Alchemist in the Shadows

by Pierre Pevel

  The letter from La Donna presented no such danger. On the other hand, what it actually contained prompted Rochefort to recoil in an instinctive, superstitious manner.

  His reaction could not fail to interest the cardinal.

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘Monseigneur, look . . .’

  Richelieu lowered his eyes to peer at the object the other man was showing him, lying in the hollow of the unfolded letter. Still attached to the torn corner of a sheet of parchment, it was a seal in black wax stamped with the sign of the Grand Lodge of the Black Claw.

  ‘Monseigneur ... Is that what I think it is?’

  The cardinal took his time to examine it closely, and then nodded firmly.

  ‘Most assuredly, Rochefort.’

  ‘But how could La Donna have obtained it?’

  ‘That would be a very interesting question to put to her, wouldn’t it?’

  And as his coach started to move again, Richelieu turned back to the closed curtain of his coach door, as if absorbed by some spectacle that only he could perceive.

  3

  Rochefort came by the Hotel de l’Epervier in the early evening. Upon entering the courtyard, he leapt from his saddle, threw his horse’s reins to Andre, and dashed up the front steps of the mansion.

  Inside, at the bottom of the great staircase, he came across Leprat who, after La Fargue, was probably his least favourite of the Blades. To make matters worse, the former musketeer couldn’t bear to see Rochefort walk into the house as if it were his own. He was not one of the Blades and never would be. Leprat therefore gave him a silent, icy welcome.

  The cardinal’s henchman, in a hurry, paid no heed to this.

  ‘Where’s La Fargue?’ he demanded.

  Leprat pointed towards the main hall on the ground floor, which the Blades had converted into a fencing room. It was a long, high-ceilinged chamber, decorated with gilt but now almost empty of furnishings, whose windows overlooked the garden. La Fargue was in discussion with Agnes and Marciac when Rochefort found him. Their conversation ended at once and all eyes converged on the intruder.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Rochefort announced.

  La Fargue considered him for a moment.

  Then he nodded and with his chin indicated the door of an antechamber, towards which Rochefort briskly led the way. Once the door closed behind them, Agnes and Marciac, both looking intrigued, turned to Leprat who was watching from the threshold.

  ‘La Donna?’ guessed the young baronne.

  Leprat shrugged, before glancing over his shoulder to see Saint-Lucq approaching.

  Although he had returned from the mission at the same time as La Fargue and Almades, the half-blood had vanished and only now was making his reappearance. No one dreamt, however, of asking him where he had been or what he had been doing. Agnes noticed that his clothes — black and perfectly tailored, as usual — were clean and freshly pressed. They were certainly not the same ones he had been wearing on the journey to Artois with La Fargue. But his boots were somewhat dusty, suggesting that he had ridden along a dirt road since he had changed.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said without addressing anyone in particular.

  The others, preoccupied, answered him vaguely but their offhand greeting didn’t offend him.

  ‘Whose horse is that in the courtyard?’ he asked.

  ‘Rochefort’s,’ answered Marciac. ‘He is in conference with the captain right now. He seemed to be in a hurry.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘La Donna, no doubt.’

  I see.

  The Gascon was seated at a small table, where there was some food, wine glasses, and bottles. Saint-Lucq joined him and, while he stood there and poured himself a drink, he asked:

  ‘And La Rochelle?’

  Marciac pursed his lips and shrugged.

  The half-blood drained his glass, peered at the Gascon through his red spectacles, nodded briefly, and went to sit in an alcove window that looked out onto the garden.

  Marciac smiled.

  It had been three weeks since they had seen one another. Three weeks during which Marciac, on his solo mission, could very well have been killed. But he knew that as far as welcomes were concerned, he could expect no more from Saint-Lucq.

  The door of the antechamber opened and Rochefort, without glancing at anyone, departed as quickly as he had arrived. As for La Fargue, he took his time in emerging. He went over lo the Blades and accepted the glass Leprat held out to him.

