by Pierre Pevel
‘It’s quite all right, Andre . . . Thank you.’
While Andre took her tired, muddy horse to the stable, Agnes removed her gloves and looked at her surroundings with a resigned air.
She sighed.
The Hotel de l’Epervier was a decidedly sinister place. Austere and uncomfortable, it was a vast residence with thick walls and narrow windows which had been built for a Huguenot gentleman after the Saint-Barthelemy massacre. Now it served as headquarters for the Cardinal’s Blades, a clandestine elite unit commanded by Captain La Fargue under direct orders from Cardinal Richelieu. Agnes de Vaudreuil didn’t like this mansion, where the nights seemed longer and darker than elsewhere. But she had no choice. Lacking lodgings of her own in Paris, she was obliged to live here, immediately available for the service of His Eminence. An order for an urgent mission could arrive at any time from the Palais-Cardinal.
Ballardieu, coming out onto the front steps of the main building, interrupted Agnes’s train of thought. Massively built, with greying hair, he was a former soldier who had put on weight over the years thanks to his fondness for food and drink. His cheekbones were reddened by broken veins but his eye remained sharp and he was still capable of felling a mule with one blow of his fist.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ he demanded.
Restraining a smile, Agnes walked up to him.
Having raised her as best he could, dandled her on his knee, and taught her how to use her first rapier, she was always prepared to forgive Ballardieu’s tendency to forget that she was a baronne and no longer eight years old. She knew he loved her, and that he was still awkward when it came to showing his affection. She also knew that he disliked it if she was absent for too long and fretted until she returned. As a child she had once disappeared for several days in troubled circumstances she no longer recalled, but it was an incident which had evidently marked Ballardieu for life.
‘I went as far as Saint-Germain,’ she explained nonchalantly as she passed him and went into the front hall. ‘Any news from La Fargue?’
‘No,’ replied the old man from the porch. ‘But it might interest you to hear that Marciac has returned.’
She halted and turned round, now wearing a radiant smile.
Marciac had been sent off alone on a mission to La Rochelle three weeks earlier and had stopped sending news soon after. The Gascon’s silence had been worrying her for several days now.
‘Really?’
‘God’s truth!’
Marciac was bent over a basin of cold water, splashing his face and neck with both hands, when he heard a voice behind him:
‘Good morning, Nicolas.’
He interrupted his ablutions, blindly grabbed a towel, then stood up and turned towards Agnes as he dried his cheeks. She stood on the threshold of his bedchamber, with her arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the wall, eyes shining and a faint smile on her lips.
‘Welcome home,’ she added.
‘Thank you,’ Marciac replied.
He was still wearing the boots and breeches in which he had ridden, but he had stripped down to his shirt and rolled up his sleeves in order to wash. His doublet — an elegant blood-red garment cut from the same embroidered cloth as his breeches — lay on the bed next to an old leather travelling bag. His hat was hanging on the wall, along with his rapier in its scabbard and his baldric.
‘How are you?’ asked Agnes.
‘Exhausted.’
And as if to prove these words, he fell into an armchair, with the towel still around his neck and damp locks clinging to his brow. He did seem tired.
But delighted nonetheless.
‘I was in such a hurry to get here,’ he explained, ‘that I barely slept three hours last night. And the sun! The dust . . . ! Lord, I’m dying of thirst!’
At that very moment, sweet, timid Nai’s arrived from the kitchen bearing a platter, a jug of wine, and two glasses. Agnes had to step aside to let her pass. Seeing the servant girl, Marciac joyfully leapt to his feet.
‘It’s a miracle. Nai’s, I adore you. Will you marry me? Do you have any idea how much I thought of you, during my exile?’
The young woman set down her platter, and eyes cast downward, asked:
‘Would you like me to make up the bed, monsieur?’
‘How cruel! Asking me that, when I dream only of unmaking it with you . . .’
Blushing, Nai’s giggled, curtseyed, and quickly withdrew.
