“Monsieur Lorbois, isn’t it?” he said to the provost with a slight accent.
The other nodded and announced: “Monsieur, my master has warned you a number of times to cease laying any claim to the title of ‘fencing master,’ without which the practice of teaching fencing is illegal. You have persisted in spite of those warnings. My master has sent us today to assure ourselves that you will leave Paris and the surrounding area within the hour, never to return.”
Like any other trade, that of fencing masters was regulated. Formed in 1567 under the patronage of Saint Michel, the guild of Parisian fencing masters organised and oversaw the practice within the capital, and the status of its members was confirmed by letters of patent. None who lacked such a letter could instruct another in the art of fencing.
Almades rose, the iron rapier in his left hand.
“I am a fencing master,” he said.
“In Spain, perhaps. But not in France. Not in Paris.”
“Spanish fencing is as worthy as French.”
“Do not force us to deal with you, monsieur. There is to be no question of a duel here. We are four, and you are alone.”
“Then let us even the odds.”
Under the gaze of the provost, who did not understand the implications of this sentence, Almades placed himself in the centre of the courtyard, still holding the old iron rapier in his left hand…
… and unsheathed his own steel rapier with his right.
“I await you, messieurs,” he said, whipping both his blades around and up to the vertical three times.
Then he placed himself en garde.
The provost and his three apprentices deployed themselves in a semi-circle and pressed their attack at once. In a single flurry Almades pierced the shoulder of the first apprentice, the thigh of the second, ducked to avoid the iron bar of the third, straightened up and slashed the armpit of this last assailant while turning, and completed his move by crossing his rapiers to seize the provost’s throat in the scissors formed by his two sharp blades.
No more than a few heartbeats had passed. The apprentices were out of the fight and their provost found himself at the Spaniard’s mercy, paralysed by shock and fear, hesitating to even swallow with the blades placed against his throat.
Almades allowed a handful of seconds to pass and allow the provost to take full stock of the situation.
“Tell he who sent you that he is rather a poor fencing master and that what I’ve seen of his science, as displayed by your performance, makes me laugh… Now, get out.”
The humiliated provost retreated from the courtyard, along with his entourage of apprentices, one of whom, his thigh drenched in blood, had to be supported by the other two. The Spaniard watched them limp away, sighed, and heard a voice behind him say: “My congratulations. The years have not dulled your skills.”
He turned to discover captain La Fargue standing there.
A twitch of the eyelid was the only sign that betrayed Almades’s surprise.
***They took a table in the near-empty inn. Almades ordered and paid for a jug of wine, which would deprive him of dinner later, then filled their glasses, pouring three times in each case.
“How did you know where to find me?” he asked.
“I didn’t.”
“The cardinal?”
“His spies.”
The Spaniard swallowed a mouthful of wine while La Fargue slid a letter toward him. Richelieu’s seal was stamped into the red wax seal.
“I have come,” said the captain, “to bring you this.”
“What does it say?”
“That the Blades have returned to the light of day and they wish for your return.”
Almades took in the news with a slight movement of his head.
“After five years?”
“Yes.”
“Under your command?”
The captain nodded.
Almades mulled this over, keeping his silence while twisting his signet ring around, over and over, in series of threes. Memories, not all of which were happy, flooded into his mind. Then he gave his current surroundings a long sweeping glance.
“You’ll need to buy me a horse,” he said finally.
15
In Paris, the vicomte d’Orvand’s coach left Marciac, as he requested, on rue Grenouillere, or more precisely, in front of a small, cosy house which had no real distinguishing features compared to the rest except that it was known to locals as Les Petites Grenouilles (“the Little Frogs”). Being familiar with the neighbourhood, the Gascon knew he would find the front door closed at this hour of the afternoon. So he went around to the rear and climbed over a wall, before crossing an attractive garden and entering the house through a low door.
He walked soundlessly into the kitchen where a very plump woman dressed in a skirt, apron, and white bonnet had her back turned to him. He approached her on tiptoe and surprised her with a sound kiss on the cheek.
“Monsieur Nicolas! Where did you spring from? You almost scared me to death!”
“Another kiss, to win your forgiveness?”
“Be off, monsieur. You know very well that I have passed the age where such gallantries-”
“Really? And what about that handsome, strapping carpenter who curls his moustaches on the doorstep every time you go to the market?”
“I don’t know of whom you speak,” replied the blushing cook.
“Now, now… where are the young ladies?”
“In the next room.”
Moments later Marciac made his appearance in a bright and elegantly furnished room, where he immediately attracted the notice of four pretty young ladies who were sitting about in casual dress. The first was an ample blonde; the second was a slim brunette; the third was a mischievous redhead; and the last was a Jewish beauty with green eyes and dusky skin. The blonde read from a book while the brunette embroidered and chattered with the other two.
Armed with his most roguish smile, Marciac bowed, doffed his hat with a flourish, and exclaimed: “Greetings, mesdemoiselles! How are my charming little frogs?”
He was welcomed with fervent cries of joy.
“Monsieur Nicolas!”
“How are you-?”
“It’s been so long-!”
“Do you know how much we’ve missed you-?”
“We were worried-!”
The eager young women, relieving Marciac of his hat and sword, made him sit on a divan.
“Are you thirsty?” asked one of them.
“Hungry?” asked another.
“Desire anything else?” asked the most daring of the lot.
Marciac, delighted, accepted both a glass of wine and the demonstrations of affection that were lavished upon him with such good grace. Teasing fingers roamed over his chest and toyed with his shirt collar.
“So, monsieur Nicolas, what do you have to recount for us after all this time?”
“Oh, not much, I’m afraid…”
The young women made a show of profound disappointment.
“… merely that I fought a duel today!”
This news produced rapture.
“A duel? Tell us! Tell us!” the redhead cried, clapping her hands.
“Before anything else, I must describe my adversary, because he was rather formidable-”
“Who was he? Did you kill him?”
“Patience, patience… If memory serves me, I believe he was almost four measures tall.”
A measure was equal to two metres. They laughed.
“You’re mocking us!”
“Not at all!” Marciac protested in a joyful tone. “He even had six arms.”
More laughter.
“And to complete his portrait, I should add that this demon came straight from hell, had horns, and breathed fire from both his mouth and his ars-”
“And just what is going on here?” demanded a voice which rang with authority.