by Pierre Pevel
These days, Aubusson no longer travelled.
Lacking a wife and children, he had retired to a charming country manor and was wealthy enough to take his rest following a career that had proved far more adventurous than he could have dreamed. He still painted, however. Landscapes mostly. But sometimes portraits when he chose to accept a commission. These tended to be rare now. Aubusson lived in such reclusion that many believed him dead or in exile, when in fact he resided only eight leagues northeast of Paris. His days passed peacefully near the village of Dam-martin, with a couple of elderly domestic servants and a tall adolescent valet as his sole company.
This valet was grinding colours in a mortar when Aubusson decided to abandon his painting for the day.
‘You will wash my brushes, Jeannot.’
‘Very good, master.’
And thereupon, the artist left his studio, leaving its clutter, its golden light, and its intoxicating odours of paints behind.
Outside, the afternoon sun dazzled him as he crossed the courtyard. He hurried, the panels of his large sleeveless vest flapping against his thighs, his buckled shoes raising dust which then clung to his stockings, the hand shading his eyes pushing back the cloth cap on his head. He was quite tall. He had not gained weight as a result of age or retirement, and he remained a handsome man with a firm profile and a thick head of hair which was the same white as his carefully trimmed beard. Women were still attracted to him, although not nearly so many as in his prime. Back then, he had collected mistresses, sometimes selected among those whose portraits he painted at the expense of an overly trusting father or husband.
The big manor was silent.
In the front hall, at the bottom of the stairs, Aubusson washed his hands in a basin of clean water waiting for him. Then he took off his cap and the vest that he only wore when painting, exchanging them for a doublet hanging from the back of a chair. He had finished buttoning it when old Mere Trichet, who had heard him from the kitchen where she busied herself, brought him a glass of newly drawn wine, as she always did when he returned from the studio.
‘Have you already finished for the day, monsieur?’
‘My word ... It seems to be one of those days when nothing goes right.’
Mere Trichet — a woman in her fifties with a thick waist and a round face — nodded as Aubusson drained his glass and returned it to her.
‘Thank you. Is the signora in her bedchamber?’
‘No, monsieur. She is out at the back, with her monstrous beast . . .’
The painter smiled but did not respond to this.
‘I will sup alone this evening,’ he said as he left.
‘Very good, monsieur.’
Once out in the backyard where hens were pecking grain and a tired old hound was snoring, Aubusson went round the stable until he came to an enclosure. Here, beneath a sloping roof made of poorly joined planks, he found a chained wyvern asleep, its energy no doubt sapped by the heat. Crouched beside it, with her head bare and her long red hair sparkling in the sunshine, the beautiful Alessandra di Santi was stroking the great scaly head.
Leaning on the fence, Pere Trichet was watching the scene with eyes squinted beneath the brim of his old battered hat, a lit clay pipe in his mouth. He was an elderly man, with a gnarly body hardened and worn from a life of labour. He spoke little, and when Aubusson joined him, he moved off with a visible shake of the head, his way of expressing utter disapproval of proceedings while washing his hands of the matter.
Even when domesticated and trained, wyverns remained carnivorous creatures powerful enough to tear off an arm with a single bite. And if one avoided approaching a horse from behind, one needed to take similar care with these winged reptiles, as placid and good-natured as they might seem. Elementary rules, known to all, or almost all . . . and which La Donna evidently chose to ignore . . .
Standing up, she turned her back to the wyvern as she left the enclosure and, showing no fear of the beast behind her, said to the painter:
‘The poor thing is exhausted. I must say I’ve hardly spared her strength these past few days . . .’
Smiling and serene, she wore a hunting outfit that looked delightful on her, very similar to the one she had worn the night before, in Artois, when she had met La Fargue.
‘And you?’ enquired Aubusson in a tone where concern outweighed reproach. ‘You promised me you would rest a while.’
‘I shall rest this evening,’ said Alessandra.
