From Le Chatelet, he could easily reach rue de la Ferronnerie by walking a short distance up rue Saint-Denis. But he knew that his apartment there had been visited—and no doubt ransacked—by the cardinal's men. Perhaps those assigned with this task even wore the cape. They would have arrived by horseback, broken down the door, made a great deal of noise, and alerted the entire neighbourhood to their activities as they kept the curious at bay. No doubt his neighbours were talking of nothing else right now. Laincourt did not fear their attention. There was nothing to attach him to rue de la Ferronnerie anymore, since Ensign Laincourt of His Eminence's Guards no longer existed.
He rented another dwelling in secret, where he kept the only possessions that had any importance to him: his books. Despite everything, he resolved not to go there at once and, by way of rue de la Tisseranderie, he went to a square near the Saint-Jean cemetery instead. Out of fear of being followed he made various detours, taking obscure passages and crossing a maze of backyards.
This was the ancient heart of Paris, formed of winding alleys where the sun never shone, where the stinking air stagnated, and where vermin thrived. There was muck everywhere, and in thicker layers than anywhere else. It covered the paving stones, was smeared on the walls, spattered pedestrians' clothing, and stuck to their soles. Mack and foul, it was a mixture of turds and
droppings, earth and sand, rot and garbage, of manure, of waste from latrines, of organic residues from the activities of bun hers, tanners, and skinners. It never completely dried, ate away at cloth fabrics, and did not even spare leather. According to one very old French proverb, "Pox from Rouen and muck from Paris can only be removed by cutting away the piece." To protect their stockings and breeches pedestrians were forced to wear tall boots. Others travelled by carriage, or in sedan chairs, or, according to their means, on the back of a horse, a mule, or ... a man. When they did their rounds, the few dustmen in Paris only managed to collect a certain amount before dumping their carts at one of the nine rubbish tips, or voieries, situated outside the city. The peasants from the surrounding areas knew the value of Parisian muck, however. They came each day to harvest it and spread it on their fields. Parisians couldn't help noticing that these tips were cleaner than the capital itself.
Laincourt pushed a tavern door open and entered an atmosphere thick with smoke from pipes and poor-quality candles made of tallow. The place was dirty, foul-smelling, and sordid. All of the customers were silent and despondent, seeming to be crushed by the weight of the same contagious sadness. An old man was playing a melancholy air on a hurdy-gurdy. Dressed in moth-eaten rags and wearing a miserable-looking hat whose folded brim at the front boasted a bedraggled feather, he had a gaunt, one-eyed dragonnet sitting on his shoulder, attached to a leash.
Laincourt took a seat at a table and found himself served, without asking, with a goblet filled with a vile cheap wine. He wet his lips, refrained from grimacing at the taste, and forced himself to drink the rest in order to buck himself up. The hurdy-gurdy man soon ceased playing, to the general indifference of his audience, and came to sit in front of Laincourt.
"You're a sorry sight, boy."
"You'll have to pay for the wine. I don't have a brass sou to my name."
The old man nodded.
"How do matters stand?" he asked.
"I was arrested yesterday and released today."
"Did you see the cardinal?"
"At Le Chatelet, in the presence of Saint-Georges and a secretary who noted everything down. The match has begun."
"It's a match in a dangerous game, boy. And you don't even know all the rules."
"I didn't have any other choice."
"Of course you did! And there may still be time to—"
"You know that's impossible."
The hurdy-gurdy player stared into Laincourt's eyes, then looked away and sighed.
The dragonnet leaped from his master's shoulder onto the table. It lay down, stretched out its neck, and scratched playfully at a pile of wax that had solidified on the grimy wood.
"I see you are determined to see this whole affair through to the end, boy. But it will cost you, believe me. . . . Sooner or later, you will be caught between the cardinal and the Black Claw, as between the hammer and the anvil. And nothing you—"
"Who is Captain La Fargue?"
The question caught the old man short.
"La Fargue," Laincourt insisted. "Do you know who he is?"
"Where . . . where did you hear this name?"
"He reappeared at the Palais-Cardinal."
"Really? When was this?"
"The other night. His Eminence received him. . . . Well?"
The hurdy-gurdy player waiting before saying, as if with regret: "It's an old story."
"Tell me."
"I don't know all the details."
Laincourt grew all the more impatient as he didn't know the reasons for such reluctance.