  ‘So?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘So, La Donna has somehow managed to achieve her goal. I don’t know why, but the cardinal is taking her very seriously. He believes this plot she claims to have discovered does in fact exist, and he charges us with unravelling the whole affair . . .’

  ‘And how are we to do that?’ enquired Leprat.

  ‘Obviously, first we need to find our lady spy again.’

  ‘Preferably before the dracs, who are also hunting for her,’ added Marciac.

  ‘Yes . . . The trouble is, we have no idea how to find her.’

  ‘Didn’t she say she would make contact this evening, in Paris, captain?’ recalled Agnes.

  ‘Yes,’ La Fargue admitted.

  ‘Then let’s hope she -doesn’t delay too long before keeping her promise.’

  ‘And for now, captain?’ Marciac wanted to know.

  ‘For now,’ the old gentleman replied, ‘we wait.’

  ‘Ah—’

  ‘What? Do you have other plans?’

  ‘Yes. Two of them. And both have very beautiful eyes.’

  His dragonnet perched on his shoulder, Arnaud de Laincourt returned home from the One-Eyed Tarasque slightly drunk. He arrived at his house in rue de la Ferronnerie just as night was falling and found someone waiting outside for him. It was the man in the beige doublet who seemed to take great pleasure these past few days in dogging his footsteps without openly showing himself.

  ‘Good evening, monsieur,’ said the gentleman.

  ‘Good evening. You were waiting for me, I see . . .’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘In vain, I fear.’

  Without seeming to, Laincourt watched the darkening shadows around them carefully. Although there were still people travelling along rue de la Ferronnerie at this hour, it was never too early to carry out a well-executed ambush in Paris. Prudence was thus called for, until he knew exactly what the man in the beige doublet wanted from him. But the cardinal’s former spy — for whom being alert to the slightest hint of danger was second nature — could detect no cause for alarm. And Marechal, the old hurdy-gurdy player’s dragon-net, remained placid.

  ‘In vain? Could you not hear me out, before chasing me away ?’

  ‘I am not chasing you away, monsieur.’

  ‘Grant me just a few moments of your time. I only ask that you listen to me.’

  Laincourt was silent for a long while, examining the mysterious gentleman with an impassive eye. He was probably approaching forty years of age. Trim, fair-haired, with a well-kept moustache and royale beard, he was dressed elegantly but not ostentatiously. He had a frank and kindly demeanour, and his friendly eyes made no attempt to evade Laincourt’s searching gaze.

  ‘With your permission, it is time we had a certain conversation,’ the gentleman insisted.

  A window opened above them. It was done discreetly, but not so quietly that Laincourt failed to hear it. No doubt it was monsieur Laborde, the ribbon seller who possessed a shop on the ground floor and resided on the first floor with his family . . . unless it was his wife, or both of them, pressed together and lending a curious ear to the proceedings below. Laborde was the principal lodger in the house. Enjoying the landlord’s complete trust, he collected other lodgers’ rent and made it his business to maintain the respectability of the entire house. When Laincourt was still an ensign in His Eminence’s Guards, the ribbon maker had sought his good graces by fawning over him. But now the young man had returned his cape — and done so unde
r such troubling circumstances that it had even started rumours — matters had changed.

  Still hesitating over whether he should allow the gentleman a hearing, Laincourt wondered what advice the hurdy-gurdy player would have provided in such a situation.

  I would advise you not to have this conversation on the front doorstep. Especially not with that fat Laborde eavesdropping . . .

  ‘Very well,’ the former spy decided. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  ‘Thank you, monsieur.’

  Laincourt preceded the gentleman into a corridor that was both narrow and unlit, then led him up a staircase lacking both air and light. As they climbed, they kept a tight hold on the rickety banister, the former Cardinal’s Guard cautioning the other man to be careful on the treacherous steps. Reaching the second floor, and allowing himself be guided by habit, Laincourt found his door in the dark. He opened it with his key and left it wide open to assist the mysterious gentleman, who was still groping his way forward. A shadowy grey light filled the small apartment and outlined a faint, irregular patch of the landing.

