by Pierre Pevel
As he said these words, there was a sinister squeak of hinges, coming from the ground floor.
“Do you hear that? They’re already here.… Do you understand, now?”
“Yes,” replied the young woman in a lifeless voice.
He released her, spun her around again, and, placing his hands on her shoulders, looked straight into her eyes.
“What’s your first name?”
“Cécile.”
“Do you have a weapon, other than this toy?”
“A pistol.”
“Armed and loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect. Get it, and put on a cloak.”
Without waiting, he left the bedroom and went to the stairs. He listened carefully, and could pick out the sounds of men coming up the steps in single file, as silently as possible. He waited until the first arrived on the landing and, emerging from the shadows, struck him a blow full in the face with a stool.
The man tumbled backward, knocking over his accomplices and provoking a debacle. Cries rose as the thugs struggled with one another on the stairs. For good measure, Marciac threw the stool down at them blindly and scored a hit, adding to the confusion.
By now Cécile was there with him, wearing a large cloak with a hood. He led her toward a window which he opened. It looked out over a side alley, less than a metre away from a balcony. The Gascon passed the young woman over to the other side before joining her. From the balcony, he climbed onto the roof just above, then stretched his hand down. Cécile caught hold of it and he brusquely pulled her up just as one of the swordsmen reached the window. The man attempted to seize her dress, but his fingernails only clawed at the fabric. The young woman cried out. Carried by the momentum of his violent heave, Marciac fell backward and Cécile collapsed on top of him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
They picked themselves up.
One of the thugs had already leaped onto the balcony. He was climbing up when the Gascon surprised him with a powerful kick of his boot which smashed his jaw and sent him tumbling six metres to the ground below.
With Marciac keeping hold of Cécile’s hand, they fled together across the tangled maze of abutting rooftops. A shot rang out and a pistol ball crashed into a chimney as they disappeared behind it. They heard the assassins hailing one another and organising the pursuit—some on the roofs, some down on the streets. They climbed up to another roof, their figures standing out for a moment against the starry sky and offering a perfect shot to an eager marksman, but Marciac was able to get a general idea of their situation from this vantage point. He knew they would have to come down again eventually. Rather than wait until they were backed up against an impassable drop, he headed toward a deep, dark hole that marked the position of an inner courtyard.
There they found an immense scaffold, the vestiges of an abandoned work site, attached to the three storeys of a condemned building. As Marciac lowered Cécile and let her drop onto the temporary framework a swordsman appeared out of nowhere. The Gascon drew his sword and a duel ensued. The combatants confronted one another on the ridge of the rooftop. As they crossed swords, they moved back and forth to the rhythm of their strikes and counterstrikes between the sky and the waiting depths. The tiles which they dislodged with their feet fell in a cascade and bounced against the scaffolding before shattering in the courtyard, fifteen metres below. At last, parrying a cut and seizing his opponent by the wrist, Marciac attempted to throw him over his shoulder by pivoting suddenly. But his hold was poor and he lost his balance, dragging the thug who still held him along as he fell. The two men rolled and toppled off the roof. Before Cécile’s eyes—who stifled a cry of horror—they crashed through the highest catwalk of the scaffold and landed on the next one down. The impact shook the entire structure, which swayed for a long moment. Boards and beams groaned. Cracking noises could be heard, indicating further sinister developments to come.
Although he was still tottering, Marciac was the first one on his feet. He searched for his rapier, realised that it was now at the bottom of the courtyard, and, with a kick beneath the chin, finished off his adversary when he had barely begun to rise. Then he told Cécile to join him by sliding down the catwalk that had broken in the middle. He took her hand again, reassured her with a glance, and, together, they climbed down several flights of shaky steps, fearing that the old tormented scaffold would come down around their ears at any second.
Finally on the ground, they discovered that the courtyard had only one exit: a shadowy passage from which three thugs suddenly materialised. One of them pointed a pistol at the fugitives. Marciac immediately clasped the young woman by the waist and turned his back to the shooter. The detonation rang out. The ball gashed the Gascon’s shoulder, and he clenched his teeth and pushed Cécile behind a cart filled with wine barrels. He rushed over to his rapier which was lying in the mud and, just in time, turned to face his assailants. Concentrated and relentless, he fought without ceding an inch of terrain or letting himself be outflanked, for fear of exposing his young charge to danger. Then, when he seemed unable to press home his advantage against one swordsman without another forcing him to break off his attack immediately, he initiated a lightning counterattack. He slit the throat of his first opponent with a reverse cut, struck the second with a blow of the elbow to the temple, kicked the third in the crotch, and then planted his rapier in the man’s chest, all the way to the hilt.
He hoped that it was finished, but Cécile called out to him, pointing to the last floor of the rickety scaffold: with rapiers in their fists, two men who had come down from the roofs were venturing onto the platform with cautious steps. At the same time, a latecomer was emerging from the dark passageway and the entire neighbourhood was starting to awaken. Tired and wounded, the Gascon guessed that he was no longer in any condition to eliminate three additional opponents. Would he have the strength and the time to vanquish one before the other two arrived?
