A few posts ago, I promised that if you were all very
good, I’d post the next of my new adventures of Malartic and Lampourde, stol-
uh, I mean adapted from the pages of
Captain Fracasse by Theophile Gaultier.
Having scoured the news sites, I’ve been unable to find
solid evidence pointing to a correlation between people who read this blog, and
those who are on trial for crimes against humanity in the Hague. As a result, I have decided to post the first
part of my next story.
It includes a line that may well be my very favourite out
of all those that I have ever written and can still remember (somewhere out
there, there’s a Venn diagram showing the relationship between the two
groups). I’m not telling you which it
is. I don’t want to prejudice your
opinions.
So without further
ado, here it is. I hope you enjoy reading
it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
The
Love of the Chevalier Malartic (Part 1)
Early one evening, Maitre Jacquemin
Lampourde arrived at the entrance to The Crowned Radish, that notorious den of
thieves and ne’er-do-wells deep in the worst part of Louis the Thirteenth’s
capital. Drawing the dagger that always
hung at the back of his belt, he used the pommel to strike the door just so.
In response to this code, the door was opened, and he passed into the
dimly-lit, smoky interior, the buzz of voices and the singing of lewd songs
spilling out to meet him.
He
nodded and smiled at some of those he saw, touching his hat respectfully to a
few others as he crossed the taproom to his usual table. He stopped short though when he saw that,
against all use and custom, it was already occupied. Irritation mingled with anticipation at the
thought of a fight, but these were dispelled a moment later when he saw that
the occupant was his friend, colleague and partner in crime, the ashy-skinned,
red-nosed Chevalier Malartic.
Lampourde
blinked in astonishment. In all their
long association, he could not recall a single time that Malartic had arrived
at The Crowned Radish before him.
Usually he would have a couple of hours to sit in solitude and drink, or
join one of the many games of skill and chance that were going on at all hours
of the day and night, before his curious-looking cohort appeared. Tonight though, for the very first time,
Malartic had preceded him.
“What
the devil are you doing here at this hour?”
Lampourde was in many things a creature of habit, and this disruption to
his usual routine had soured his mood.
Malartic
had been sitting hunched over a cup of wine, but now he looked up, and his
expression was one of such abject misery that Lampourde was suddenly ashamed of
his annoyance, and instead sat down next to his friend.
“S’blood!
What on Earth’s the matter?”
Malartic
sighed deeply, taking a long draught of wine before he spoke. “Lampourde, I have a problem.”
“Oh? Are you wounded?”
“No,
it’s not that.”
“Creditors
then? Your landlord is after the rent?”
“It’s
not that either. I’m paid up for the
next month.”
“You’re
out of money. This is what comes of
paying rent in advance! No matter, I can
pay for a meal, and tonight we’ll go and find work.”
“I’m
not out of money!”
“You
haven’t got the pox have you?”
“No!”
“Then
what’s the matter?”
“I…
I’m in love.”
Lampourde
stared at him for a second. “In love?”
“Yes.”
“Are
you certain? Perhaps it’s indigestion?”
“I
tell you I’m in love!!!” Malartic
slammed his hand down on the table angrily, his pale cheeks taking on a very
slight pinkishness which signified what in other men would have been crimson
fury. The raised voice and the crash of his
fist on the table brought all nearby conversations to an end, men turning to
look, already halfway to their feet.
When they saw that no brawl was about to erupt and that the watch hadn’t
broken down the door, they slowly relaxed, two dozen hands gently releasing the
grips of knives, daggers, pistols and swords.
Gradually the dull hum of conversation built up to its previous level.
“Very
well. If you say you’re in love, then
you’re in love. But why is it a
problem?”
Malartic
looked straight at him. “Lampourde,
would you say I am a brave man?”
“Of
course! You’ll happily face down three
strong ruffians without a thought, and musket balls are of no more account to
you than buzzing flies.”
“And
you would say that I’m skilful? Cunning?”
“Naturally. You’re expert with sword and pistol, you
climb like a monkey and walk silently as a shadow. Your schemes are subtle and ingenious and
have only been known to fail but once, and that through no true fault of your
own.”
“Indeed,
and yet before a single woman, I am a bumbling, helpless coward.”
“But
surely it can’t be as bad as all that?”
“Lampourde,
I am not, I hope, lacking in self-respect.
I am a man aware of his own qualities and his own faults. Overall I am satisfied with myself, but I
will honestly confess, without any maudlin self-pity, that my appearance is one
calculated to engender curiosity rather than admiration.”
“I
would agree that your appearance is perhaps unconventional…”
“I
am ugly, Lampourde, and I don’t mind saying it.