The painter helped her shut the gate to the enclosure.
‘You must take good care of her,’ she added, looking over at the wyvern.
‘I promise you I shall.’
‘She has truly earned it. Last night, for my sake, she faced a terrible storm and did not falter until she brought me here safely, despite—’
‘I shall give up my own bed to her, if that will reassure you . . . But am I permitted to have some care for you?’
The Italian spy did not respond, instead turning round to sweep the surrounding area with a slow scrutinising gaze.
‘What is it?’ asked Aubusson worriedly, in turn searching around them.
‘I’m wondering where my little dragonnets, Scylla and Charybdis, might be.’
‘Bah! No doubt they’re off hunting some poor field mouse, which they will deposit half-devoured in front of my door . . .’
Taking Alessandra by the elbow, the painter led her towards a table placed in the shade provided by an arbour. They sat down and, once they were face-to-face, Aubusson gently squeezed the young woman’s hands in his own and sought to capture her gaze.
‘There’s still time to abandon this course of action, you know that?’
Touched, La Donna gave him a smile full of tenderness. She felt troubled by this man so imbued with paternal instincts towards her. He was the only man she never made an effort to seduce.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s too late to turn back. And it has been too late for quite some time . . . Besides, I’ve already made all my arrangements for this evening. The important thing is not to deviate from the plan. Remember, I shall no doubt be taken to La Renardiere.’
‘I know. I’ll scout out the domain tomorrow. And I shall return there during the night to make sure I will be able to find the path to the clearing, whatever happens.’
‘The domain is vast, but well guarded. Don’t let them arrest you.’
‘If necessary, I shall say that I was out strolling and became lost . . . But what if you’re taken elsewhere?’
‘Knowing the cardinal, that’s highly unlikely.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘Then I shall send you a warning by means of Scylla and Charybdis.’
‘And if you’re someplace where you can’t be reached?’
‘For example?’
‘Le Chatelet? Or the Bastille? Or in a cell at the chateau de Vincennes?
Irritated, Alessandra stood up.
‘You always take the blackest view of things!’
Aubusson rose to his feet as well.
‘Your plan is too full of risks!’ he exclaimed. ‘It will be a miracle if—’
He did not finish, feeling upset and embarrassed by his outburst.
With a smile and a knowing glance up at his face, the Italian adventuress indicated that she was not angry with him.
‘You’re forgetting one thing,’ she said.
‘And what is that?’
‘Even if they do not realise it, I shall have the Cardinal’s Blades on my side.’
The tavern was located in rue des Mauvais-Garcons, not far from the Saint-Jean cemetery. Like the surrounding neighbourhood, it was dark, filthy, smelly and sinister. Although its dirt floor was not strewn with the same unhealthy muck that spattered the paving stones outside, the air stank of the smoke from pipes and the cheap yellow tallow candles, as well as the sweating, grimy bodies of its clientele. The One-Eyed Tarasque was a place where people came to drink themselves senseless, drowning their pain and sorrows in the sour
wine. One such drunkard could be seen mumbling to himself in a corner. Not so long ago, a hurdy-gurdy player had performed his melancholy airs here in the evening. But he would be coming here no more.
Arnaud de Laincourt, however, still came.
He was sitting alone at a table upon which Marechal, roaming as freely as his little chain would allow, was scratching at old wax incrustations in the wood. With a grey stoneware pitcher and a glass before him, the cardinal’s former spy had a lost, distant expression on his face.
And a sad one.
Despite himself, he was thinking of all the sacrifices he had agreed to make in His Eminence’s service, and the little thanks he had received in return. He was thinking back on all the years he had spent living amidst lies, suspicion, betrayal, intrigue, and murder. He was thinking of that deceitful world where rest was never permitted, and which had little by little eaten away at his soul. He was thinking of all those who had lost their lives there. And in particular, of an old hurdy-gurdy player who had left nothing behind but a decrepit dragonnet.
Don’t torment yourself on my account, boy.
