The Gascon sat down on the bed facing the unconscious wounded man, and set the case down at his feet. Bound in iron, it took the shape of a small chest that could be carried easily using a leather grip nailed to its curved lid. It was a surgeon's kit. Marciac opened it but did not touch any of the sinister-looking instruments—blades, saws, hammers, pincers—it contained. He leaned over Malencontre and began, with a great deal of care, to remove the bloody bandage wrapped about the assassin's skull.
"What happened to him?"
"I fired a pistol ball into his head," explained La Fargue.
With a smirk, Marciac turned toward the captain.
"And he must live? Would it not have been better to not bash his head in, for starters?"
"He was going to kill Almades. And I wasn't aiming at his head."
"No doubt that will console him and help him to heal."
"Do your best."
Marciac was left alone with the patient.
* * *
He rejoined the others in the main room a little later.
"Well?" asked La Fargue.
"He will live. Your pistol ball only scraped across the bone, and the man has a hard head. . . . But I don't think he will be up to answering questions for a while. In fact, he still hasn't regained his senses."
"Merde."
"Indeed. May I take care of Leprat now?"
The captain nodded, looking troubled and preoccupied.
Leprat had been installed as comfortably as possible in an armchair, with his leg stretched out and resting on a footstool. A large rip in his breeches exposed his wounded thigh, which Nai's was finishing washing with warm water and fresh linen.
"Nai's, let me take your place, please."
The pretty servant got up, looked at the surgeon's kit curiously, and gave the Gascon a searching glance.
"I'm a doctor," he explained. "Well, almost. . . . It's a long, complicated story. ..."
This revelation astonished Nai's even more. She turned to Agnes, who nodded in confirmation.
As he busied himself examining the wound, the others explained how Leprat managed to reopen it. Then they told him of the pursuit, the fight between Almades and Malencontre in the alley, and La Fargue's timely intervention.
"Rest and a crutch," the almost-doctor prescribed when he finished bandaging the wound. "This is what happens when a patient plays at being an acrobat."
"I overdid things a bit," apologised Leprat.
"I suspect you forgor to think before you leaped. . . . For the next few days, I suggest you eat your meat rare and drink a decent quantity of unwa-rered red wine."
"So tell us, what the devil got into you?" intervened La Fargue. "Who is this Malencontre exactly? And what did you want with him?"
They all drew closer to listen, except Nai's and Guibot, who left the room, and Ballardieu, who remained leaning against a wall nibbling on sugared almonds out of a large cornet that he had purchased on the Pont Neuf. Only Agnes had been invited to share them.
"Until this morning," said Leprae, "I was still with the Musketeers. And
yesterday, I carried out a secret mission. . . . For some time now, the King's couriers have been attacked, robbed, and murdered on the roads between Brussels and Paris. The first time it occurred, it was thought the courier had merely run into brigands. But there was a second time, then a third, and finally a fourth, despite changes in the itinerary. It was as if the assassins not only knew when couriers were leaving, but also which routes they would take. ... A diligent inquiry was conducted by the Louvre. In vain. So it was decided to lay a trap for the enemy."
"And you were the bait," guessed Agnes.
"Yes. After arriving in Brussels incognito I came back carrying a letter from our ambassador to the Spanisli Netherlands. And it worked: I was ambushed on the border, then in Amiens, and finally at a staging post a few leagues from Paris I was caught and attacked by a group of hired assassins. Only one of them escaped me. Their leader. It was Malencontre."
"And that's all?" asked La Fargue.
"Almost. ... I didn't reach Paris until yesterday, during the night. Since my horse was tired and I wasn't feeling too strong myself, plus as a precaution, I had been taking minor roads. I think Malencontre reached the capital before me. Be that as it may, I rode into an ambush on rue Saint-Denis. And I would have been killed if the pistol ball aimed at my heart had not been stopped by my leather baldric."
"So where did you acquire the wound to your thigh?" inquired Marciac.
"Rue Saint-Denis."
"And the one on your arm?"
"At the staging post."
"And having been fortunate enough to survive a pistol ball, the following day you jumped; out of a window. ..."
Leprat shrugged.
"I didn't stop to think. . . . Malencontre saw me the moment I saw him. He was already fleeing when—"
He cut himself short and turned to Almades.
"I'm sorry, Anibal."
Head bare, the Spaniard was holding a cool, damp cloth against his temple.
"I let myself be taken by surprise," he said. "It was my own fault. I'm lucky to get away with just this handsome bump. ..."