Ducos rocked back on his heels, his mouth open in a rictus than might have served someone else for a grin. “Petits cochons!” he whooped. “All climbing on each others’ backs. I clear the way for Marcoli and his children’s crusade to go to Rome. I have evidence planted in the Marcoli house after they leave, saying they meant to kill the Antichrist of Rome. So much for d’Avaux’s scheme. That, of course, clears the way to lay my own plans. You see, d’Avaux wants Marcoli to fail to kill the pope. Not even to try, in fact—simply to have looked as if he intended to try. Whereas I want him to succeed.” Ducos hissed the last word.
Another long silence. “The cardinal is right about that, of course. The English stole the world. Better, though, that it be stolen by foreign Protestants, I think, than French heretics.”
Joe was desperately trying to follow the way Michel’s mind seemed to skitter from one subject to another. He was quite sure by now that Ducos was not really sane. “You work for Richelieu?” he asked, not really knowing why but simply hoping to divert the maniac. He tensed himself for a blow.
Which never came. “But of course, Monsieur Buckley. Why else would I send back a dispatch describing the foolish, insane, desperate venture that Seigneur le Comte has instructed me to carry out? Seigneur le Comte will be most lucky if he is merely broken and ruined. A traitor’s death would suit him better, I think.” A pause, and then another soft little chuckle. “Administered by the arch-traitor and heretic himself. Savor the irony, Monsieur Buckley. Savor it.”
Ducos stood. “It is perfect, perfect in every detail. Your American abomination, this ‘religious freedom’ exposed as a cover for bloodshed and duplicity. The Roman Antichrist sent back to the Pit, to be chained by Christ for a thousand years. And the Beast’s henchmen on earth, they all suspect France. All the further from Rome goes France. Ah, perfect.”
Ducos stopped behind Buckley and laid a hand gently on either of the American’s shoulders. Joe could see the edge of the blade protruding next to his cheek. The thing looked razor sharp.
“And there is more, oh, yes,” Ducos said, purring. “Monsieur Gaston has his man here in Paris, too. And he has agreed to assist with the plot to discredit d’Avaux. And such a simple matter to show that he, too, compassed the death of the pope. Yes, all of it is perfect—except that one unfortunate detail. There is no mention of the plot to kill the pope in your writings.”
Ducos began stroking Buckley’s wet hair with his left hand, and in that moment Buckley realized he was going to die. He began to shudder, and felt warmth on his thighs as he lost bladder control.
“You tremble, Monsieur Buckley. You urinate from terror. Just so will France tremble and soil herself, as she is first-born into the Millennium. Just so. As Richelieu and Gaston squabble over the bleeding body of the Antichrist, the new world will come. Yes, the new world. Born of little pigs, climbing on each other’s backs. Petits cochons.”
He kept stroking Joe’s hair. It felt like a vulture’s caress. “And both these little pigs blaming the American pigs. I care not who wins, for by then there will be the reign of Christ. And France, reborn. The new Jerusalem, and I shall be the one to lay the first stone of that heavenly city. Mortared with the blood of the Antichrist, Monsieur Buckley, and of the little pigs who pollute France with their heresy.”
Another soft little chuckle. “I meant to have an Inquisition guard come to murder you, Monsieur Buckley. What better sport than to set your Americans, and that Jew who is your spymaster, on the heels of the Inquisition? But I must now hurry, for you learned of Marcoli’s plan. Alas, the real plan, not the one I require. So I am afraid—my apologies—that I must do my best to question you in the style of the Inquisition.”
Torture! Buckley moaned, and began to shake again. The chair he was tied to had a short leg, and it drummed on the floorboards. “I’ll talk!” he said, suddenly and oddly embarrassed that his voice was squeaking. “I’ll talk!”