by Pierre Pevel
‘It wasn’t before I hit on the notion of jumping out of a window,’ Leprat replied with a smile.
‘And what a strange notion that was . . .’
‘Indeed.’
The two men, separated in age by more than fifteen years, exchanged an amused, knowing glance.
But Treville’s expression became clouded.
‘Yesterday,’ he said, ‘I received a letter from your father.’ He pointed to the missive he had placed on the table before Leprat entered. ‘He is worried about you. He has become anxious since he heard that you left the Musketeers.’
‘My father the comte fears, above all else, that I will harm his reputation. By meeting an ignoble death while carrying out a clandestine mission, for example. I would be a source of pride to him if I died on the field of battle, wearing the cape of a true Musketeer, monsieur. But as far as posterity is concerned, there is nothing for him to gain if I serve under the orders of Captain La Fargue . . . The comte’s only concern is for the glory attached to his name,’ Leprat concluded.
‘Perhaps he is also worried about the glory attached to yours . . .’
The former musketeer smiled bitterly.
‘If the comte were to hear my body had been found lying in the gutter, my death would bother him less than the state of the gutter.’
Saddened, Treville rose and returned to the window.
He remained there for a moment, hands behind his back, silent and troubled.
‘All the same, chevalier, you will always be free to rejoin the Musketeers. As you know, you are only on leave of absence. Unlimited leave, to be sure, but a leave of absence nonetheless. Say the word, and I will reinstate you.’
‘Thank you, monsieur.’
Treville turned his back to the window and looked directly into Leprat’s eyes.
‘You know the esteem in which I hold Captain La Fargue. I have no wish to force you to choose between two loyalties. But you would also be serving the king by wearing the Musketeers’ cape. So please keep yours, chevalier. And think on the matter. There will always be time and opportunity to change your mind.’
Cardinal Richelieu emerged, extremely preoccupied, from his interview with Louis XIII. But he did not let his feelings show and decided to make an appearance in the Great Hall of the
Louvre, where ministers and courtiers, officers and parasites, beautiful ladies and great lords were all gathered together. He seemed unruffled, smiled, engaged in conversation, and patiently endured the demands of his hangers-on, supplicants, and flatterers. To complete his pretence of normality, he envisaged paying a visit to the queen in her apartments. But was that a wise idea?
It was vital that he allayed the suspicions of anyone who was already worried, or would soon be, over why the king — in an extremely ugly mood, moreover - had detained his chief minister at the end of the Council meeting. The decisions that Louis XIII had made and the irrevocable orders he had issued during their tete-a-tete could put the kingdom to fire and to the sword. When the moment came they would have to strike quickly, forcefully, and accurately — and without showing so much as an ounce of mercy. That moment was fast approaching. But until it came, the only way to avoid a fatal conflagration was to keep the king’s plans an absolute secret. And a secret was best preserved when everyone remained unaware of its importance.
Hence the cardinal would try to behave as if nothing was amiss. Today he planned to attend all of his meetings and ensure that the number of messengers leaving the Palais-Cardinal did not significantly increase. To all appearances, he would keep to his ordinary routine.
Richelieu knew he was being watched.
His role as a statesman meant that even the least important of his visits - those he paid and the ones he received — were noticed, reported, and discussed. There was nothing extraordinary about this. He was a public figure, after all. But amongst those who took an interest in his activities there were some who harboured sinister projects. The cardinal had many enemies. First there were the enemies of the king, not all of whom were foreign. Then there were the enemies of his policies, including the Catholic party. And lastly there were his personal enemies, who hated him because they envied his success or were jealous of his influence on Louis XIII, an influence that was greatly exaggerated but whose legend conveniently permitted the minister to be blamed for the faults and violent acts of his king.