  Having arrived home, Laincourt remained faithful to certain routines. First of all he detached the leash from Marechal’s collar. Then he made the dragonnet enter his cage, before striking a flame to light a candle. Those tasks accomplished, he filled the small reptile’s bowl with water, removed his hat, hung up his baldric, and only then turned his attention to the gentleman who, hat in hand, was looking about him.

  Laincourt’s apartments consisted of two badly ventilated rooms. Very modest and poorly furnished, devoid of any personal note, they were nevertheless clean and tidy — obviously the abode of a bachelor who had never let himself slide into sloth.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Laincourt, ‘I only have one chair to offer you. Take it, I shall use this stool.’

  ‘No need, monsieur. I shall not trouble you for long.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Permit me to introduce myself. I am the chevalier de Mirebeau and—’

  ‘Just one thing, monsieur, before you continue.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Speak softly. If anyone were to bother to listen, they would hear everything through this wretched floor,’ indicated Laincourt, tapping his heel.

  He imagined the Laborde couple below being showered with dust.

  ‘I understand,’ the gentleman replied in a lower tone.

  ‘So what is it you want, monsieur de Mirebeau? I have spotted you, here and there, for the past week.’

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but it has only been four days since I began observing you.’

  ‘Six days. During the first two, you were trying to hide.’

  Mirebeau admitted defeat:

  ‘That’s right.’

  Laincourt didn’t care if he was right or wrong.

  ‘So? What do you want from me?’

  ‘I have been charged with informing you, monsieur, that a certain party is surprised by the injustices that have been heaped upon you. This party is saddened to learn that you are alone and unemployed, and worries about your future.’

  ‘So, I have a guardian angel looking out for me . . .’

  ‘Your merits have not gone unnoticed, monsieur. Only a few weeks ago you wore the cape of His Eminence’s Guards. You held the rank of ensign and you seemed destined for a lieutenancy. Without ever showing yourself to be unworthy of it, this cape was taken from you. Your name was then quietly cleared of any charges, but without the return of your cape, your rank or the honours that were your due. And then you were abandoned to your fate without further ado . . .’

  Laincourt studied the gentleman’s eyes and tried to read the truth hidden within them. What did he know, exactly? Was he aware of the circumstances under which Laincourt had been arrested and then dismissed from the Cardinal’s Guards? Did he know of the dangerous double role the spy had played with the Black Claw’s agents? Of the sacrifices he had been forced to make to complete his mission successfully? Laincourt had accepted the assignment knowing the consequences full well. And he had been aware that it would require forsaking his rank and his uniform, because he was familiar with the rules of the game.

  But in him Mirebeau only saw a loyal servant, dismissed out of ingratitude or negligence, whose legitimate ambitions had been shattered.

  And, therefore, he had come to offer Laincourt a new master:

  ‘You know how the world works. One cannot get very far or rise very high without a benevolent protector. The person I serve would very much like to count you as a friend. I said that your merits have not gone unnoticed. Your virtues are also known. As are your talents, which would finally be appreciated at their true value. Your Spanish is excellent, I believe. And you are perfectly familiar with Madrid . . .’

  Laincourt did not react to this. After all, it was no secret that he had spent two years at the Court of Dragons.

  What he had actually been doing there, on the other hand . . .

  ‘To be perfectly frank,’ he finally replied, ‘I don’t believe I wish to offer my services to anyone . . .’

  Mirebeau’s face took on a kindly expression.

  ‘Would you like to think it over? I understand, and I shall not insist.’ He drew forth a note with a stamped seal from his sleeve. ‘But at least do me the favour of paying a visit to . . . to your guardian angel. Here. Go to rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre. Present yourself on the day and the hour of your choosing and show them this. You shall be received.’

  ‘All right,’ said Laincourt, taking the note.

  ‘I bid you a good evening, monsieur.’

  The cardinal’s former spy answered with a noncommittal smile, then watched the gentleman take his leave. He rose, went to the window, and soon saw Mirebeau come out into rue de la Ferronnerie and follow it east toward the Saint-Honore neighbourhood. Without even thinking about it, Laincourt invoked the presence of the hurdy-gurdy player who approached to look over his shoulder.

