The Middle Finger and the Ring Finger

When Mr. Crelan left the Richelieu residence, he had still been a respectable gentleman, neatly and splendidly dressed. When he returned, he was a sorry sight: his boots had vanished, one sleeve stood alone, the buttons on his coat had become orphans, and his lapels and shirt collar were smeared with blood and mud.

Ordinarily, he would never have been permitted an audience with the King. But Louis had merely stood at the window for a moment before ordering Bontemps to bring him up, for he recognized the gentleman as the one who had saluted him while turning the street corner.

Bontemps and several servants washed Mr. Crelan's face and hands, changed him into clean clothes, and only then brought him before the King.

"Ah, it is you," said the King. "I saw you salute me at the street corner. You said that I employed you, sir, but I do not seem to recall such a thing."

Crelan had been uneasy at first, but seeing Louis so cordial, he gradually calmed down. "Forgive my presumption, Your Majesty," he said. "I remembered wrongly. It was not you who employed me, but your kinsman, the Duke of Cornwall in England. He has several trusted men remaining in Ireland, and they asked me to deliver a letter to him."

"Then have you completed this task, or not?"

"I have completed it, Your Majesty," said Crelan. "But, Your Majesty, I encountered something terrible not far from here, and had no choice but to flee back and seek your protection."

"This is Paris," said Louis. "It is my domain, sir. If you are truly a loyal subordinate of the Duke of Cornwall, I would be willing to offer you some assistance. But may I know what happened?"

Crelan glanced around. Louis nodded, and Bontemps and several servants withdrew. Yet six reliable musketeers and Mali remained.

"I encountered a vampire, Your Majesty," said Crelan.

Crelan had been rather unfortunate, when all was said and done. As a werewolf, he could run far faster than the finest Selle Français, so he had never relied on horses while on land. That day, he had planned to leave Paris on foot, then remove his clothes in the forest, transform into a werewolf, and hurry back to the harbor. Who could have expected that a road which had been fairly clear would be blocked by a blazing carriage? Some of the King's opponents were there, hysterically shouting words that bordered on blasphemy. Unwilling to clash with those irrational rabble, he turned into a dark alleyway.

And in that sunless alleyway, a man in a wide-brimmed hat was intimately entwined with a "famous beauty." Their tightly tangled bodies occupied two-thirds of the narrow passage. Crelan hesitated for a moment, sighed, and decided to take another route.

"Sir," said the man whose face was almost entirely concealed beneath the wide-brimmed hat, unexpectedly speaking first. "Are you passing through here?" He spoke pleasantly. "Ah, this is our fault. I hope you can forgive us. Love always blinds one when it arrives, but our eyes are open now. Please, please, we shall make room for you. We would not wish to delay you."

Crelan truly did not want to waste any more time. He needed to return to Scotland as quickly as possible, lest those Presbyterians begin wavering again between the Duke of Cornwall and the Lord Protector. He looked up at the sky. If he moved swiftly enough, he could still catch the last ship to England. So he nodded to the other man in thanks and strode forward.

Such little alleys could only be filthier than the streets. Besides excrement, there were countless rats and the corpses of cats and dogs. Someone had even thrown the entrails of sea fish here, and the stench was enough to make one retch.

Crelan could not help holding his breath. A werewolf's keen sense of smell nearly made his head split apart. He turned sideways and passed the man and woman. At the moment they brushed past one another, Crelan touched the woman's hand hanging at her side—a hand cold and stiff, without the slightest trace of life.

The werewolf turned around in shock. A deformed face rapidly filled his vision, sharp fangs protruding from its split lips.

A vampire bold enough to come out hunting in broad daylight—the thought flashed through Crelan's mind. The reeking stench of the alley had numbed his perception of blood, but to that vampire, his true identity had likely already been laid bare.

They immediately grappled with each other. A vampire was naturally weaker than a werewolf, but Crelan did not dare transform into a werewolf directly in a Paris neighborhood, putting him at a disadvantage.

At that moment, whether by luck or misfortune, a girl entered the alley. She discovered the dead woman and immediately screamed. More people came running. The vampire's face, twisted until it resembled a hairless bat, could never be mistaken for that of a human. The vampire instantly panicked and tried to flee, but Crelan seized the opportunity and shoved him out into the sunlight. He immediately burst into flames and, amid his wails, turned to ashes.

The problem was that the priests and Inquisition ascetics Crelan least wished to see arrived at that very moment. The Inquisition had troops of its own. Those soldiers sealed off the district where Crelan was, even posting men on the rooftops, and then began examining the people in the district one by one.