There were two women to be found among Richelieu’s most bitter personal opponents. The first was the queen mother, Marie de Medicis, Henri IV’s widow: humiliated and unable to forgive her son for preferring to entrust the conduct of the kingdom’s affairs to the cardinal rather than to her, she continued to hatch schemes from her refuge in Brussels, and stoked the fires of every revolt that took place in France. The second woman was the beautiful, intelligent, urbane, and very dangerous duchesse de Chevreuse who, for the last fifteen years, had taken a hand in every plot, but was protected by her birth, her fortune, and her friendship with the queen, Anne d’Autriche.
These two women never disarmed, even if at times they were only accomplices of the cabals that were invented and led by other enemies of the cardinal. Enemies who might be Catholic or Protestant, Frenchmen or foreigners, humans or dragons, but who all had eyes and ears inside the Louvre, and none of whom could be allowed to get wind of what was now being set in motion.
Let us not give these people any cause for concern, Richelieu thought to himself.
And so he resolved, in the end, to go and present his respects to the queen.
Marciac awoke still dressed. He had barely found the strength to remove his boots before lying down and had immediately gone to sleep. Rising up on his elbows, he looked around his chamber with bleary eyes and yawned. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, stretched, yawned again, and scratched his neck while at the same time rubbing his belly, realising that he was famished
And thirsty. He was thirsty, too.
How long had he been asleep?
Not long enough to ease the stiffness after his swift and arduous ride from La Rochelle, in any case. By coach the journey took at least eight days. The Gascon, on horseback, had completed it in less than five, which could not be accomplished without some sore muscles . . .
Grimacing, Marciac stood up and, with a heavy step, went to the window. It was open but the curtains were drawn shut. He spread them apart and then squinted, his eyes dazzled by the sun that was beginning to descend in the sky.
It was already the afternoon, then.
Still muzzy from sleep, the Gascon enjoyed the view for a moment. His bedchamber was on the second floor of the Hotel de l’Epervier. Oriented towards the east, it offered a vantage point over the roofs of the Charite hospital in the foreground, and behind it the splendid abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. With its abundant greenery, fresh air, and scattering of elegant buildings, the faubourg Saint-Germain was definitely a very pleasant neighbourhood.
The ringing of a bell tower succeeded in dragging Marciac out of his daydreaming and informed him of the time.
It was two o’clock.
He turned away from the window and went to wash, wetting and rubbing his blond locks over the basin. Finally feeling refreshed, he addressed a wink at his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. He pulled on his boots, grabbed his hat and his baldric in case of an emergency, and went downstairs with his shirt hanging outside his breeches and his hair still damp.
One of the rare advantages of living in the Hotel de l’Epervier was that the house was cool in summer. Otherwise it was a particularly sombre and austere place. On the ground floor, Marciac almost knocked down monsieur Guibot who was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Small, thin, and scruffy-looking, the old concierge hobbled about with a wooden leg. He had bushy eyebrows and the bald top of his head was surrounded by a crown of long dirty blond hair. Guibot had served the Blades before they were disbanded and he had kept a jealous watch over their headquarters, which he inexplicably adored, until their return.
/> While Marciac barely avoided colliding with him in the front hall, the old man was busy clearing a path for two kitchen boys, dressed in pumps, white stockings, breeches, shirts, and aprons, who were arriving in the courtyard carrying a litter which held a large pate in a circular pastry crust whose little chimney still steamed and filled the air with an appetising fragrance.
‘Good afternoon, monsieur Marciac . . . Make way, please . . . Begging your pardon . . . Watch the step, you two! And mind the door . . . ! There . . . Gently, gently . . . It’s this way . . .’
His mouth already watering, the Gascon followed the procession through the house and out into the garden.
The garden was in fact merely a square of nature which, left untended, had reverted to its wild state. The grass was high and brush had accumulated at the foot of the walls. A chestnut tree offered some welcome shade. At the rear, a little door opened onto a narrow alley. And right in the middle, beneath the tree, was an old wooden table that was never taken inside. It had gone white from weathering and some intrepid bindweeds climbed up its cabled legs.