  You’re not going to examine the seal on the letter, boy?

  I don’t need to see it to know at whose door I would be knocking.

  No, of course not. There are only two noteworthy dwellings on rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, after all.

  Laincourt nodded as, with narrowed eyes, he continued to watch Mirebeau walking away into the distance.

  One of them is the mansion of the marquise de Rambouillet. It’s said she hosts a literary salon of the highest quality in her home.

  True. But the other is the Hotel de Chevreuse, and I rather thin’t that is where your guardian angel is hoping to see you . . .

  That night at the Hotel de l’Epervier there reigned an atmosphere similar to the eve of battle. The Blades, assembled in the fencing room, found ways to quietly kill time in the candlelight. Leprat and Marciac played dice on a corner of the table. Ballardieu was balancing slowly back and forth on a tilted chair facing one of the windows, watching the night sky while he drank a glass of wine. Agnes was leafing through a treatise on fencing. Lying on a bench with his eyes shut, one knee bent, and his hands gathered on his chest, Saint-Lucq might have been asleep. And Almades was sharpening his rapier, giving it three long strokes with the whetstone before turning the blade over.

  Three strokes along one edge . . .

  . . . three strokes along the other.

  Three strokes along one edge . . .

  Nai’s and monsieur Guibot had gone to their beds. Only the Blades remained, along with Andre who was guarding the saddled horses in the stables, and La Fargue who had retired to his office.

  . . . three strokes along the other.

  Three strokes along one edge . . .

  All of them were booted and armed, ready to spring into action as soon as their captain gave the word for their departure. They only needed to seize their hats, jump into their saddles, and spur their mounts with their heels. Within the hour, they could be anywhere in Paris. Patiently, they awaited the order.

  . . . three strokes along the other.

  How would La Donna make h
er presence known? And, above all, when? Midnight was approaching. The Blades had been waiting all evening for a message or signal. The beautiful spy knew she was being hunted. She would have to be extremely careful. Would she use some indirect means to reestablish contact? But in that case, which one? The dragonnets? Yes, one of the twin dragonnets to which she seemed so attached could deliver a message. Here at the Hotel de l’Eper-vier. Or at the Palais-Cardinal. Or even at the Louvre . . .

  Three strokes along one edge . . .

  . . . three strokes along the other.

  ‘You win,’ Leprat said to Marciac after a last unlucky roll of the dice.

  ‘Another game?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  The musketeer stood up.

  ‘As you like,’ the Gascon said. ‘But you’ll need to make up for lost ground eventually. Don’t forget, you already owe me Piedmont and the duchy of Cleves.’

  It was a game between the two of them. It started one day when, neither of them having even a sou in their pocket, they divided Europe up equitably between them and started betting with their territories. Whether they had subsequently come into funds or not, they had continued to play for these imaginary stakes ever since, keeping a careful account of their losses and gains.

  Three strokes along one edge . . .

  . . . three strokes along the other.

  ‘Never fear, I won’t forget,’ said Leprat. ‘No more than I shall forget winning the bishopric of Munster from you.’

  Giving Marciac an amused smile, he went to knock on La Fargue’s half-open door.

  La Fargue had arranged for his personal use a small private office that communicated with the fencing room by a door and with the upper floors by means of a tiny spiral staircase, hidden behind a moveable wooden panel. Here he received visitors, meditated, and wrote reports to His Eminence. But he rarely shut the door.

  This evening, like the Blades, he too waited in a silence measured out by the long, regular strokes of Almades’s whetstone. Booted and armed, he was leaning back in his armchair with his crossed ankles up on his worktable. Pensive, he played with a small pendant that he normally wore around his neck, winding the chain around his index finger — first in one direction, then the other. It was a worn, scratched, tarnished piece of jewellery which had a cover to protect the miniature portrait within. That of a woman La Fargue had loved long ago, but which also resembled closely the daughter they had produced together.