I rarely mind other people saying it.
One must always resent an insult, but it is hard to challenge a man for
speaking the inarguable truth.”
“Supposing
that to be the case, physical looks are not everything. In all other respects you are quite the
dashing cavalier, the sort that women love.”
“Not
this one.”
“No?”
“She
is completely unaware of my existence.”
Lampourde
nodded. “A fault in her character that
we shall endeavour to correct.”
Malartic
sighed. “Impossible.”
“Nonsense. Who is this divine creature that has pierced
the heart of the Chevalier Malartic, where three score soldiers, villains and
watchmen have failed?”
“Annette…” The word was like a prayer on the ashy-faced
swordsman’s lips. “The daughter of a
tailor on the Rue de Ferrault.”
“And
she has rejected your advances?”
“She
didn’t even notice them. I was reduced
to a mumbling imbecile in her presence.
She treated me kindly, and asked me to leave. I think she thought me drunk.”
“I
see.” Lampourde took a long draught of
wine, frowning in concentration. He
suddenly snorted in self-derision. “You
are not the only imbecile my friend! The
answer is of course obvious, as I should have seen immediately. We must merely apply our usual methods to
ourselves, and mingle business with pleasure.”
Malartic
frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
“This
wonderful woman truly has paralysed your wits hasn’t she? Have you not been hired more than once before
by some love-struck swain to kidnap the object of his desire, so that he could
sweep in and pluck her from your arms, paying you well to make him seem an
invincible hero?”
His
friend stared at him. “Yes, of course!”
“The
solution is simple then. I shall play
the evil villain who seizes and whisks away this girl, for who dares
contemplate what foul purpose. Having
held her for some short time in a convenient and secure location, I shall be
foiled by the peerless courage and undefeatable blade of the noble Malartic!”
“Wonderful!”
“This
woman, unless her heart is carved from granite, will be filled with gratitude
for her deliverance and suffused with wonder for your superlative skill and
courage. Why, if we two can’t stage the
greatest sham battle in the history of swordsmanship, we should become farmers
immediately!”
“Excellent! My dear friend, I will be for ever in your
debt.” Malartic paused, a thoughtful
look crossing his curiously hued face.
“Naturally I’ll pay.”
“What? Don’t be an idiot. This isn’t business, it’s a favour for a
friend!”
“That
you will be performing when you could be out earning your keep in our usual
way. No Lampourde, I insist that I shall
be allowed to pay you the usual fee for work of this kind.”
The
fiercely moustachioed swordsman nodded reluctantly. “Very well then. I will accept the coin, but under protest.”
“Protest
noted and overridden.” Malartic drew a
purse from his doublet, peered inside, and then passed it to his comrade. “That should come to about the correct
amount.” Lampourde peered into it as
well, and grunted his agreement. The
landlord brought a fresh bottle of wine, and the two set themselves to planning
the job.
~
The next day, a man dressed in his finest,
with his hat brushed and his moustache trimmed, waxed and curled had entered a
small tailor’s shop on the Rue de Ferrault on the pretext of buying a new pair
of gloves. Had it been any other, he
could have been said to be pale with trepidation. As this was the Chevalier Malartic, it was
impossible to tell, but this hero of duels, ambushes, skirmishes and brawls was
inwardly trembling and terrified. He had
managed to sustain a brief, stammering conversation with the pleasant young
woman who’d helped her father attend to his needs, and thanking her profusely,
he had left. He immediately fled to the
nearest tavern to purchase a volume of tonic for the steadying of his
palpitating heart.
Here,
while he waited for his trembling limbs to still, he informed the men waiting
there that he had discovered that the girl lived above the shop with her father
and mother, but that she would be going shopping later that day.
“She
barely looked at me,” he complained. “Oh,”
he continued bitterly, “and she has a suitor.”
“Bah!” Lampourde dismissed this with a wave of his
hand. “This little nothing will pale in
comparison with the hero who rescues her from the clutches of kidnappers and
criminals! Put him out of your
mind. And if you can’t do that, we can
always kill him.”
“Perhaps
we should leave that as a back-up plan.
You’re confident that you can spirit her away unharmed?”
Lampourde
gave him a reproachful look. “I’m no
amateur. Espron here isn’t exactly a
novice either.” The other man, a thin,
wiry ruffian with a scarred face, who acted as an occasional accomplice to the
two criminals, nodded.
“Very
well. I leave everything in your capable
hands. Just… just be careful. Don’t hurt her at all.”
Lampourde
smiled. “Relax my friend. Nothing will go wrong.”
To be continued...
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