Sitting at one end of this table on mismatched chairs, Leprat, Agnes, and Ballardieu were joking and laughing over glasses of wine, sometimes getting up to replenish their drinks from one of the bottles left to cool in a tub of water, or to scrounge a bite to eat from a plate. Absorbed in their amusement, they paid little attention to shy Na’is who was busy setting out dishes on a tablecloth already loaded — in addition to the tableware — with cold meats, a roast goose, cheese, a pie, and a fat round loaf of bread. But the young servant girl always seemed to be forgetting something, forcing her to make further trips back and forth between the garden, the kitchen, the pantry and the cellar. And each time, she scolded herself in a soft voice.
‘Useless girl, do you have nothing but sawdust for brains?’ she groused as she hurried past Marciac.
‘Ah! At last!’ cried Ballardieu when he saw who and what was arriving.
Then the old soldier spied Marciac and welcomed him with equal enthusiasm.
Space had to be made for the steaming pate. Monsieur Guibot wanted to direct the manoeuvre, but Ballardieu, domineering, promptly took control of operations. The pate left its litter undamaged and the two boys were sent off to the kitchen to have a drink before returning to their master, a pastry cook in rue des Saints-Peres.
‘Slept well?’ Leprat asked.
‘Wonderfully,’ replied Marciac as he sat down.
‘I’m glad to see you again, Marciac’
‘I’m glad to be back. The captain hasn’t returned?’
‘Not yet. Nor have Saint-Lucq and Almades, of course.’
‘Here,’ said Agnes, passing a glass of wine to the Gascon. ‘Your health, Nicolas.’
Marciac was touched by the gesture and he smiled.
‘Thank you very much, baronne.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Nai’s returned with a bowl of butter, which at first she didn’t know where to put on the crowded table.
‘Nai’s,’ Ballardieu called to her. ‘Is there anything missing, would you say?’
The old soldier was no ogre, but his deep voice and red face caused the young servant girl to become flustered. She thought it was a trick question and hesitated, looking around the table several times with a panic-stricken look on her face.
‘I—’
‘Well, I say there’s nothing missing,’ Ballardieu answered for her. ‘You can therefore come and sit down.’
Nai’s did not understand. Was she being invited to sit at the masters’ table?
‘I beg your pardon, monsieur?’
‘Sit down, Na’is! And you too, monsieur Guibot . . . Come on, hurry up! The pate is growing cold.’
The concierge did not need to be asked twice.
The servant girl, on the other hand, sought further advice. She looked to Leprat, who nodded in approval to her. That reassured her. Leprat was a gentleman, and moreover a former member of the King’s Musketeers. And the baronne de Vaudreuil seemed not to care at all. So, if they saw no impediment to her sitting at the table . . . Her nervousness settling somewhat, she timidly placed one buttock on the edge of a rickety stool, praying that they would all forget she was present.
‘And Andre?’ Ballardieu persisted. ‘He should share in this feast, shouldn’t he? Somebody should tell him to come. Guibot, go fetch him, would you?’
The concierge, who was already holding out a plate, grumbled under his breath but obeyed willingly enough. He went off on his wooden leg, avoiding the molehills.
Leprat passed a hunting dagger to Marciac.
‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Do the honours.’
The Gascon rose before the enormous pate en croute and looked around at the company seated at the table. Some of his best friends were here and had arranged this meal for him. He felt good, happy inside.
He was even in the mood to say a few words expressing his feelings.
Agnes guessed as much.
‘Marciac,’ she said, ‘if the next thing you say isn’t: “Who wants this handsome slice?” I swear I shall make mincemeat out of you.’
He burst out laughing and planted the blade in the golden crust.
The three riders arrived in Paris by the Montmartre gate.
Weariness from their travels had left them with drawn faces and great rings under their eyes. And they were all dirty and in need of a shave. They still wore the same clothing they had on when leaving Paris the previous day, having ridden more than forty leagues in under twenty-four hours to meet La Donna and then return as quickly as possible. Indeed, only the fear of killing their mounts had kept them from galloping the whole way back.
