The Cardinal's Blades

24

There were a dozen courts of miracles in Paris. All of them were organised according to the same hierarchy, inherited from the Middle Ages: they consisted of an enclosed area where the communities of beggars, criminals, and other marginal elements could congregate. Scattered through the capital, they took their name from the professional mendicants-the kind with fake diseases and fake mutilations-who were “miraculously” restored to good health after a hard day of begging, once they were far from the inquisitive eyes of outsiders. Cour Sainte Catherine was one such refuge, situated in the Saint-Denis neighbourhood; another was to be found on rue du Bac; and a third near the Saint-Honore market. But the most famous court, the one which had earned its status as the Court of Miracles-with capital letters and without further reference-was the one on rue Neuve-Saint-Sauveur, near the Montmartre gate.

According to a chronicler of the times, it was located in “the worst-built, the dirtiest, and the most remote district of the city” and consisted of a vast courtyard dating from the thirteenth century. It was rank, muddy, surrounded by sordid, rickety buildings, and hemmed in by the tangled and labyrinthine alleys behind the Filles-Dieu convent. Hundreds of beggars and thugs lodged here with their women and children, so that there were at least a thousand inhabitants in all, ruling as absolute masters over their territory, permitting neither intrusions nor strangers nor the city watch, and ready to repel them all with insults, thrown stones, and bludgeons. When, eight years earlier, a new street was supposed to be laid nearby, the workers were attacked and the project had to be abandoned.

Jealous of its independence, the insubordinate little world of the Court of Miracles lived according to its own laws and customs. It was led by one man, the Grand Coesre, who Saint-Lucq was waiting to meet this afternoon. Through the slimy glass of a first floor window, from behind his red spectacles, he observed a large, sorry-looking, and at this hour almost deserted cul-de-sac-it would only become animated at nightfall when the thugs and beggars returned from their day of larceny and mendicity in Paris. The decor had something sinister and oppressive about it. Those who ventured here unawares would sense that they were in enemy territory, and being spied upon, just before the inevitable ambush.

The half-blood was not alone.

An old woman dressed entirely in black kept him company. Sitting in her corner she nibbled on a wafer like a rabbit chewing a chicory leaf, clasping it between the fingers of her emaciated hands, her eyes lost and vague. Tranchelard was there too, the thug Saint-Lucq had threatened earlier. The man endeavoured to make the atmosphere as unpleasant as possible with a heavy silence and a fixed black glare directed against the visitor, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Back turned, Saint-Lucq was unaffected. Minutes passed in this room, where the mottled and stained appearance of the floor, the walls, and the door frames contrasted with the motley collection of luxurious furniture and carpets stolen from some mansion or wealthy bourgeois house. Nothing but the old woman’s chewing disturbed the silence.

Eventually, preceded by a severe-looking individual with a noticeably receding hairline, the Grand Coesre arrived.

Slender and blond, the Grand Coesre was no more than seventeen years old, an age when one was already reckoned an adult in these times, but he seemed rather young to be leader of some of the toughest and most frightening members of the Parisian underworld. He nevertheless displayed all the self-assurance of a feared and respected monarch, whose authority was never disputed without blood and tears flowing from the challenge. His right cheek carried the scar from a badly healed gash. His clear eyes shone with cynicism and intelligence. He was unarmed, certain that no harm would befall him in his own stronghold where a mere glance on his part could condemn another to death.

While the Grand Coesre settled himself comfortably on the high-backed armchair reserved for his use, the man who had held the door for him moved to his side, standing straight and expressionless. Saint-Lucq knew him. His name was Grangier and he was an archisuppot. Within the strict hierarchical organisation of the Cour des Miracles, archisuppots ranked just below the Grand Coesre, along with the cagoux. The latter were responsible for organising the troops and training new recruits in the arts of picking pockets and eliciting compassion-and money-from strangers. The archisuppots, in contrast, were often highly educated judges and advisors. A defrocked priest, Grangier had his master’s ear due to his formidable perspicacity.

Saint-Lucq bowed his head, but did not remove his hat.

“I must admit you’re not lacking in courage,” the Grand Coesre observed without preamble. “If anyone but you behaved like this, I would think I was dealing with a cretin.”

The half-blood didn’t respond.

“To come here after having manhandled two of my men and threatened to cut poor Tranchelard’s throat-”

“I had to be sure he would not forget to pass on my message.”

“You realise that he now speaks of nothing but disembowelling you?”

“He’s of no importance.”

Tranchelard bristled, visibly itching to draw his sword. As for his undisputed master, he burst out laughing.

“Well! You can always boast later of how you piqued my curiosity. Speak, I’m listening.”

“It concerns the Corbins gang.”

At hearing these words, the Grand Coesre’s face darkened.

“And?”

“Recently, the Corbins have seized certain goods. Precious, fragile merchandise. Merchandise of a kind which, up until now, had never interested them. Do you know what I am referring to?”

“Perhaps.”

“I would like to find out where they stash their goods. I know the place is not in Paris, but nothing more than that. You, on the other hand…”

The master of the Cour des Miracles paused for a moment without speaking. Then he leaned toward Grangier and said a few words to him in narquois, a language which was incomprehensible to the uninitiated. The archisuppot replied in the same idiom. Without reacting, Saint-Lucq waited for their secretive discussion to end. It was brief.

“Supposing I have the information you seek,” the Grand Coesre said to him. “Why should I tell you?”

“It’s information for which I’m willing to pay full price.”

“I’m already rich.”

“You’re also a bastard without faith or morality. But above all, you are a shrewd man.”

“Which is to say?”

“The Corbins are making inroads into your territory. Because of them, your influence and your business revenues are shrinking. But, in particular, they don’t take their orders from you.”

“This problem will soon be resolved.”

“Really? I can resolve it for you now. Tell me what I want to know, and I will deliver the Corbins a blow from which they will have trouble recovering. You can even take the credit if you want… We don’t like one another, Grand Coesre. And no doubt, one day or another, blood will be spilt between us. But in this matter our interests coincide.”

The other stroked his well-trimmed moustache and goatee thoughtfully, although they were still not so much hair as down.

“This merchandise is precious to you, then?”

“To you, it’s worth nothing.”

“And for the Corbins?”

“It is worth the price they have been offered. I think they are only hirelings in this business and soon they will deliver the goods to their employers. For my purposes, it will be too late to act once that occurs, and you will have lost a beautiful opportunity to give them a taste of their own medicine. Time is short.”

“Allow me an hour to consider it.”

The man and the half-blood exchanged a long glance, in which each delved into the heart of the other.

“One hour, no more,” Saint-Lucq stipulated.

Once Saint-Lucq had gone, the Grand Coesre asked his archisuppot: “What did you make of that?”

Grangier took a moment to reflect.

“Two things,” he said.

“Which are?”

“To begin with, it is in your interest to help the half-blood against the Corbins.”

“And then?”

Rather than replying, the archisuppot turned toward the old woman who, he knew, had followed his chain of thought. Between nibbles of her wafer, her gaze still directed straight ahead like someone either blind or indifferent to the world, she said: “The following day, he will have to be killed.”