The Cardinal's Blades

7

At the Hotel de l’Epervier, Marciac had slept for less than two hours when he rejoined Leprat in the main room. The musketeer was still sitting in the same armchair near the fireplace, now gone cold, his wounded leg stretched out before him with his foot propped on a stool. Restless from inactivity, he continued to mope, but at least he had ceased drinking. He was still a little inebriated, however, and feeling drowsy.

Marciac, in contrast, seemed full of energy. He smiled, his eyes shone, and he displayed a vitality and joie de vivre that quickly exasperated Leprat. Not to mention the unkempt-but artfully maintained-state of his attire. The Gascon was every bit the perfect gentleman, dressed in a doublet with short basques and a white shirt, with his sword in a baldric and boots made of excellent leather. But he wore it all in a casual manner that betrayed his blind faith in his personal charm and his lucky star. The doublet was unbuttoned from top to bottom, the collar of his shirt gaped open, the sword seemed to weigh nothing, and the boots were desperately in need of a good brushing.

“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 protegee lacks for nothing. But since Nais 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 pate 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 Cecile 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 Cecile,” she said in a timid voice.

“Very well… Cecile.”

“I want, first, to thank you. Without you, last night…”

“Forget that, Cecile. 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,” Cecile 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, Cecile. 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, Cecile…”

“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 Nais… 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, Cecile.”

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?”

Agnes 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 Cecile. But the Gascon had noticed her presence, she knew.

“She almost tried everything,” Agnes 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 Cecile from giving us the slip.”

“At least take Ballardieu with you.”

“He’s not here.”

“Wait for him.”

“No time.”