Can’t I at least shed a tear for you?
Of course you can. But I won’t have you blaming yourself for my death. You know it wasn’t your fault that I perished.
But I’m still alive. While you—
So what?
Laincourt looked at the empty stool in front of him.
It was the very same stool on which the hurdy-gurdy player used to take a seat during each of their clandestine meetings. The young man imagined that it was occupied once again. He had no trouble at all envisioning the old man, wearing his filthy rags and carrying his battered instrument on a strap around his neck. He was smiling, but his face was bruised and bloody. Laincourt could no longer remember him any other way than this, the way he had seen the hurdy-gurdy player for the very last time.
I’ve seen the man in the beige doublet again. The one who’s been following me around these last few days and doesn’t seem to care if he’s seen. He was on the Pont Neuf. And I know he came by Bertaud’s bookshop later . . .
You can’t avoid meeting him much longer.
Bah!
Just because you’ve finished with intrigues doesn’t mean they’ve finished with you. The world doesn’t work that way . . . And besides, you were wrong.
Wrong?
Wrong to spurn the cardinal’s offer.
The cardinal did not offer me anything.
Come now, boy! Do you think La Fargue would have proposed your joining his Blades without, at the very least, His Eminence’s approval . . . ? You should not have refused him.
Suddenly weary, Laincourt looked away.
To the others present in the tavern, he was just a young man whose dragonnet was patiently waiting for him to finish his drinking.
To travel from the Louvre to the Palais-Cardinal, all that was necessary was to take rue d’Autriche, then turn left on Saint-Honore and follow to Richelieu’s official residence.
A first obstacle, however, was posed in leaving the Louvre itself, which had been a mediaeval fortress before it became a palace. Its courtyard therefore had only one public exit: an archway so dark that one winter morning a gentleman had jostled King Henri IV there without even realising it. Twelve metres long, this archway led out to the east. It was the main access to the palace, the one used by royal processions, but also by a crowd of people that gathered before it from morning till night. Flanked by two old towers, it overlooked a nauseating ditch which could only be crossed by means of a narrow bridge defended by a massive fortified gate, known as the Bourbon gate.
Having left the Louvre through this gate, however, other obstacles still lay ahead. The gate opened onto rue d’Autriche, a lane running perpendicular to the Seine, between the Ecole quay to the south and rue Saint-Honore to the north. In Paris, the narrowness of the city’s streets made the passage of traffic difficult everywhere. But the very modest rue d’Autriche was the place where all those seeking to enter the Louvre crossed paths with all those leaving the palace. To make matters worse, its pavement was always filled with coaches, since carriages were denied permission to enter the precincts of the palace, except in the case of certain grand personages, foreign dignitaries, or for reasons of health. Thus the resulting jams, collisions, and confusion were a permanent feature of rue d’Autriche, where people spent more time shuffling in place than advancing in the midst of a great din of shouts, insults, whinnying, hoof beats, and creaking axles.
It was therefore with a certain amount of relief that, on the way to the Palais-Cardinal, it was finally possible to escape from rue d’Autriche and turn left onto rue Saint-Honore. This street, although one of the longest in the capital since Paris had been extended westwards, was not much wider than the others. Heavily frequented, it too had its share of daily traffic jams. But here at least, there was a more ordinary level of unruliness and bother. And here at least, travellers were no longer subjected to the stench from the stagnant waters in the ditches surrounding the. Louvre.
Here at least, one could progress at a walking pace.
Bearing his magnificent coat-of-arms, Cardinal Richelieu’s coach left the Louvre with the curtains drawn. It entered rue d’Autriche at a slow walk, moving towards rue Saint-Honore where a horse escort would open the way for it until it arrived at the Palais-Cardinal.
The heavy curtains were intended to protect His Eminence from both the dust and public view. Nothing could be done, however, about the heat or the stink. Paris had been baking all day beneath a pitiless sun and the excrement and muck that covered its pavement had become a cracked crust from which escaped powerful, acrid, and unhealthy exhalations.
