The Cardinal's Blades

Now in her forties, Marion had witnessed Agnes's birth and the accompanying agony of her mother, who had lain in labour for five days. After fighting at the side of the future King Henri IV during the Wars of Religion in France, the baron de Vaudreuil was always too busy serenading the beautiful ladies at the royal court or stag hunting with the French monarch to interest himself in the fate of his spouse. And upon learning that the child was female, he had not even bothered to attend his wife's funeral. Entrusted—or rather abandoned—to the care of Marion and a rough soldier by the name of Ballardieu, it was seven years before the little girl met her father. This occurred during a brief stay on his domain, when he had also dragged Marion into his bed. Although she might have offered herself freely to him, if she had had any say in the matter. But the baron was not one to brook refusal from a servant, and would have dismissed her without further ado if denied. Marion could not bear the thought of being separated from Agnes, who adored her and had almost no one else in the world to look after her. The baron had been highly amused to discover that his latest conquest, although by no means a young woman, was still a virgin. Delighted, after it was done he left her to go sleep elsewhere, saying that he deserved her gratitude.

Calmer now and beginning to feel ashamed of herself, Agnes walked around the table to stand behind the woman who had raised her, and bent to embrace her, resting her chin against Marion's head.

"Forgive me, Marion. I'm mean and stupid. . . . Sometimes, I think I'm going mad. . . . But it's not you who's making me so angry. You realise that, don't you?"

"Yes. But who is it, then?"

"I think . . . I'm angry at myself. All these memories I have, that I would just as soon forget. Things I've seen and done. . . . And things which were done to me. . . ."

She straightened up, sighed, and added: "One day, perhaps, I shall tell you all."

8

As they travelled back to Paris by coach, Nicolas Marciac and the vicomte d'Orvand enjoyed a light red wine designed to sharpen their appetites. A wicker basket filled with food and some good bottles of wine stood between them on the bench. They drank from small engraved silver goblets, half filled so that the bumps and jolts of the road, which shook them violently and without warning, soaked neither their chins nor their laps.

"You hadn't been drinking," said d'Orvand, referring to the duel.

Marciac gave him a wicked, amused glance.

"Just a mouthful for my breath. Do you take me for a complete idiot?"

"Then why this comedy?"

"To make sure Brevaux was overconfident and lowered his guard."

"You would have defeated him without that."

"Yes."

"Moreover, you could have let me in on it—"

"But that would have been much less fun, wouldn't it? If you could have seen your face!"

The vicomte could not help but smile. His friendship with the Gascon had accustomed him to this kind of joke.

"And who were the two charming ladies whose coach you borrowed to make your entrance?"

"Now, vicomte! I would be the very lowest of gentlemen if I told you that."

"In any event, they seemed to have a great deal of affection for you."

"What can I say, my friend? I am well liked—Since you are so curious, then know that one of them is the very same beauty upon whom the marquis de Brevaux, it seems, has set his sights. I'm sure he recognised her. ..."

"You are reckless Nicolas. No doubt the marquis's anger grew and his skill as a fencer proportionately decreased when he saw you kiss the woman. But by doing so you gave him a reason to demand another duel. Not content to defeat him, you had to humiliate him. For you it's a game, I know. But for him ..."

Marciac thought for a moment about the prospect—which had not crossed his mind until now—of a second duel against the marquis de Brevaux. Then he shrugged.

"Perhaps you're right. . . . We shall see."

And extending his empty goblet, he added: "Before we start on the pork, it would be my pleasure to drink a little more of your wine."

As d'Orvand poured for his friend, risking his clean, beautifully cut breeches in the process, Marciac held the prize he had won from the marquis up to the light. Admiring the ruby, he slid it onto his finger, where it came to rest against a signet ring. But it was the signet ring itself which caught the vicomte's eye—made of tarnished steel, it was etched with a rapier and a Greek cross capped with fleur-de-lis.

"There," said Marciac admiring the shine of the stone, "that should keep Madame Rabier satisfied."

"You borrowed money from La Rabier?" exclaimed d'Orvand in a tone of reproach.

"What else could I do? I have debts and it is necessary that I honour them. I am not the marquis de Brevaux."

"Still, La Rabier . . . borrowing money from her is never a good idea. I would have been happy to advance you a few ecus. You should have asked me."

"Asked you? A friend? You're joking, vicomte!"

D'Orvand slowly shook his head in silent reproof.