The Cardinal's Blades

"The same prudent advice I gave to Neuvelle also applies to us," he said. "Let us forget all of that. Without doubt we shall be better off for having done so."

Brussand, thoughtful, nodded.

"Yes. You are right. As always."

At that moment, Captain Saint-Georges summoned Laincourt. Cardinal Richelieu wished to go to the Louvre with his entourage, and his escort needed to be prepared. Saint-Georges was taking command and Laincourt, in his capacity as an officer, was to watch over the cardinal's palace during his absence.

4

Two coaches sat at some distance from each other in a meadow by the road to Paris. Three elegant gentlemen surrounded the marquis de Bre-vaux by the first coach while, by the second, the vicomte d'Orvand paced alone. He went backward and forward, sometimes stopping to watch the road and the horizon as he nervously stroked his thin, black moustache and the tuft of hair beneath his lower lip and sent impatient looks toward his coachman, who remained indifferent to the entire proceedings but was beginning to feel hungry.

At last, one of the gentlemen detached himself from the group and walked toward d'Orvand, passing through the soft, damp herb grass with a determined step. The vicomte knew what he was going to hear and struck as appropriate an attitude as possible.

"He's late," said the gentleman.

"I know. I'm sorry, believe me."

"Will he come?"

"I believe so."

"Do you even know where he is, right now?"

"No."

"No?! But you're his second!"

"Ah . . . well, that is to say ..."

"A quarter of an hour, monsieur. The marquis de Brevaux is willing to be patient for a little longer—for another quarter of an hour, by the clock. And when your friend arrives, if he arrives, we—"

"Here he is, I believe. . . ."

A richly decorated coach arrived. Drawn by a splendid team of horses, it stopped in the road with a spray of dust and a man climbed out. His doublet was entirely undone and his shirt hung half out of his breeches. His hat in his right hand and his left resting on the pommel of his sword, he kept one boot on the footplate in order to embrace a pretty young blonde leaning toward the open door. This spectacle did not surprise d'Orvand, who did, however, roll his eyes when he saw another farewell kiss exchanged with a second beauty, a brunette.

"Marciac," murmured the vicomte to himself. "You never change!"

The gentleman charged with conveying the marquis de Brevaux's complaint returned to his friends while the luxuriously gilded coach made a half turn in the direction of Paris and Nicolas Marciac joined d'Orvand. He was a handsome man, attractive despite, or perhaps even because of, the disorder of his attire. He was in need of a razor and he bore a wide grin on his face. He tottered only slightly and was the very image of a society-loving rake enjoying his evening, entirely heedless of the morrow.

"But you've been drinking, Nicolas!" exclaimed d'Orvand, smelling his breath.

"No!" insisted Marciac, shocked. "Well ... a little."

"Before a duel? It's madness!"

"Don't alarm yourself. Have I ever lost before?"

"No, but—"

"All will be well."

By the other coach, the marquis de Brevaux was already in his shirtsleeves and executing a few feints.

"Good, let us finish it," Marciac declared.

He removed his doublet, threw it on the vicomte's coach, greeted the coachman and asked after his health, was delighted to learn it was excellent, caught d'Orvand's gaze, adjusted his shirt, unsheathed his sword, and set out toward Brevaux, who was already walking to meet him.

Then, after a few steps, he changed his mind, turned on his heel without fear of further exasperating the marquis, and pitched his words for his friend's ear alone: "Tell me just one thing. ..."

"Yes?" sighed d'Orvand.

"Promise me you will not be angry."

"So be it."

"Well then, I have guessed that I am to fight the man in his shirtsleeves who is watching me with that rough gaze. But could you give me some idea as to why?"

"What?" the vicomte exclaimed, rather louder than he had intended.

"If I kill him, I should know the reason for our quarrel, don't you think?"

D'Orvand was initially lost for words, then pulled himself together and announced: "A gambling debt."

"What? I owe him money? Him too?"

"Of course not! Him! . . . It's he who . . . Fine. Enough. I shall cancel this madness. I shall tell them you are unwell. Or that you—"

"How much?"

"What?"

"How much does he owe. me?"

"Fifteen hundred livres."

"Good God! And I was going to kill him . . . !"

Light-heartedly, Marciac continued to walk toward the furious marquis. He assumed a wobbly en garde stance and declared: "I am at your disposal, monsieur le marquis."