The Red Sphinx: A Sequel to the Three Musketeers

  The drinker was not mistaken, because just as his host, hastening to obey him, disappeared through the kitchen door, a figure, silhouetted by the last light of the day, appeared in the street doorway.

  The newcomer, before venturing into the doubtful twilight of the common room of the Inn of the Painted Beard, peered cautiously into its depths; then, seeing that the room was occupied by only one individual, and that this individual was probably the one he sought, he drew his cloak up to his eyes and approached him.

  If the cloaked man feared to be recognized, his caution was rewarded, for just then Maître Soleil, glowing like the star that bore his name, reentered the room with a lit candle in each hand, which he set in two tinplate sconces on the wall.

  The stranger watched with an impatience he didn’t try to conceal. Obviously he preferred the room’s former twilight, a gloom that would further thicken as night fell. However, he said nothing, satisfied to watch the activities of Maître Soleil over the edge of his cloak. It was only after the kitchen door had closed again behind the host that he addressed the other occupant, saying, “Are you the one called Étienne Latil, formerly with the Duc d’Épernon, later a captain in Flanders?”

  The drinker, who was lifting his mug to his mouth as the question was asked, looked as if the tone of the question didn’t quite satisfy him. He turned and said, “If I did answer to that name, what would that be to you?”

  And he finished lifting the mug to his mouth.

  The cloaked man gave the drinker as long as he liked to tend to his mug. When the empty mug was back on the table, the man said, somewhat sharply, “I have the honor to ask if you are the Chevalier Étienne Latil.”

  “Ah! Now that’s better,” the drinker said, nodding approval.

  “Do me the honor to answer.”

  “Very well. Yes, Monsieur, I am Étienne Latil in person. What can I do for you?”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition!”

  “Yes, a good one; excellent, even.”

  “Pardon me—I acknowledge the names Étienne and Latil apply to me; but before we go further, permit my caution to echo yours: whom do I have the honor to address?”

  “My name isn’t important unless my words suit your ears.”

  “You’re wrong, Monsieur, if you think I’ll sing to that song. I may be a younger son, but I am nonetheless noble, and whoever referred you to me must have mentioned that I work for neither peasants nor the common bourgeoisie. If you want me on behalf of some carpenter, or some merchant neighbor of yours, count me out. I don’t involve myself in such affairs.”

  “Well, I don’t wish to tell you my name, Monsieur Latil, but I have no problem with revealing my title. Here’s the ring I use as a seal, and if you can recognize a blazon, this should acquaint you with my rank.”

  And drawing a ring from his finger, he passed it to the bravo, who took it to the window to examine in the last light of the day.

  “Ah-ha,” he said, “an onyx, engraved in the style of Florence. You are Italian, and a marquis, Monsieur. The vine and three pearls indicate wealth. The gem alone, mounting aside, is worth forty pistoles.”

  “Enough to warrant a talk?” asked the stranger, replacing the ring on a hand long, white, and fine. A second, gloved hand, appeared and re-gloved the first.

  “Quite enough, and it proves your bona fides, Monsieur le Marquis—but as down payment on the bargain we’re sure to conclude, it would be gallant of you to pay the price of the ten or twelve bottles I owe to this cabaret. I don’t make a condition of this, but I’m an orderly man, and if I had an accident during our enterprise I’d hate to leave a debt behind me, no matter how small.”

  “That’s no problem.”

  “And it would top off your gallantry if, as the two mugs in front of me are empty, you could summon two more to replace them,” said the drinker. “My throat is dry and I feel a need to moisten it—arid words just scorch the mouth as they leave it.”

  “Maître Soleil!” called the stranger, as he wrapped himself even further in his cloak.

  Maître Soleil appeared as if he’d been right behind the door, ready to obey whatever commands were given him.

  “This gentleman’s bill, and two mugs of wine—your best.”

  The landlord of the Painted Beard disappeared as quickly as if he were an Olympic Circus clown dropping through a trap door, and reappeared almost at once with two mugs, one of which he deposited in front of the stranger, the other before Étienne Latil.

