The Cardinal's Blades

Leprat waited until she pointed him to a bench before sitting down.

"My name is Leprat," he said.

"Genevieve Rolain."

"And I'm Tonin!"

"Hello, Tonin," said Leprat with a smile.

"Are you a gentleman?" asked the boy.

"I am."

"And a soldier?"

"Yes."

"My father was a soldier, too. Of the Picardy regiment."

"A very old and very prestigious regiment."

"And you, monsieur? In which regiment do you serve?"

Predicting the reaction he would provoke, Leprat announced: "I serve in a company of His Majesty's mounted musketeers."

"With the King's Musketeers?" Tonin marvelled. "Really? Did you hear, mother? A musketeer!"

"Yes, Tonin. You're shouting quite loudly enough for me to hear you—"

"Do you know the king, monsieur? Have you ever spoken to him?"

"A few times."

"Go and water monsieur the musketeer's horse," Genevieve interrupted, placing a basin of water on the table.

"But mother?"

"Now, Antoine."

The boy knew it was never a good sign when his mother switched from "Tonin" to "Antoine."

"Yes, mother. . . . Will you still tell me about the king, monsieur?"

"We'll see."

Delighted by this prospect, Tonin left the house.

"You have a lovely little boy," said Leprat.

"Yes. He's at that stage where they dream of nothing but glory and adventure."

"It is a stage which does not always pass with the coming of manhood."

"And thus his father died."

"I'm sorry to hear that, madame. He fell in battle?"

"Soldiers are quicker to die of hunger, cold, or disease than a thrust from a sword. . . . No, monsieur, it was the ranse which took my husband during a siege."

"The ranse," Leprat murmured, as though evoking an old and dreaded enemy. . . .

It behaved like a virulent disease, and originated from dragons and their magic. The dragons—or more accurately their distant descendants of human

appearance—suffered little from it, but the men and women who frequented their company for too long a period were rarely spared. The first symptom was a small mark on the skin, scarcely more alarming than a beauty spot, and which often went unnoticed in an age when people did not wash and never took off their shirts. The mark grew, becoming purplish in colour and rough to the touch. Sometimes it would slowly develop black veins and begin to crack open, oozing pus, while deeper tumours would develop underneath. This was known as the "Great ranse." Then the patient: became contagious and felt the first pains, the first lumps, the first deformities, and the first monstrosities.. . .

The Church saw this as clear proof that dragons were evil incarnate, to the extent that they could not even be approached without mortal danger. As for seventeenth-century medicine, it was impotent to either fight or prevent the ranse, whether great or small. Remedies were sold, to be sure, and new cures appeared in the apothecaries' dispensaries and the smooth-talking vendors' stalls almost every year. But most of these were nothing but the work of more or less well-intentioned charlatans or practitioners. As for allegedly more serious medications, it proved impossible to measure their effectiveness objectively because those afflicted were not all equally susceptible to the ranse. Some passed away after two weeks, while others lived for a long time after the appearance of the first symptoms and suffered little. Meanwhile, you could still encounter other unfortunate victims in the final stages of the disease who, having been transformed into pitiable monsters, were reduced to begging on the streets to survive. They were obliged to wear a red robe and announce their presence by shaking a rattle, when they were not forcibly incarcerated in the recently founded Hospice des Incurables in Paris.

Shrugging away her bad memories, Genevieve helped Leprat remove his doublet. Then she unwound the bandage he had hastily wrapped around his bicep, over his shirt sleeve.

"Your shirt now, monsieur."

"Rip the sleeve, that will suffice."

"The shirt is still good. You just need to have the tear sewn up."

Leprat reflected that the price of a new shirt was not the same for a gentleman as for a countrywoman forced to make economies.

"It is," he admitted. "But please, close the door."

The woman hesitated, with a glance at her pistol, but finally went to shut the door which still stood open to the yard. Then she lent a hand to the musketeer, who was stripping to the waist, and understood immediately when he bared his muscular back.

Large, coarse, and purplish splotches of the ranse spread across it. "Do not fear, madame. My illness has not yet reached a point where it could affect you. But it's a sight that I'd rather spare your son." "Do you suffer?" "Not yet."

23

Sitting at a table in an empty tavern whose keeper was sweeping the floor at the end of a very long day, the Gascon was glowering into the bottom of his glass when he realised someone was standing nearby.

"Captain."

"Good evening, Marciac."

"Please, take a seat."

"Thank you."

La Fargue pulled a chair toward him and sat down.