‘Keep on singing, you handsome blackbird!’ Agnes said mockingly. ‘You shall never pluck that fruit . . .’
Marciac was indeed handsome, fair-headed and full of charm. His hair was always in need of a comb, his cheeks could benefit from a razor, but he was endowed with a natural elegance that was perfectly suited to such neglect. He was more or less Gascon, more or less a gentleman, and more or less a physician. Above all, he was a formidable swordsman, an inveterate gambler, and an unrepentant seducer; a man who had lost count of his duels, his debts, and his conquests.
Shrugging his shoulders, he filled the glasses and handed one to Agnes. They clinked to mark their reunion.
Then Agnes perched on the window ledge while Marciac returned to his armchair. He would have offered his seat to any other woman, but the baronne de Vaudreuil did not expect such attentions from her brothers-in-arms.
‘Now, tell me everything that’s happened here,’ said the Gascon. ‘First off, who’s the fellow who took my horse on my arrival? I go away for a few days, and there are new faces when I get back.’
‘That’s our new groom, Andre. Formerly of the Picardy regiment, I believe.’
‘I suppose we’ve made quite sure that—’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Agnes. ‘The man is quite trustworthy. He was a stableman at the Palais-Cardinal before he was . . . recommended to us.’
‘Good . . . And whafabout the others?’
‘Others?’
‘La Fargue, Saint-Lucq, Leprat . . . You remember them? We all formed a band before I left. Damn! Have I been gone even longer than it seems?’
Since the jest was deserved and good-humoured, the young woman accepted it with good grace.
‘Leprat is in Paris,’ she informed him, ‘but he tends to spend his mornings at monsieur de Treville’s house. As for Saint-Lucq and Almades, they are off on a mission with La Fargue. If all goes well, they should be back today.’
Marciac merely cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at this news.
Agnes rose to close the chamber door, leaned against it for a moment, and then in a hushed tone she said:
‘Lately, someone has been sending a few discreet signals to the cardinal. This individual claims to have very valuable information and proposed a meeting to discuss how this information might be—’
‘Sold?’
‘Negotiated.’
‘And His Eminence assigned La Fargue to meet this mysterious person.’
‘As a matter of urgency.’
‘My word, this individual must really be someone. Who are we talking about, exactly?’
‘ “La Donna”.’
‘Ah . . . now I understand.’
La Donna was the nickname given to an adventuress well known in all the courts of Europe. A clever schemer, a mercenary spy and an expert seductress, she made her living from the secrets she discovered for her own benefit or on behalf of others. Beyond her beauty and intelligence, she was best characterised by her lack of scruples. She was venal, and her excellent services came at a high price. She always had several irons in the fire and was adept at playing them off against one another, making hers an exciting but highly dangerous existence. All those who became acquainted with this woman predicted a violent, premature death for her, but these same people did not hesitate to call upon her talents when needed. It was murmured that her ultimate loyalty lay with the Pope. Others claimed she belonged to a secret society of dragons. All such surmises, however, overlooked her independent spirit and appetite for personal gain.
‘But do
esn’t the cardinal have some grievance against her?’ Marciac wondered aloud upon reflection. ‘Remember that business at Ratisbon ... ?’
Agnes shrugged. Putting her hand on the doorknob, she said:
‘What do you want me to say? There are some cases in which a grievance might be more harmful to the one who nurtures it than to the one who causes it . . . Well, I must go now.’
Out of politeness, the Gascon rose from his chair. The young baronne was about to leave the room when, without warning, she went over and took him in her arms.
Not knowing the reason for this sudden display of emotion, Marciac let her embrace him.
‘We were worried,’ she murmured in his ear. ‘Don’t expect the others to tell you so, but you frightened us all. And if ever again you leave us for so long without sending news, I’ll scratch your eyes out. Understood?’
‘Understood, Agnes. Thank you.’
She left him standing there, but from the stairs she called back:
‘Get some rest, but come down as soon as you’re ready. I’m sure Ballardieu has planned a feast in your honour.’