  “Voilà,” he said. “As for the bill, it is one pistole, five sous, and two deniers.”

  “Here’s a gold crown worth two and a half pistoles,” said the stranger, tossing a coin on the table. As the landlord reached for his pouch to make change, the stranger said, “Don’t bother. Keep the balance on behalf of monsieur, here.”

  “No mistaking it,” murmured the bravo. “His words betray the merchant from a league away. These Florentines are all tradesmen, and even their dukes are moneylenders as bad as the Jews of Frankfurt or the Lombards of Milan. However, as our host said, times are hard, and one can’t always choose one’s clients.”

  Meanwhile, Maître Soleil was withdrawing behind bow after bow. He’d found that lords were rarely eager to pay debts, so he regarded his new guest with profound admiration.

  II

  What Came of the Proposition

  the Stranger Made to Étienne Latil

  The stranger followed Maître Soleil with his eyes until the door had once more closed behind him. When he was quite sure that he was alone with Étienne Latil, he said, “And now, since you know you’re not dealing with a baker, are you inclined, my dear Monsieur, to help a generous cavalier rid himself of a rival?”

  “I am often made such offers, and I rarely refuse. But before going further, I think I should acquaint you with my fees.”

  “I know them: ten pistoles to act as second in an ordinary duel, twenty-five to act as direct challenger, under whatever pretext, if your employer doesn’t fight—and one hundred pistoles to pick a fight that results in an immediate meeting with the designated target, who is to be killed on the spot.”

  “Killed on the spot,” repeated the sell-sword. “If he doesn’t die, I return the money, regardless of wounds inflicted or received.”

  “I know that. I also know that you are not only an expert swordsman, but a man of honor.”

  Étienne Latil inclined his head slightly, as if accepting only what was due. Indeed, he was a man of honor—in his way.

  “Thus,” continued the stranger, “I know I can count on you.”

  “Slowly; don’t rush it. As an Italian, you must know the proverb, chi va piano, va sano—what goes slowly, goes well. Before proceeding, I need to know the nature of the business, the target in question, and which category of service you require. And the cash must be paid up front. I’ve been in this game too long to be taken advantage of.”

  “Here are one hundred pistoles.” The stranger dropped a purse on the table. “You may count them, if you wish to be sure.”

  Despite the temptation, the sell-sword didn’t touch the purse—he barely glanced at it. “It seems you’ll want the deluxe service,” he said with a hint of sarcasm and a slight curl of the lip. “An immediate meeting.”

  “To end in death,” the stranger answered, unable to keep a slight tremor from his voice.

  “Then you need only state the name, rank, and habits of your rival. It’s my practice to act honestly in these affairs, so I need to be thoroughly acquainted with the person I’m to face. As you may or may not know, everything depends on the manner in which one first crosses steel. You don’t engage a rustic from the provinces the way you do a Parisian coxcomb, or a guardsman of the king or of monsieur the cardinal. If you don’t tell me everything, or if I’m misinformed, and I end up engaging the target improperly, it might be your rival who kills me—and that would suit neither of us. Furthermore, the risks are not just in the meeting, par
ticularly if one challenges a person of high rank. If the affair causes a big stink, the least I can expect is to spend several months in prison. Such places are dank and unhealthy, good drink is costly there, and as a result you will incur additional expenses. All these considerations must be taken into account. But unless you’d prefer me as a second,” the sell-sword concluded with some disdain, “running the same risks I do, there’s a price to be paid—is there not?”

  “That cannot be. In this case, for me to challenge is impossible—though, by my faith as a gentleman, I regret it.”

  This answer, made in a tone both firm and calm, displaying neither weakness nor bluster, made Latil begin to suspect that he’d been mistaken, that he was dealing with a man who really had no recourse but to employ someone else’s sword, and that only serious considerations kept his own in its sheath. His opinion improved even more when the stranger nonchalantly added, “As to the question of an additional twenty, thirty, or even fifty pistoles, you can expect me to do what is right without argument.”

  “Then let’s get to it,” said Étienne Latil. “Who is your enemy, and how shall I come at him? But first of all, his name.”

