"The Great ranse has perhaps not yet set in," he declared. "Some people live with the lesser version until their death."
"Or else it will set in and make me a pitiful monster. ..."
The Gascon nodded sombrely.
"Where is the rash?" he asked.
"All across my back. Now it's beginning to spread to my shoulders."
"Let me see."
"No. It's useless. No one can do anything for me."
As a matter of fact, whether the doctors of Montpellier were wrong or right, whether obatre actually existed or not, the ranse was incurable by any known medicine.
"Do you suffer?"
"Only from fatigue. But I know there will eventually be pain."
Marciac found he had nothing further to add and redid the bandage on the musketeer's thigh.
"I should be grateful if. . ." Leprat started to say.
However, he did not finish.
The Gascon, standing up, addressed a reassuring smile at him.
"Don't worry," he said. "I never actually took the Hippocratic oath, since I never became a physician, but your secret is safe with me."
"Thank you."
Then, firmly planted on his legs and smiling again, Marciac declared: "Well! Now I'll go and make sure that out protegee lacks for nothing. But since Nai's has gone out, I can also make a trip to the kitchen and bring you back anything you like. . . ."
"No, leave it. I believe I shall sleep for a bit."
Upon reflection, Marciac told himself that in fact he was somewhat hungry and went to the kitchen. He found it empty, but searched out a dish of pate and half a loaf from the bread bin, and made himself a small repast at the corner of the table. Leprat's potentially fatal disease concerned him, but, aware that he could do nothing, he forced himself not to think about it. He could only hope to offer the musketeer some comfort by sharing his secret. If he desired to speak of his illness, he now knew who he could turn to.
The Gascon was drinking straight from a bottle when Cecile entered and greeted him.
"Good morning, monsieur."
He almost choked, but managed a charming smile instead.
"Good morning, madame. How are you feeling, today? Can I be of service?"
She was looking pale and drawn, but nevertheless remained exceedingly pretty. And perhaps her weakened state and large sad eyes even added to her fragile beauty.
"In fact, monsieur, I was looking for you."
Marciac hastened to pull out a chair for the young woman and sat in front of her attentively.
"I am listening, madame."
"I beg you, call me Cecile," she said in a timid voice.
"Very well . . . Cecile."
"I want, first, to thank you. Without you, last night . . ."
"Forget that, Cecile. You are now safe within these walls."
"Indeed, but I know nothing of you and your friends. I cannot help but ask questions which no one will answer for me."
She put on a desolate expression that was almost heartbreaking to see.
The Gascon took her hand. She did not withdraw it. Had she leaned forward slightly to encourage him? Marciac presumed so and was amused by this little game.
"By paths I cannot reveal to you without betraying secrets that are not mine to divulge," he explained, "my friends and myself have been led to meet you. Nevertheless, rest assured that we are your allies and that your enemies are also our own. In fact, anything that you can tell us will aid your cause, whatever that may be. Have faith in us. And if that is too difficult for you, have faith in me.. . ."
"But I have already told madame de Vaudreuil everything," Cecile replied sulkily.
"In that case, you have no further cause for concern, because we will take care of the rest. I swear to you that if the thing is humanly possible, we will find your sister Chantal."
"My profound thanks, monsieur."
"I am entirely at your service."
"Truly, monsieur?"
He looked deeply into her eyes, this time taking delicate hold of both her hands, with his fingertips.
"Most assuredly," he said.
"Then, perhaps . . ."
Leaving her sentence unfinished, she turned away, as if she already regretted having said too much. The Gascon pretended to fall into her snare: "I beg you, Cecile. Speak. Ask what you will of me."
From beneath her eyelashes, she gave him a timid glance whose effectiveness she had no doubt tested in the past.
"I should like, monsieur, for you to accompany me to my home."
"Now?"
"Yes. I left there some personal effect that I miss and should like to recover."
"That would be most imprudent, Cecile. . . ."
"Please, monsieur."
"On the other hand, tell me what you lack and I shall go fetch them for you."
"It concerns personal effects that a woman cannot go long without. . . . Or speak about to a man. ..."
"Ah . . . well, see about that with the baronne. Or with Nai's. ... Be that as it may, it is out of the question for you to return to your home. The danger is still too great."
The young woman realised that she would not win this argument. Defeated, she nodded sadly and said: "Yes. No doubt you are right."
"And I'm sincerely sorry, Cecile."
She rose, thanked him one last time, indicated that she was returning to her room, and left the kitchen.