraway, insignificant. The world no longer had colours or flavour for her. Nothing affected her except for her sense of emptiness and abandonment, except for the inner abyss on the verge of which her reason tottered.
The coffin rested inside the grave and Blades slowly backed away from it.
La Fargue saw that the gravediggers were growing impatient, indifferent to the suffering of mourners who all seemed the same to them. He waited, approached Agnès, and whispered to her:
‘It’s time.’
And when she did not respond, he insisted:
‘It’s time to go, Agnès.’
‘You go,’ she said in a rasping voice. ‘I’m staying here.’
‘These men need to do their job, Agnès. They’re going—’
‘I know what they’re going to do!’ the young baronne snapped. ‘Let them go ahead, I’m not stopping them. But I’m staying here for a while longer.’
Embarrassed, La Fargue looked at the waiting gravediggers, with clogs on their feet and spades resting on their shoulders. He hesitated, then signalled to them to start work. But he remained at Agnès’ side and took her arm. Consumed by an icy flame, she trembled and closed her eyes as she heard the first spadeful of earth strike the coffin lid.
When they returned from the cemetery, Agnès, still refusing to speak, immediately went upstairs to her room. Knowing she did not want to be comforted by anyone, the others went to the fencing room, where Guibot brought them wine.
‘We had to put the girl to bed,’ he said as he served La Fargue.
The Blades’ captain nodded vaguely and waited for the concierge to finish filling their glasses. Once Guibot left, he raised his.
‘To Ballardieu,’ he said.
‘To Ballardieu,’ repeated Leprat, Marciac, and Laincourt in chorus.
They clin
ked their glasses together and then La Fargue took a bottle with him out to the garden. Through the window, the others saw him sit at the table beneath the chestnut tree.
He, too, wanted to be alone.
Marciac sighed as he sprawled in an armchair, his feet crossed upon a stool. Laincourt also sat down, removed his hat and, leaning forward, hands upon his knees, he massaged his aching temples with his fingertips. Leprat remained propped against the mantelpiece of the fireplace.
A silence set in.
‘I thought that Saint-Lucq would come,’ Laincourt said at last.
‘It’s been three days since I last saw him,’ replied the Gascon.
‘If he’d been with us at Bois-Noir …’
‘… Ballardieu might still be alive.’
‘He was here the night when Ballardieu passed away,’ Leprat told him. ‘Guibot saw him talking to La Fargue in the garden.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know. The captain did not want to talk to me about their conversation.’
‘Is Saint-Lucq still one of the Blades?’ asked Laincourt with concern in his voice.
‘The Blades!’ snorted the Gascon. ‘Or what’s left of them …’
That earned him a black look from Leprat.
‘What?’ he said, raising his voice. ‘You’ve put your cape back on, Saint-Lucq is nobody-knows-where with no sign of returning, and Almades and Ballardieu are dead. Count carefully: that just leaves Laincourt and me.’
‘And Agnès,’ corrected the musketeer.
‘Agnès?’ exclaimed Marciac, standing up. ‘Do you know her then so little?’ He pointed a finger at the ceiling. ‘Do you know what she’s doing up there, at this very moment? She’s packing her bags!’
‘You don’t—’
The Gascon spread his arms and turned in a circle, as if calling on the whole world to be his witness.
‘And who could blame her?’ he asked. ‘Don’t tell me that you don’t think that re-forming the Blades was a mistake.’ And when Leprat didn’t reply, he added bitterly: ‘Gabrielle was right and I should have listened to her. Wasn’t our first death enough? Did we have to bury Almades and Ballardieu, after Bretteville?’
