“So be it.”
A ripple crossed the surface of the mirror and, as the vicomtesse struggled to focus her will, the phantom dragon head facing her began to waver.
“You are tired, my sister. If you wish to continue this later-”
“No, no. It will pass… Continue, please.”
In the dark close room, the young woman nimbly wiped away the black droplet that had beaded on her nostril.
“We have,” said the dragon, “introduced a spy into the upper levels of the Palais-Cardinal.”
“I know. He-”
“No. It’s someone other than the spy who keeps you informed. As yet, you do not know of the spy of whom I speak. Or, at least, not in this capacity. He is one of your future initiates.”
The vicomtesse was visibly surprised.
The Grand Lodge of Spain had an agent close to the cardinal, an exclusive agent, of whose existence she had only just learned. It was common practice for the Black Claw, and the Grand Lodge in particular, to proceed in this manner. The Spanish Lodge had been the very first to be founded and it traditionally predominated over the other lodges of Europe, welding together an empire of which it became all the more jealous as its authority began to be questioned. It was rightly criticised for being stifled by the crushing weight of tradition and guided by masters primarily concerned with preserving their privileges. Against its influence, in the very heart of the Black Claw, there was a growing plot involving dragons who secretly dreamed of renewing-if not cutting down-the old idols. The vicomtesse de Malicorne was one of these ambitious rebels.
“So?” she said.
“Our spy has informed us that the cardinal has a project afoot to recall one of our old enemies. Given the time it took this news to reach us in Spain, it is perhaps already done.”
“One of our old enemies?”
“La Fargue.”
“La Fargue and his Blades.”
“Without a doubt, yes. I don’t know if their sudden return relates to your business, but guard yourself against these men, and especially against their captain.”
6
Jean Delormel’s fencing school was situated on rue des Cordieres, close to the Saint-Jacques gate. It could only be reached by entering a small courtyard which was unevenly but solidly paved, and was almost entirely concealed by the foliage of an apple tree which grew up from its centre. At the bottom to the left the beautiful main building met the stable, which was adjoined at a right angle to a small forge. The feet and gaze of visitors, however, were naturally drawn toward the house on the right, which could be recognised for what it was by the traditional sign which decorated the threshold-an arm holding a sword.
Sitting on a stone bench under the apple tree, a small six-year-old girl was playing with a doll-its body made of rags and with a painted wooden head-when Captain La Fargue arrived on horseback. Neatly dressed and with curly red hair, little Justine was the youngest child of Delormel, the fencing master, and one of seven offspring his wife had given him, three of whom survived. As an old friend of the family, La Fargue had witnessed Justine’s birth just as he had witnessed the births of her elder siblings. But during his lengthy absence the infant had become a pretty child, full of seriousness, who listened more than she spoke, and thought even more. This metamorphosis had seemed sudden to the captain, the evening before, on his return after five years. Nothing showed the passage of time better than children.
Rising, Justine dusted down the front of her dress in order to offer a most formal curtsey to the rider, who had just got his feet on the ground and, to tell the truth, took little notice of her now as he walked toward the stables.
“Good morning, monsieur.”
Reins in hand, he stopped.
His cold glance, severe expression, grey beard, and patrician neatness, the austere elegance of his attire, and the proud assurance with which he carried his sword, all impressed adults and intimidated children. This little lady, however, did not appear to fear him.
Somewhat disconcerted, the old captain hesitated.
Then, very stiffly, he greeted her with a nod of his head and the pinch of his thumb and index finger to the rim of his hat, before walking on.
Busy in the kitchen, Justine’s mother had observed the scene through an open window in the main building. She was a young woman, pretty and smiling, whose successive pregnancies had done surprisingly little to enlarge her slender waistline. Her name was Anne, and she was the daughter of a renowned fencing master who gave lessons on Ile de la Cite. La Fargue also greeted her as he approached, this time doffing his hat.
“Hello, madame.”
“Good morning, captain. A beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. Do you know where your husband is?”
“In the practice room. He’s waiting for you, I believe… Will you dine with us?”
It was common to breakfast in the morning, dine at midday, and eat supper in the evening.
“With pleasure, madame. I thank you.”
La Fargue tethered his mount to a ring in the stable when he heard: “Monsieur, my papa is going to scold you.”
He turned and saw Justine, who loitered right at the threshold of the stable but did not enter, almost certainly because she was forbidden to approach the horses.
Intrigued, the old gentleman’s brow wrinkled. It was difficult to imagine anyone “scolding” a man of his temper. But, the little one was still at the age when a daughter would not for a moment doubt the invincibility of her father.
“He will scold me? Truly?”
“My father was very anxious. So was my mother. They waited for your return until very late last night.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I heard them talking.”
“Were you not in your room?”
“I was.”
“And weren’t you asleep at that hour, as is appropriate for young ladies of your age, if they are well behaved?”
Caught out, Justine paused for a moment.
“Yes,” she said.
La Fargue stifled a smile.
“Very well then, you were asleep in your room, yet you heard my friend your father speaking…”
The little one replied in a flash: “I happen to have very good ears.”
And, full of dignity, she turned on her heel.
***La Fargue left the stable a few moments later.
Beneath the apple tree, Justine was only interested in her doll, with whom she seemed to be arguing. The morning was over. The sunshine was warm and the thick foliage gave the courtyard a pleasant freshness. From here the bustle and racket of the Paris streets were just a distant murmur.
In the practice room, La Fargue found Martin-a young man, the eldest son and senior instructor in Delormel’s school-dispensing a private lesson while a valet gave the earthenware floor a thorough scrubbing. The room was almost empty, with bare walls and furnished with nothing but three benches, a rack of swords, and a wooden horse for teaching students mounted swordplay. There was a gallery which could be reached by a staircase on the right, from which one could comfortably observe the action below. The fencing master was at the balustrade. He adopted an air of great satisfaction on seeing the captain enter. La Fargue climbed the steps to meet him, exchanging a friendly smile with Martin on the way, the young redheaded slender man beating time for his pupil’s movements by striking the ground with a large stick.
“Glad to see you, captain. We’ve been waiting for you.”
In spite of events, Delormel had never ceased to address La Fargue by his rank. Out of habit, no doubt. But also to make the point that he had never acknowledged that La Fargue had been stripped of his commission.
“For most of the night, yes, I know. The news reached me. I am sorry.”