He retreated toward Cécile and the two-wheeled cart behind which she had sought shelter. Impassive, he waited as the first swordsman advanced and his two accomplices reached the second storey of the scaffold. Then suddenly, raising his rapier high with both hands, he struck with all his might at the stretched rope which, passing through rings rooted in the paving stones of the courtyard, kept the cart horizontal. Cut clean through, the rope cracked like a whip out of the rings. The cart leaned sharply, lifting its shafts into the air and freeing its pyramid of barrels, which rolled out like an avalanche.
The swordsman in the courtyard hastily backed up and was brought to bay beneath the scaffold, although he managed to avoid being crushed by the barrels. Some of them burst against the wall, releasing floods of wine. But others slammed into the unstable beams that propped up the enormous framework. These beams gave way and the entire three-storey structure collapsed with an incredible racket which drowned out the cries of the unfortunate souls doomed by the huge falling wooden beams. Pieces of masonry were torn off the façade along with wide plaques of plaster. Thick clouds of dust rose into the air, swallowing the entire courtyard and swelling until they climbed up past the surrounding roofs …
… and then they fell back onto a courtyard which was turned completely white with dust, and to silence.
Marciac was still for a moment, contemplating the disaster. As the neighbourhood began to fill with worried calls from its residents, he sheathed his sword and walked toward Cécile. Covered in dust like him, she was curled up in a corner.
He squatted, turning his back to the wreckage.
“It’s over, Cécile.”
“I … I … Those men,” stammered the young woman.
“All is well, Cécile.…”
“Are they … dead?”
“Yes. Here, take my hand.…”
She seemed to neither hear, nor comprehend.
He insisted in a gentle voice. “We need to leave, Cécile. Now.…”
He was going to help her up
when he read a sudden terror in her eyes and realised what it meant.
One of the swordsmen had survived.
He could feel the killer’s presence behind him, ready to strike. He knew he didn’t have time to stand and turn, and still less to unsheathe his rapier.
He looked deeply into the young woman’s eyes, praying that she would understand, even thought he saw her give a very slight nod.… And then he dove to one side.
Cécile lifted her pistol with both hands and fired.
1
His legs dangling, the man’s entire weight hung from his bound wrists. He swayed gently and his toenails scraped the hard-earth floor. He was wearing only breeches and a torn, bloody shirt. More of the same blood—his own—soaked his tangled hair, spattered his swollen face, and glistened on his bruised torso beneath the torchlight. The man still lived, but was barely breathing: a hoarse rasp escaped from the painful depths of his chest and pink bubbles formed at the nostrils of his broken nose.
He was not alone in this cellar that had been converted into an antechamber of Hell. With him was the obese, sweating giant busy torturing him with heavy blows from a chain, delivered in a brutal but skillful manner. Then there was the one-eyed man who spoke to the prisoner, asking questions in Castilian. With olive skin and a sharp-featured face, he was dressed entirely in black leather, including his gloves and a hat which he never removed. A black patch with silver studs masked his left eye but failed to disguise the fact that it was eaten away by the ranse. Indeed, the disease had ravaged the entire area surrounding the socket and spread toward the man’s temple and cheek, the tumour extending in a star-shaped tracery of dark violet ridges.
The one-eyed man went by the name of Savelda and served the Black Claw. In a calm voice, he had promised his prisoner a thousand torments if he did not obtain the answers he was seeking.
He had not been lying.
Patient and determined, Savelda conducted the interrogation without ever becoming too concerned about his victim’s obstinate refusal to give up his secrets. He knew that time, pain, and despair were all working on his side. He knew that the prisoner would talk eventually, just as the most solid of castle walls will eventually crumble under a barrage of cannon balls. It would happen suddenly, with little or no warning. There would be one impact too many and then a great, liberating collapse.
With a gesture, he halted the rain of blows from the chain.
Then he said: “Do you know what never ceases to amaze me … ? It is when I see the degree to which our bodies are attached to life.”
Inert but still conscious, the victim remained silent. His swollen lids were half shut over his glassy, bloodshot eyes. Seeping clots encrusted his ears. Threads of mixed drool, bile, and blood ran from between his cracked, puffed lips.
“Take you, for example,” continued Savelda. “At this very moment, your only desire is for death. You desire it with your entire will, with all your soul. If you could, you would devote your last remaining strength to dying. And yet it won’t happen. Life is there, within you, like a nail driven deep into a solid block of wood. Life doesn’t care what you might want. It doesn’t care what you’re suffering, or the service it would do you if it would just abandon your body. It’s stubborn, it persists, it finds secret refuges within you. It’s growing tired, to be sure. But it will still take some time to dislodge it from your entrails.”
Savelda tugged on his gloves to tighten them, making the leather creak as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
“And that’s what I’m depending on, you see. Your life, the life instilled in you by the Creator, is my ally. Against it your courage and loyalty count for nothing. Unfortunately for you, you are young and vigorous. Your will to resist speaking will give up long before life decides to leave you and death carries you away. That’s just how things are.”
The victim made an effort to speak, murmuring something.
Savelda bent close and heard: “Hijo de puta!”