With a smile, the Gascon closed the door.
He remained thoughtful for a moment, then gave a huge yawn and turned longing eyes towards the bed.
A slender, nimble, forked tongue woke Arnaud de Laincourt by tickling his ear. The young man groaned, weakly pushing the scaly snout away, and turned over in his bed. But the dragonnet was stubborn.
It switched ears.
Come on, boy . . . You know him well enough by now to realise that he isn’t going to leave you in peace . . .
Giving up on sleep, Laincourt sighed heavily and opened his eyes.
‘All right, Marechal. All right
Pushing back the sheet, he rose up on his elbows and gave the gaunt old dragonnet an unhappy look. Sitting there with its wings folded and its tail wrapped around its feet, the small reptile seemed to be waiting for something.
He’s hungry.
Of course he’s hungry, Laincourt replied without speaking. He’s always hungry. In fact, I’m starting to wonder how it is that he eats so much and yet remains so thin.
Then out loud, he told Marechal:
‘Do you know what a sorry sight you are?’ The dragonnet tipped its head to the left. ‘Yes, you are . . .’
Laincourt looked over at the big cage with bars as thick as fingers that sat in a corner of the room. It was standing open, as it was every morning, even though he had locked it before going to bed, as he did every evening.
He sighed again.
‘Back in your cage!’ the young man ordered, clapping his hands. ‘Go on! You know the rules! Into your cage!’
Don’t be too hard on him . . . When he was mine, he was never locked up.
Slowly, and with obvious reluctance, Marechal turned around and waddled away. Then with a hop and a flap of his wings, he returned to his prison, closing the door with an insolent swipe of one clawed foot. As it clanged shut, the latch fell into place. The old dragonnet did not appear to be worried by this. Laincourt couldn’t help smiling.
He was a thin brown-haired young man, with crystalline blue eyes. He was intelligent, cultivated, calm and reserved. Some found him to be distant, as he was in some ways. Others judged his reserve to be a sign of arrogance. They were mistaken. The truth was that, while Laincourt looked down on no one, he simply didn’t much care for his contemporaries, asking only that they leave him peace and feeling no need to please them. He detested hollow platitudes, conventional opinions and polite smiles. He disliked being forced into conversation. He preferred silence to small talk and solitude to futile company. When confronted with someone he found tiresome he smiled, nodded, said nothing, and excused himself as quickly as possible. For him, politeness consisted in saying ‘good day’, ‘thank you’, ‘goodbye’, and enquiring only about the health of those he truly cared for.
As soon as he got out of bed and had pulled on his breeches, Laincourt went to close the window of his bedchamber. He had left it open to enjoy the night’s cool breeze, but now it was letting in the heat as well as the stink and noise of Paris.
You’ve slept late again, boy.
So it seems.
That’s a bad habit you’ve picked up since you’ve been idle and spent your nights reading.
Reading is not the same as being idle.
You are no longer employed.
I no longer have a master.
You will soon be in need of money.
Laincourt shrugged.
He lived on the second floor of a house in rue de la Ferronnerie, not far from the Saints-Innocents cemetery, between the neighbourhoods of Sainte-Opportune and Les Halles. Barely four metres wide, this street was very busy since it prolonged rue Saint-Honore and crossed rue Saint-Denis at a right angle, thus linking two of the principal traffic routes in Paris. The flow of passers-by, traders, horse riders, sedan chairs, carts, and coaches went by without interruption from morning till night.
Do you see him, boy?
Laincourt glanced out at the street.
At the entrance to a narrow passage between two houses, a gentleman dressed in a beige doublet was waiting, one hand holding his gloves and the other resting on the pommel of his sword. He was calm and did not appear to be hiding. On the contrary, Laincourt had the impression that he wished to be seen, and recalled having previously noticed his presence, here and there, in recent days.
Of course, he replied to the invisible presence.
J wonder who he is. And what he wants.
I couldn’t care less.
A month ago, he would have cared.
