Finally on the ground, they discovered that the courtyard had only one exit: a shadowy passage from which three thugs suddenly materialised. One of them pointed a pistol at the fugitives. Marciac immediately clasped the young woman by the waist and turned his back to the shooter. The detonation rang out. The ball gashed the Gascon's shoulder, and he clenched his teeth and pushed Cecile behind a cart filled with wine barrels. He rushed over to his rapier which was lying in the mud and, just in time, turned to face his assailants. Concentrated and relentless, he fought without ceding an inch of terrain or letting himself be outflanked, for fear of exposing his young charge to danger. Then, when he seemed unable to press home his advantage against one swordsman without another forcing him to break off his attack immediately, he initiated a lightning counterattack. He slit the throat of his first opponent with a reverse cut, struck the second with a blow of the elbow to the temple, kicked the third in the crotch, and then planted his rapier in the man's chest, all the way to the hilt.
He hoped that it was finished, but Cecile called out to him, pointing to the last floor of the rickety scaffold: with rapiers in their fists, two men who had come down from the roofs were venturing onto the platform with cautious steps. At the same time, a latecomer was emerging from the dark passageway and the entire neighbourhood was starting to awaken. Tired and wounded, the Gascon guessed that he was no longer in any condition to eliminate three additional opponents. Would he have the strength and the time to vanquish one before the other two arrived?
He retreated toward Cecile and the two-wheeled cart behind which she had sought shelter. Impassive, he waited as the first swordsman advanced and his two accomplices reached the second storey of the scaffold. Then suddenly, raising his rapier high with both hands, he struck with all his might at the stretched rope which, passing through rings rooted in the paving stones of the courtyard, kept the cart horizontal. Cut clean through, the rope cracked like a whip out of the rings. The cart leaned sharply, lifting its shafts into the air and freeing its pyramid of barrels, which rolled out like an avalanche.
The swordsman in the courtyard hastily backed up and was brought to bay beneath the scaffold, although he managed to avoid being crushed by the barrels. Some of them burst against the wall, releasing floods of wine. But others slammed into the unstable beams that propped up the enormous
framework. These beams gave way and the entire three-storey structure collapsed with an incredible racket which drowned out the cries of the unfortunate souls doomed by the huge falling wooden beams. Pieces of masonry were torn off the facade along with wide plaques of plaster. Thick clouds of dust rose into the air, swallowing the entire courtyard and swelling until they climbed up past the surrounding roofs . . .
. . . and then they fell back onto a courtyard which was turned completely white with dust, and to silence.
Marciac was still for a moment, contemplating the disaster. As the neighbourhood began to fill with worried calls from its residents, he sheathed his sword and walked toward Cecile. Covered in dust like him, she was curled up in a corner.
He squatted, turning his back to the wreckage.
"It's over, Cecile."
"I . . . I . . . Those men," stammered the young woman.
"All is well, Cecile. . . ."
"Are they . . . dead?"
"Yes. Here, take my hand. . . ."
She seemed to neither hear, nor comprehend.
He insisted in a gentle voice. "We need to leave, Cecile. Now. ..."
He was going to help her up when he read a sudden terror in her eyes and realised what it meant.
One of the swordsmen had survived.
He could feel the killer's presence behind him, ready to strike. He knew he didn't have time to stand and turn, and still less to unsheathe his rapier.
He looked deeply into the young woman's eyes, praying that she would understand, even thought he saw her give a very slight nod. . . . And then he dove to one side.
Cecile lifted her pistol with both hands and fired.
III
The Sphere d'Ame
1
His legs dangling, the man's entire weight hung from his bound wrists. He swayed gently and his toenails scraped the hard-earth floor. He was wearing only breeches and a torn, bloody shirt. More of the same blood—his own—soaked his tangled hair, spattered his swollen face, and glistened on his bruised torso beneath the torchlight. The man still lived, but was barely breathing: a hoarse rasp escaped from the painful depths of his chest and pink bubbles formed at the nostrils of his broken nose.