This was standard practice for the Church and the Inquisition. Once a vampire or werewolf appeared somewhere, the area would inevitably undergo several combings as thorough as a fine-toothed comb. Such sweeps were indeed quite effective. When Crelan saw the priests examining everyone's fingers under the soldiers' protection, he knew trouble was at hand... Though only a vampire had appeared here, the Church had not exempted werewolves from suspicion.

Werewolves from different countries and regions naturally possessed their own distinctive traits, but they shared one thing in common: every werewolf's middle finger and ring finger were the same length. Under ordinary circumstances, few people would notice this, but as long as the priests made those being examined press their fingers together, they could immediately spot the telltale sign.

Crelan's hesitation outside the crowd had long since caught the attention of several watchful ascetics. The instant he turned to leave, they pursued him.

"They may be lingering outside the door right now," said Crelan.

"Hold out your hand," said Louis. Under the musketeers' watchful, tiger-like gazes, Crelan had no choice but to extend his hand for the King to inspect. His hand was indeed as he had said: his middle finger and ring finger were the same length.

"You are mistaken, Mr. Crelan," said the King. "The Church and the Inquisition move very quickly. By now, they should be requesting an audience with Mazarin or with me."

He looked at Mali. "Mali, I have a request for you. I wonder whether you can do it."

The King quickly explained his proposal. Mali immediately ran back to her room and returned with a bottle of potion.

"Drink it now," said Louis. "If you are willing to trust me."

"Of course I am willing to trust you," said Crelan. He had observed Louis for several days already. In his view, this young King of France was not one of those commonly seen men of corrupt character. Even if he were unwilling to shelter Crelan, he would not deceive him with lies.

Having said this, the werewolf drained the entire bottle of potion.

Several minutes later, Mazarin arrived before the King with two priests in black robes and two ascetics, requesting the King's permission to search the residence for a dangerous werewolf.

Louis expressed his agreement, but said, "Do not disturb my mother, my younger brother, or my guests."

One of the priests immediately said that they would only take a look, recite a few verses of scripture, and sprinkle a little holy water. Not only would they not disturb the Queen Mother, the Duke of Anjou, or the guests from England, but they would also bring them blessings and grace.

"Nothing could be better," said the King. "Perhaps you may even join us for dinner."

The priest was almost flattered beyond measure. He thanked the King for his gracious invitation. Though he and his colleagues would likely be unable to free themselves from their heavy duties for the moment, he had to praise the King's pious and benevolent heart. In his opinion, even if the man were not a king but merely an earl or a general, if his meal had to be interrupted because someone suspected of being a werewolf had run into the courtyard, then even if he did not grow angry, he certainly would not show them a pleasant face.

Since that was the case, the priests and ascetics could not be overly ostentatious. They swiftly passed through every room. Even the Queen Mother's bedchamber was not spared—after all, they had no choice but to do so in order to prevent members of the royal family from facing mortal danger. But to their disappointment, the werewolf truly did not seem to be here.

While inspecting the room of Bontemps, the chief steward of the royal residence, an ascetic saw a giant wolf and could not help crying out. But the giant wolf did not move at all. It was clearly dead. Bontemps told them that this was the hide of a man-wolf Prince of Condé had presented to His Majesty. It had rested at the foot of the throne for many days, but after frightening a maid some time ago, the King had ordered him to put it away, have it made into a specimen, and place it in his hunting hall later.

The priests inspected the giant wolf. Though its fur still retained its former richness and thickness, its eyes were dull, its body stiff, and it appeared to have been dead for quite some time. The Inquisition did indeed have a record of Prince of Condé possessing a man-wolf hide. After giving Bontemps a few instructions, they prepared to leave.

But just then, one priest suddenly stopped. "By the Lord's holy grace," he said with a smile, "we should not forget this." He took out holy water and sprinkled several drops onto Bontemps, then dripped several more into the giant wolf's slightly open mouth. The moment the holy water fell into that savage maw, a plume of smoke immediately rose. The priests stared at the giant wolf. It neither reflexively closed its mouth nor twitched its muscles or tightened its fur—it truly was dead. Only then did they finally leave.

It was not until noon the next day that the witch's false-death potion lost its effect. Crelan collapsed onto the floor and returned to human form, gasping for breath. His tongue was a mangled mass of flesh and blood, but fortunately it had only been a few drops of holy water. He would recover quickly.

He hid in the Richelieu residence for several days, only leaving under cover of night after the Inquisition monks concluded that the suspected werewolf might already have fled Paris. Yet his stay had not been without gain. At the very least, the Duke of Cornwall had obtained the support of Louis, King of France. Though the Netherlands and Spain had both reached some kind of agreement with the rebel Cromwell, he still had one powerful supporter.