  “His name matters little,” replied the man in the cloak. “This evening we’ll go together to the Rue de la Cerisaie. I’ll show you the door of the house he’ll emerge from around two hours after midnight. You will wait there and, as no one but he will come out in the early hours of the morning, a mistake is impossible. Besides, I’ll tell you how to recognize him.”

  The sell-sword shook his head, and then—reluctantly—pushed the purse of gold across the table. “Not good enough,” he sighed. “I said it once, and I repeat it now: I have to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “Truly,” the stranger said impatiently, “you have too many scruples, my dear Monsieur Latil. Your adversary isn’t known to be in Paris—he hasn’t been here in years, and is believed by everyone to still be in Italy. Besides, you’ll have him on the ground before he ever gets a look at your face, and to be completely safe you could wear a mask.”

  “You know, Monsieur,” said Latil, resting his elbows on the table and his head on his hands, “your affair begins to sound like an assassination.”

  The stranger was silent. Latil once more shook his head and slid the purse across the table. “In that case, I’m not the man for you. That kind of work doesn’t suit me.”

  “Was it while you served the Duc d’Épernon that you learned all these scruples, my pretty friend?” asked the stranger.

  “No,” replied Latil, “it was because of my scruples that I left his service.”

  “Oh, I see. You couldn’t abide working beside the infamous Simon.”

  This Simon was one of the old duke’s notorious torturers. “Simon,” Latil said with scorn, “was a man of the whip. I am a man of the sword.”

  “All right,” said the stranger, “I see that in this case the sum should be doubled. Perhaps two hundred pistoles will assuage your scruples.”

  “You’re missing the point. I don’t work from ambush. You’ll find people who do that sort of thing over toward Saint-Pierre-aux-Bœufs, where the cutthroats congregate. You must recognize, above all, that I do my work in my fashion, not yours—and that how I manage it is solely my affair, so long as I remove your rival. That’s what you want, isn’t it—to have him removed from your path? As long as he’s no longer in your way, you’re satisfied.”

  “I can’t have it done your way.”

  “Ventrebleu! I am disgusted. Perhaps the Latils of Compignac don’t date back to the Crusades like the Rohans or the Montmorency family, but we’re honest nobility, and though I may be the cadet of the family, I’m as noble as my elder brother.”

  “I can’t do it your way, I tell you.”

  “Am I to just assassinate a man in such a fashion? I could never hold my head up in good company again!”

  “It’s not assassination.”

  “Oh? The cardinal might not see it your way.”

  As answer, the stranger drew two rolls of coins from his pouch, one hundred pistoles in each, and placed them on the table next to the purse—but in doing so, his cloak fell open, and Latil could see the stranger was a hunchback.

  “Three hundred pistoles,” said the gentleman hunchback. “Does that calm your scruples and put an end to your objections?”

  Latil shook his head and sighed. “You’re very persuasive, Monsieur, and it’s hard to resist you. Indeed, I’d have to have a heart like a rock to disappoint a lord in such a predicament, so let’s try to find a compromise. This is certainly plenty; I couldn’t ask for more.”

  “I don’t know what else I could offer,” replied the stranger, “other than two more rolls like these two. But,” the stranger added, “I must warn you, that’s all I have. Take it or leave it.”

  “Ah! Tempter!” murmured Latil, swayed by the purse and four rolls of gold. “You’ll have me betray my principles and forego my practices.”

  “Then let’s go,” said the gentleman. “We can finish our discussion on the way.”

  “What can I do? You’re so persuasive, no one could resist. So, then: we go to the Rue de la Cerisaie, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tonight?”

  “If possible.”

  “You’ll have to be clear; I can’t afford a mistake.”

  “Just so. Moreover, now that you’re being reasonable, and at my side, bought and paid for. . . .”

  “Almost: I haven’t yet put the money in my pouch.”

  “What, more trouble?”

  “No, I’m just stating some exceptions. Exceptis excipiendis, as we said at the College of Libourne. . . .”

  “State your exceptions.”