They soon parted ways.
While Saint-Lucq continued straight ahead down rue
Montmartre, La Fargue and Almades took rue des Vieux-Augustins instead and then rue Coquilhere, before almost immediately turning left. At last, not far from the palace Cardinal Richelieu was having built for himself, they halted before a tavern in rue des Petits-Champs.
Its sign boasted an eagle daubed in scarlet paint.
The tavern’s facade was set back from those of the other buildings on the same street, behind a mossy stone archway and a few feet of uneven paving. There were men occupying this space, glasses in hand, some of them standing around three barrels which served as a table, others leaning beside the tavern’s wide-open windows conversing with those inside. Almost all of them were dressed as soldiers, wearing swords, striking dashing poses and bearing scars that left no doubt as to their profession. Moreover, they addressed one another as much by rank as by name, and even the names were often a nom de guerre.
Having dismounted, La Fargue entrusted the reins of his horse to Almades and went inside.
The Red Eagle was one of the places in Paris most frequented by the musketeers serving His Eminence. Two companies of soldiers served the cardinal directly: the Guards on horseback and the musketeers on foot. The Guards wore the famous red cape. They were all gentlemen, protected His Eminence’s person, and accompanied him everywhere. As for the musketeers, they were commoners. Ordinary soldiers, they only signed up for three years and carried out less prestigious duties. Still, they were excellent fighters and were bound together by a strong esprit de corps. The best of them could have joined the Guards if they had been of more noble birth.
From the threshold, La Fargue caught the eye of the person he knew to be the owner of the establishment, a tall redheaded man who was still relatively fit despite the incipient bulge of his belly. His name was Balmaire and he walked with a slight limp ever since a wound had forced this former cardinal’s musketeer to hang up his sword. He wore an ample shirt, brown breeches, and had an apron tied around lus waist. But instead of the usual white stockings and pumps he wore a pair of worn funnel-shaped boots, indicating that his role as tavern keeper did not define him entirely.
Recognising La Fargue, Balmaire addressed a silent salute to him from afar. The old captain r
esponded in the same fashion and went across the taproom to a door giving onto a corridor and a narrow staircase. He climbed the stairs and, upon reaching the first landing, entered a dusty room with peeling walls, cluttered with some crates, old furniture and chairs in need of repair.
Leaning forward, a tall, thin gentleman was gazing out the window at the street. The small, diamond-shaped panes of glass were filthy and had in places been replaced with pieces of carton, so that they blocked more light than they let through.
‘You’re late,’ said the comte de Rochefort without looking around. He stood up straight and slowly turned away from the window. He was close to fifty years of age. He had a haughty face with a pale complexion, dark eyes, and a penetrating gaze. There was a small scar decorating his temple, where he had been grazed by a pistol ball.
‘I’ve come all the way from Artois,’ La Fargue retorted. ‘And you?’
The old captain waited, silent and impassive.
‘I was about to leave,’ Rochefort lied.
‘I need to see the cardinal.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as possible. Today.’
Rochefort nodded as if he were weighing up the pros and cons of this request.
It was said of Rochefort that he was His Eminence’s damned soul. In fact, he was the henchman who took charge of the cardinal’s dirty work and was therefore feared and hated. But he was perhaps Richelieu’s most loyal servant and he was certainly the least scrupulous. A man who obeyed his master blindly and did not burden himself with moral considerations. Thus, while he would sometimes commit unspeakable acts when ordered to do so, he would only do so upon receiving the order.
‘Did you meet with La Donna, captain?’
‘Yes. Last night.’
‘And?’
‘And now I need to see the cardinal.’
The glances of the two men clashed for a moment, before Rochefort smiled joylessly and said:
‘We don’t like one another at all, do we?’
‘No.’
La Fargue and Rochefort despised one another. Unfortunately the service of the cardinal forced them to work together once again, now that the Blades had reformed. The captain only took his orders from Richelieu. And he answered to him alone for his actions. But the comte was a necessary intermediary.