The flaxen-haired man settled himself at Leprat’s table, sitting opposite him, without provoking any reaction.
“May I?” he asked, pointing a finger at the chicken Leprat had been eating
Without waiting for permission, he tore a wing from the plump carcass, bit into it, and gave a sigh of satisfaction.
“This is truly an honour,” he said conversationally. “Now I can say I have shared a meal with the famous Antoine Leprat, chevalier d’Orgueil… Because that’s who you are, are you not? No, no, don’t answer. Seeing that is proof enough.”
With his chin he indicated the white rapier lying, in its scabbard, on the table.
“Is it true that it was carved in one piece from the fang of an ancient dragon?”
“From the point to the pommel.”
“How many others like that do you think there are in the world?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps none.”
The mercenary chief put on an admiring expression that might have been quite sincere. Half turning, he called out: “Innkeeper! Wine for the chevalier and I. Be sure it’s your best!”
“Yes, monsieur. At… at once.”
The two men locked eyes until the innkeeper came to serve them with a trembling hand, then scurried away leaving the wine jug. Leprat remained impassive as the other lifted his glass; upon seeing that his gesture was not imitated, the mercenary shrugged and drank alone.
“And me. Do you know who I am?”
The chevalier eyed him with contempt and did not reply.
“I am called Malencontre.”
Leprat smiled faintly.
Malencontre.
In other words: mishap. Or ill met.
Yes, that name did indeed fit this character.
14
“Do I know enough?”
“You will always know enough, if your adversary knows less than you.”
“But would you say I’ve progressed?”
Having counted up his meagre salary, Almades tightened the strings of his purse and raised his eyes toward the very young man who, still sweaty and out of breath from his latest fencing lesson, was watching him anxiously. He knew that look. He had seen it often in the past year, and he was astonished that he was still moved by it.
“Yes, monsieur. You have indeed made progress.”
It was no lie, considering that a week earlier the man had never held a sword in his life. He was a law student, who had come one morning to this inn, located in the outlying district-known as a faubourg-of Saint-Antoine, seeking the courtyard where Almades received his clients. He had a duel to fight, and wanted to learn how to cross blades. Time was short. But wasn’t it said that this backyard, where the Spaniard taught, was a better school than the finest fencing halls in Paris? Paid for in coin, no doubt a few lessons, properly learnt and applied, would suffice. After all, he only needed an unstoppable flurry of two or three clever thrusts to kill his man, didn’t he?
Almades frequently asked himself, when faced with students like this, if these young men truly believed in the existence of such “deadly thrusts” which, once their secrets were mastered, were capable of guaranteeing success without any need for fencing talent. And even if there were such a thing, did they imagine this mysterious knowledge could be had for a mere fistful of pistoles? But it was highly likely that this student, terrified by the prospect of risking his life, sword in hand, would want to believe it to be true. Like all the others, he would be led by honour, pride, or stupidity to the meadow tomorrow. He was afraid and, now that he was committed to this duel, hoped for salvation from a miracle worker.
Almades had carefully explained that in the time available to them he could not do more than impart the basic rudiments of fencing, that the greatest swashbuckler ever born was never certain to carry the day, and that it was always better to renounce a bad duel than one’s life. But faced with the student’s insistence he had accepted taking him on as a pupil, for a week, on condition that he paid the greater part of the agreed fee in advance. Experience had taught Almades that novices, put off by the difficulty of actually learning to fence, were quick to abandon their lessons, and with them, payment of any tuition.
This one, however, had not yet given up.
“I beg you, monsieur, tell me if I am ready,” the young man pleaded. “I must fight tomorrow!”
The fencing master stared at him for a long while.
“Above all else,” he finally said, “what truly matters is whether you are ready to die.”
His full name was Anibal Antonio Almades di Carlo. He was tall and thin, clearly of a naturally slender build, but had grown gaunt due to long periods of hunger. He had dark eyes and hair with a pale complexion and a grizzled but still tidy moustache. His doublet, his shirt, and his shoes were clean, although discreetly patched in places, and the lace at his collar and cuffs had seen hard use. His hat was missing its plume and the leather of his fold-over boots was unpolished. But even if he had nothing but rags to wear, Almades would have worn them well. Old Andalusian blood ran in his veins, nourishing his entire being with a haughty austerity which shone forth from him.
Brutally confronted by the prospect of his own death, the student blanched.
“Your duel,” asked the fencing master to lessen the blow, “Is it to first blood?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s for the best. Rather than employing this science to kill your adversary, use it to ensure you’re only slightly wounded. Stay on the defensive. Take breaks to conserve your strength and catch your breath. Wait for a mistake; it’s always possible that your adversary will make a clumsy move. But don’t be in too much of a hurry to finish him off, as you risk exposing yourself. And hold your left hand high enough to protect your face if necessary: it’s better to lose a finger than an eye.”
The young man nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I will do exactly as you say.”
“Goodbye, monsieur.”
“Goodbye, master.”
They parted with a handshake.
***Leaving the gloom of the inn, Almades went out into the open courtyard at the rear, a simple square of beaten earth where he supervised the exercises of his rare students. Hens squawked nearby; a horse neighed; a cow could even be heard lowing in the distance. The faubourg Saint-Antoine was a recent addition to the city, still very rural in character, made up of new dwellings and manors whose facades along both sides of the dusty roads converging on Paris hid the surrounding farms, fields, and pasture land from travellers’ sight. The faubourg began in the shadow of the Bastille, just beyond the Saint-Antoine gate and the city’s defensive moat, and the buildings progressively thinned out as one moved away from the capital and its stink.
At a table which had been left outside, exposed to the elements, Almades took out the rapier he kept for his clients’ use. Along with the sword which hung at his side, this comprised his sole teaching aid, and his entire fortune. It was an iron rapier of poor quality, doubtless too heavy, and in danger from rust. Sitting on a wooden stump, he began to patiently clean the notched blade with an oiled rag.
Footsteps could be heard in the courtyard. A group of men approached him, stopping a few metres away, remaining silent and waiting to be noticed.
Almades examined them from beneath the brim of his hat.
There were four of them. A provost and three apprentices. The first was armed with a sword, while his seconds carried iron bars. And they had all been sent by a fencing master who maintained a school close to the Bastille and who simply could not bear the thought of anyone benefiting from fencing lessons illegally dispensed by the Spaniard.
His iron rapier across his knees, Almades raised his head, squinting in the sunlight. He observed the four men with an inscrutable expression, and as he did so, idly fiddled with the steel signet ring he wore on his left finger, twisting it around three times.