  “First: the target is neither the king nor the cardinal.”

  “No; their enemy, if anything.”

  “No ally of the king?”

  “Hardly. Though, I must say, a favorite of the queen.”

  “No retainer of old Cardinal Bérulle?”

  “No, he’s a man of only twenty-three.”

  “Ah . . . then he’s in love with Her Majesty.”

  “Possibly. Is that all your exceptions?”

  “My God, yes!” Latil began transferring the gold from the table to his pouch. “Our poor queen. Nothing but bad luck for her since they killed her Duke of Buckingham. . . .”

  “So, then,” interrupted the gentleman hunchback, doubtless hoping to put an end to Latil’s vacillations and get him moving, “you’re the man to kill the Comte de Moret.”

  Latil froze. “The Comte de Moret?”

  “The Comte de Moret,” repeated the stranger. “He wasn’t among your exceptions, I think?”

  “Antoine de Bourbon?” Latil said, placing his hands on the table.

  “Yes, Antoine de Bourbon.”

  “The son of our good King Henri?”

  “The bastard son, you should say.”

  “Royal bastards are often the true sons of kings, born as they are by love rather than duty.” He shook his head. “Take back your gold, Monsieur. I won’t raise my hand against a Son of France.”

  “The child of Jacqueline de Bueil is not of the royal house.”

  “He’s still a son of Henri IV.” Rising, Latil crossed his arms and fixed his eyes on the stranger. “Do you know, Monsieur, that I was there when his father was killed?”

  “You?”

  “On the running-board of the carriage, as page to the Duc d’Épernon. The assassin had to shove me aside to get to the king. Thanks to me, perhaps, he failed to get away. I’m the one who grabbed him by the lapel and held him, held him . . .”

  Latil showed his hands, patterned with scars. “Here are the marks from his knife. The blood of our great king mixed with my own. And I’m the one you try to hire to assassinate his son! I’m no Jacques Clément nor Ravaillac, no king-slayer—but you, Monsieur, are a miserable wretch. Take back your gold before I nail you to the wall like a venomous snake!”


  “Silence, lackey,” said the stranger, recoiling a step, “or I’ll make you silent.”

  “You call me lackey? You, an assassin? I’m no policeman, and it’s not my business to keep you from hiring someone else who might actually do it, but I’ll thwart both your plot and your ugly self. En garde, you wretch!”

  And with these words, Latil drew his rapier and lunged.

  But the stranger, though backing away, was by no means in retreat. Latil’s thrust, strong and skilled, and intended to nail its target to the wall like a butterfly, just missed its mark. The stranger was on his guard, and replied with such a series of thrusts and rapid feints that the sell-sword had to draw on all his skill, caution, and coolness. Latil even, as though delighted to unexpectedly meet a skill that could rival his own, seemed to want to prolong the fight for the sheer love of the art. He fenced with his opponent as if in an academy of arms, prolonging the bout until his opponent’s fatigue or some error would give him the opportunity to employ one of those final thrusts, attacks he knew so well and could use to such advantage.

  However, the irascible hunchback, less patient than Latil and tired of making no headway—in fact, feeling more pressed than he liked, and seeing himself cut off from the door, cried out suddenly, “To me, friends! Help, I’m being assassinated!”

  The gentleman hunchback had barely made his cry when three men, who were waiting for him outside the door to the street, rushed into the common room and attacked the unfortunate Latil. Turning to face them, he had no defense against the boot put in his back by his first adversary. Meanwhile, one of his attackers thrust from the other side. Suddenly he took two sword wounds, one running him through from chest to back, the other from back to chest.

  Latil fell in a heap to the floor.

  III

  In Which the Gentleman Hunchback

  Realizes His Error in Desiring the Death

  of the Comte de Moret

  After the execution there was silence for a few moments, as rapiers were wiped quietly and carefully and returned to their sheaths.

  But then, thanks to the noise that preceded the silence—the cries of Latil and the clashing of swords—Maître Soleil and his cooks rushed in through the kitchen door, while a few curious heads appeared in the door to the street.