A month ago, he would have immediately taken steps to have the man in the beige doublet followed, identified, and no doubt neutralised. But he no longer belonged to the Cardinal’s Guards. At the end of a mission that had cost him his red cape and his rank as an ensign, he had turned the page on secrets, intrigues, lies, and betrayals in the service of His Eminence.
After washing with the remaining water in the pitcher, Laincourt dressed and found something in the pantry to calm Marechal’s hunger. Then he decided to go out and have a bite to eat himself. He would then visit his bookseller, Bertaud, in order to return two books for the price of one.
He had just put on his baldric and hung his sword from it when he saw that the old dragonnet had once again escaped from his cage and was now standing near the door, holding his collar and chain in his mouth. The young man promised himself that he would buy a padlock on his way to the bookseller but, being a good sport, he extended his fist to Marechal.
‘All right,’ he said. Til take you, too.‘
Outside in the street, the gentleman in the beige doublet had vanished.
*
The comte de Treville, captain of the King’s Musketeers, stood at his office window and sought to distract himself by looking out over the courtyard of his house on rue du Vieux-Colombier in the faubourg Saint-Germain. It provided a picturesque spectacle which he enjoyed, arousing nostalgia for the time when he was still a companion-in-arms to Henri IV. As usual, several dozen musketeers were to be found loitering on the cobbled courtyard strewn with fresh straw. Not all of them wore the cape - blue with a silver fleur-de-lys cross — as some were not on active duty. But all of them had their sword at their side and were ready for any opportunity to draw it. They walked or stood about, talking, laughing, playing dice or cards, demonstrating various fencing techniques, reading the gazettes together and commenting on the latest news, while keeping a watchful eye on the comings and goings on the great staircase and in the antechambers, which they also occupied.
‘D’Artagnan!’ Treville suddenly called out in a loud voice.
Almost immediately, a door opened behind him . . .
‘Monsieur?’
‘Tell me, d’Artagnan, isn’t that the chevalier d’Orgueil I see near the stables?’ Treville asked without turning round.
The musketeer approached in order to peer over his captain’s
shoulder.
‘It is indeed, monsieur.’
‘Ask him to come up, please.’
‘Monsieur, they’re already queuing at your office door . . .’
In fact, starting in the early hours of the morning, Treville’s days were marked by the unceasing flow of visitors he received at his mansion, when the king’s service did not demand his presence elsewhere.
‘I know, d’Artagnan, I know . . . Tell my secretary to have them wait, will you?’
As you command, monsieur.‘
‘Thank you, lieutenant.’
Alone once again, the captain of the Musketeers uttered a sigh and, regretfully turning away from the window, sat down at his desk. The sheets and ledgers piled there drew his tired glance. Useless paperwork . . . Treville picked up a small box, opened it with a little key, and drew out an unsealed letter that he placed before him.
Then he waited.
‘Come in!’ he called, as soon as he heard a knock at the door.
A gentleman entered, wearing a crimson doublet with black buttons and slashes. He was tall, carried himself with impeccable posture, and advanced with a firm step. It was easy to see that he was — or had once been — a military officer. He was thirty-five to forty years of age, with sharp features and the confident gaze of someone who knows they have not faltered, and never will, in fulfilling their duties. He was armed with a rapier that had become famous. Entirely white, made of ivory, it had been carved from tip to pommel from a single dragon’s tooth. He wore it on his right side, being left-handed.
Antoine Leprat, chevalier d’Orgueil and a former member of the King’s Musketeers, removed his hat to salute the captain.
Treville welcomed him with a smile.
‘Good morning, Leprat. How are you?’
‘Very well, monsieur. Thank you.’
‘And your thigh?’
‘Completely healed, monsieur.’
It was a somewhat excessive claim. But in the King’s Musketeers men quickly acquired the habit of minimising the gravity of a wound and exaggerating the speed of their recovery, out of fear of being passed over when the next mission was assigned.
‘But it was a rather nasty wound . . .’