At that moment, a hired swordsman came down the stairs into the cellar. He halted on the steps and, leaning over the railing, announced in French: “The marquis is outside.”
“Gagnière?” the one-eyed man said in surprise, pronouncing the French name with a strong Spanish accent.
“Yes. He wants to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”
“All right. I’m coming.”
“And me?” asked the torturer. “What should I do? Shall I continue?”
Shirt open over his wide torso which was streaming with sweat, he rattled the bloody chain. The victim stiffened on hearing the sound.
“No. Wait,” replied the one-eyed man as he went up the stairs.
After the damp warmth of the cellar Savelda welcomed the cool evening breeze that gently blew through the ground floor. He crossed a room where his men slept or idled away the time playing dice and went out into the night to breathe the fragrant air. A flowering orchard surrounded the house.
Extravagantly elegant as always, the handsome young marquis de Gagnière was waiting on horseback.
“He still hasn’t talked,” reported Savelda.
“That isn’t what brings me here.”
“A problem?”
“That’s one way to put it. Your men failed on rue de la Fontaine. The girl escaped.”
“Impossible.”
“Only one of your men returned, with a broken leg and jaw. From his mutterings, we understood that the girl was not alone. There was someone else with her. And this single person sufficed to rout your entire team.”
Disconcerted, Savelda was at a loss for words.
“I will take it upon myself to inform the vicomtesse,” continued Gagnière. “For your part, do not fail with your prisoner. He must be made to talk.”
“He’ll talk. Before tomorrow.”
“Let’s hope so.”
The gentleman dug in his spurs and trotted off in the moonlight between two rows of trees, following a path covered with white petals which swirled beneath his horse’s hooves.
2
“She’s resting,” said Agnès de Vaudreuil as she left the room. “Keep her company, would you? And come and find me the moment she wakes.”
Shyly avoiding the baronne’s eye, Naïs nodded and slipped through the half-open door which she closed behind her without making a sound.
Agnès waited a short while and then, almost groping her way, went to the stairs. She could barely see anything in this gloomy corridor of the equally gloomy Hôtel de l’Épervier. All of it was built from the same bare, funereal grey stone; the windows were low and far between, often occluded by shutters and always defended by stout iron bars. Elsewhere, along the passageways and stairs, there were narrow embrasures, veritable arrow slits, which at this hour only admitted small slivers of the pale glow of dawn. Moreover, it was usual to carry a light when moving about the house at night, rather than allow a flame to burn alone; out of a natural fear of fire, but also for the sake of economy—even tallow, as nasty smelling as it was, cost money, and the better-quality white wax candles were an expensive luxury. But Agnès had left her candle in the room.
She was about to descend the dark stairs carefully when someone called to her.
“Agnès,” said Captain La Fargue.
She had not noticed him standing there, hidden by silence and shadow. Added to the imposing stature of a body that had been hardened by combat and other trials, his patriarchal air demanded respect: his proud martial bearing and grim face whose features had been sharpened by the years, the closely shaven beard and eyes full of wisdom and strength. He was still wearing his boots and his doublet, with the top button undone. But he did not have his sword or his hat and his thick silver hair almost glowed in the dim light.
He approached Agnès, took her gently by the elbow, and invited her to sit with him on the first step of the stairs. She agreed, intrigued, understanding that he wished to speak to her before they rejoined the other Blades, whose faint voices rose from the ground floor. Th
e old captain and the young baronne were separated by gender and three decades. And they also had to overcome a natural reserve on his side and a reluctance to confide in others on hers. But a special bond of friendship and mutual respect united them despite their differences and sense of proprieties. A bond almost akin to the love between father and daughter.
“How is she?” asked La Fargue.
He spoke in a low voice, as if they found themselves in the house of someone recently dead.
Looking over her shoulder, Agnès darted a brief, instinctive glance toward the door of the room where the young woman saved by Marciac had just fallen asleep.
“Her adventure last night has severely shaken her.”
“Did she confide in you?”
“Yes, if she is to be believed, she—”
“Later,” La Fargue cut her short. “For now, I would simply like to know what you make of her.”
Agnès had not yet had time to change and was still wearing the elegant gown of scarlet silk and satin that she had donned before going out with Marciac to madame de Sovange’s mansion. With a rustle of skirts, petticoats, and hoop, she drew back from the captain to look at him squarely.
“What a strange question,” she remarked.
Leaning forward, elbows on his thighs and hands clasped, he stared out at a distant point in front of them.
“Among other talents, you are better at delving into people’s souls than anyone else I know. So what do you make of her?”
Agnès turned away from the captain, sighed, and took the time to collect her thoughts and sum up her impressions.
“I believe …” she started to say. “I believe that she lies a little and hides much.”
Inscrutable, La Fargue nodded slowly.
“I would also guess that she was born in Spain,” Agnès continued. “Or has at least lived there for many years.”
She watched him from the corner of her eye and caught his expression. He frowned, straightened up, and asked: “How do you know that?”
“Her Spanish origins cannot be detected from her inflexions. But a few of her turns of phrase could be directly translated from Castilian.”