The cardinal held a handkerchief imbibed with vinegar to his nose and sat deep in thought, his face turned towards the window of the passenger door and the curtain that blocked it. Now that he had found refuge in his coach he was no longer obliged put on an act for the ever-present spies at the Louvre. And although he remained in perfect control of his emotions, his severe expression and distant gaze betrayed the extent of his preoccupation. He considered the arrests he would have to order in conformity with the king’s will, the interrogations that would then need to be conducted, and the truths that would emerge from them. Disturbing, embarrassing, scandalous truths. Truths that might very well compromise Queen Anne’s honour and become a grave affair of State.
The queen, after all, was Spanish . . .
The cardinal sighed and, almost as a means of distracting himself, asked:
‘Any news of Captain La Fargue?’
Then he slowly turned his head to look at the gentleman who had been sitting across from him, silent and still, ever since the coach first moved off.
‘He returned today,’ replied the comte de Rochefort.
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Yes, monseigneur. He asks to be received by Your Eminence as a matter of urgency.’
‘Impossible,’ Richelieu declared.
In order to confound any possible suspicions on the part of his adversaries, he had decided to maintain the pretence that today was an ordinary day, just like any other. He would, therefore, not receive the captain of his Blades. Not even discreetly, or secretly. For if someone happened to catch even a fleeting glimpse of La Fargue in the corridors of the Palais-Cardinal, the most astute observers would be sure to make a connection with the tete-a-tete which Louis XIII had so brusquely held with his chief minister that morning, after the meeting of the Council. A connection that had no basis in fact, as it happened. But it would be dangerous, nevertheless.
Rochefort did not insist.
‘La Fargue met with La Donna last night,’ he said. ‘She claims to have knowledge of a plot threatening the throne of France. She offers to reveal it in return for—’
‘How much?’
‘She is not demanding money, monseigneur.’
The cardinal quirked an eyebrow.
is La Donna no longer venal?‘
/>
‘She demands your protection.’
‘My protection. Meaning that of France . . . What does she fear? Or rather, who does she fear?’
‘If one is to believe La Fargue, La Donna is being hunted by the Black Claw,’ Rochefort said dubiously.
‘Ah,’ replied the cardinal, beginning to understand. ‘Naturally. That would explain a number of things,’ he added in a thoughtful tone. ‘Such as the lady’s eagerness in seeking to contact me.’
‘She asked that this letter be delivered to you.’
Richelieu looked at the letter held out to him, but at that instant the coach, which had previously been advancing very slowly along rue Saint-Honore, came to a complete halt. Roche-fort placed his hand on his rapier. Intrigued, the cardinal lifted the curtain of the coach door and called out:
‘Captain!’
The young Captain de La Houdiniere drew up aside the coach on his horse.
‘Monseigneur?’
‘Why aren’t we moving?’
‘A tarasque, monseigneur.’
Tarasques were enormous reptiles with hard shells. They had three pairs of very short legs. Heavy and slow, they possessed colossal strength and could easily knock over a wall by accident or pass right through a house without changing pace. As stupid as they were placid, they made excellent draught animals. They could also be readily harnessed to hoist machinery at building sites.
And there was no lack of building sites in the vicinity of the Palais-Cardinal.
‘Do the best you can,’ said Richelieu before letting the curtain fall back into place.
But he had no illusions: there was simply no way of hurrying a tarasque when it crossed a street.
The cardinal considered the letter that Rochefort still held in his hand. Stained and dog-eared, it seemed to him thicker than a simple missive. No doubt there was something inside.
He did not touch it.
‘Open it, please.’
The comte undid the seal and unfolded the letter with a certain degree of apprehension. The threat of a possible attempt against Cardinal Richelieu’s life was never far from his mind. And poisons existed — born of draconic alchemy — which, reduced to a very fine powder, could kill the first person who breathed them.