The Cardinal's Blades

Intrigued, the old gentleman's brow wrinkled. It was difficult to imagine anyone "scolding" a man of his temper. But, the little one was still at the age when a daughter would not for a moment doubt the invincibility of her father.

"He will scold me? Truly?"

"My hither was very anxious. So was my mother. They waited for your return until very late last night."

"And how do you know this?"

"I heard them talking."

"Were you not in your room?"

"I was."

"And weren't you asleep at that hour, as is appropriate for young ladies of your age, if they are well behaved?"

Caught out, Justine paused for a moment.

"Yes," she said.

La Fargue stifled a smile.

"Very well then, you were asleep in your room, yet you heard my friend your father speaking. ..."

The little one replied in a flash: "I happen to have very good ears."

And, full of dignity, she turned on her heel.

* * *

La Fargue left the stable a few moments later.

Beneath the apple tree, Justine was only interested in her doll, with whom she seemed to be arguing. The morning was over. The sunshine was warm and the thick foliage gave the courtyard a pleasant freshness. From here the bustle and racket of the Paris streets were just a distant murmur.

In the practice room, La Fargue found Martin—a young man, the eldest son and senior instructor in Delormel's school—dispensing a private lesson while a valet gave the earthenware floor a thorough scrubbing. The room was almost empty, with bare walls and furnished with nothing but three benches, a rack of swords, and a wooden horse for teaching students mounted swordplay. There was a gallery which could be reached by a staircase on the right, from which one could comfortably observe the action below. The fencing master was ar the balustrade. He adopted an air of great satisfaction on seeing the captain enter. La Fargue climbed the steps to meet him, exchanging a friendly smile with Marrin on the way, the young redheaded slender man beating time for his pupil's movements by striking the ground with a large stick.

"Glad to see you, captain. We've been waiting for you."

In spite of events, Delormel had never ceased to address La Fargue by his rank. Out of habit, no doubt. But also to make the point that he had never acknowledged that La Fargue had been stripped of his commission.

"For most of the night, yes, I know. The news reached me. I am sorry."

Delormel was astonished.

"That news reached you? How?"

"Your daughter. The youngest."

The fencing master smiled affectionately.

"The little devil. Nothing gets past her. . . ."

Tall and broad across the shoulders, Delormel was a fencing master who had been a soldier and who regarded fencing as more of a practical experience than a science. A thick scar scored his neck; another traced a pale furrow down his face. But what one noticed first was his thick russet red hair, which he had inherited from his father and passed on to all his children: a Delormel was a redhead, or they weren't a Delormel. Well groomed, he wore a modestly cut and perfectly pressed doublet.

"However," said La Fargue, "you are more correct than you believe in addressing me as 'captain,'"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The cardinal has secretly returned my rank to me. He wants the Blades to return to service. Under my command."

"All of them? That is: all of the Blades?"

The captain shrugged.

"All those who are left and would like to serve, at least. And for those who do not, I have no doubt that the cardinal shall find some persuasive leverage. Letters summoning them have already been sent out."

Reading the concern on La Fargue's face, Delormel hesitated, and then asked: "And this isn't good news?"

"I've yet to form an opinion on the subject."

"Come, captain! The Blades are your life! And here you are! Soon those five years will be—"

But he did not complete the sentence.

Suddenly nervous, he looked to the left and right and then murmured: "I beg you, do not tell me you said no to the cardinal! No one says no to the cardinal, do they? Nobody. Not even you, eh?"

La Fargue had no reply.

His eyes flicked toward Martin and his student below and he said: "I thought you only opened your practice room after dinner."

"It's only a private lesson," specified Romand. "That braggart you see there pays in gold."

Calling him a braggart spoke volumes. The old gentleman, however, asked: "And how is he doing?"

The fencing master made a disdainful face.

"He can't tell his right from his left, holds his sword like a shovel, believes he knows everything, understands nothing, and constantly complains, claiming that everything is badly explained to him."

"His name?"

"Guerante, I believe. If I was Martin, I would have slapped him ten times by now."

"And you would have lost your client."

"No doubt, yes. ..."