The gentleman nodded, left the salons, and found his way to a small courtyard used by servants and suppliers. A hired sword waited for him there. Booted, gloved, and armed, both his clothes and his hat were of black leather. A patch— also made of leather and covered with silver studs—masked his left eye, but not enough to hide the rash of ranse that spread all around it. He had an olive complexion and angular features. Dark stubble covered his hollow cheeks.
"Malencontre has not returned," he said with a strong Spanish accent.
"We will worry about that later," Gagniere decreed.
"So be it. What are your orders?"
"For the moment, Savelda, I want you to gather some men. We will act tonight. This business has already gone on too long."
19
The riders reached the old water mill as sunset bathed the landscape in flaming golds and purples. There were five of them, armed and booted, all them belonging to the Corbins gang, although they did not wear the distinctive large black cloaks. They had been riding for some distance since leaving the forest camp where most of the gang was currently to be found and they preferred not to be recognised as they made their way here.
The first body they saw was the lookout's, lying in front of the miller's house, stretched out close to the chair he'd been sitting in when Saint-Lucq had surprised and stabbed him.
One of the riders dismounted and was immediately copied by the others. A stocky man in his fifties, he owed his nickname Belle-Trogne, or "handsome mug," to his battered, scarred face. He took off his hat, wiped away the sweat beading his completely bald skull with a leather-gloved hand, and said in a rough voice: "Search everywhere."
As the men scattered, he entered the house and found two lifeless corpses close to the fireplace, then a third lying a little further away. They were lying in congealed puddles that offered a feast to a swarm of fat black flies. The smell of blood was mixed with that of dust and old wood. Nothing could be heard except for the buzzing of insects. The evening light came through the rear windows at a low angle that cast long sepulchral shadows.
The Corbins who had gone to inspect the rest of the property soon returned.
"The prisoner has gone," said one.
"Corillard is with the horses in the shed," announced another.
"Dead?" Belle-Trogne asked to put his mind at rest.
"Yes. Strangled while he shat."
"God's blood, Belle-Trogne! Who could have done such a thing?"
"A man."
"Just one? Against five?"
"There was no fight. They were all murdered in cold blood. First Corillard in the shed, then Traquin in front of the house. After that, Galot and Feuillant in here, while they were eating. And Michel last of all. . . . One man could have done that. ... If he were good . . ."
"I don't want to be the one who tells Soral. . . ."
Belle-Trogne didn't reply, instead going to squat near the last body he had mentioned. The man called Michel was lying in the open doorway to the room where the Corbins had been sleeping—pallets and blankets attested to the fact. Feet bare, shirt outside his breeches, his forehead had obviously been split open by the poker that had fallen close by.
"It happened early in the morning," confirmed Belle-Trogne. "Michel had just woken."
He stood back up and then something caught his attention. He frowned, counting the pallets.
"Six beds," he said. "One of ours is still missing. . . . Have you looked everywhere?"
"The kid!" exclaimed one Corbin. "I forgot all about him, but don't you remember? He insisted on taking part and Soral finally—"
He didn't finish.
Muffled thumps could be heard and the brigands, by reflex, all drew their swords.
The thumping came again.
Belle-Trogne in the lead, the brigands went back into the common room, cautiously approaching a cupboard. They opened it suddenly and found the sole survivor of the massacre.
Gagged, bound, eyes reddened and wet, a boy aged about fourteen looked up at them with an expression that was both imploring and scared.
20
Night had fallen, but at madame de Sovange's house fires and candles provided a warm light that reflected off the gold, the crystal, and the mirrors. The women looked radiant in their elaborate attire and the men were almost equally resplendent. All of them were dressed as if making an appearance at the royal court. Indeed, some of those present had come straight from the court, avid for the distractions and conversation that Louis XIII would not tolerate at the Louvre. But here, at least, away from their dull, timid king who only had a taste for the pleasures of the hunt, one could find amusement in agreeable company. It was possible to converse, laugh, gossip, dine, drink and, of course, gamble.