by Pierre Pevel
‘Bah!’ said Alessandra, shrugging and turning away. ‘It’s gone cold now, in any case . . .’
Leprat found La Renardiere’s maitre d’hotel already on the front porch, waiting as usual.
‘Monsieur.’
‘Good morning, Danvert.’
Together they watched a coach pass over the dry moat and enter the courtyard. Twelve cavaliers escorted the vehicle, all of them Cardinal’s Guards armed with swords and short muskets, although they did not wear the cape. Monsieur de La Houdiniere rode at their head. He was the company’s new captain and the successor to sieur de Saint-Georges, who had died a month earlier under circumstances which were so infamous that they remained secret, to the satisfaction of all concerned.
The coach drew to a halt at the bottom of the steps. La Houdiniere leapt down from his saddle and went over to Leprat. They shook hands like men who held one another in esteem but who could not permit themselves to fraternise — for the first belonged to His Eminence’s Guards, while the second remained, even if he had momentarily hung up his cape, a member of His Majesty’s Musketeers. There was a traditional rivalry between these two corps, and a lively one: it was a rare fortnight which passed without a guard and a musketeer engaging in a duel for one reason or another.
La Houdiniere and Leprat, however, were on good terms.
Their acquaintance had begun when they fought together the previous year, when Louis XIII had marched on Nancy for the second time — and before he had to for a third — at the head of his army to persuade Duke Charles IV of Lorraine to show better sentiments towards the king of France. On the 18th of June, a cavalry regiment from Lorraine had been holding one of the crossings over the Mouse river, close to the small town of Saint-Mihiel and not far from the king’s quarters. Hostilities had not really commenced yet — in fact, Charles IV was continuing to parley — but Louis XIII was determined to strike a lightning blow as a demonstration of force. A unit of elite soldiers drawn from the Navarre regiment, the gendarmerie, the light cavalry, the King’s Musketeers, and the Cardinal’s Guards had therefore been placed under the comte d’Allais’s command. La Houdiniere — who was then still a lieutenant — and Leprat had been among this elite. Surprised, trapped in their trenches, and soon stricken by panic, Lorraine’s forces had suffered a terrible defeat. It had been a massacre which few had survived.
Later the two men’s paths had often crossed, but they had not worked closely together again until now. They shared the responsibility of guarding La Donna, Leprat here at La Renardiere and La Houdiniere during her daily journeys to Le Chatelet, where the spy was interrogated. They thus met twice a day, when the one relieved the other.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked La Houdiniere.
‘Yes,’ replied Leprat. ‘Any orders from the Palais-Cardinal?’
‘None.’
And that was everything that needed to be said.
Wearing her cloak and hood, Alessandra soon made her appearance, smiling and unruffled. Ever a gentleman, La Houdiniere opened the coach door for her and lent her his hand as she climbed into the passenger compartment. Then he remounted his horse and, after a final salute to Leprat, gave the signal to depart.
The former musketeer stood for a moment watching the coach and its escort move off. He was tired but could not rest just yet.
He turned to Danvert, the maitre d’hotel, who was waiting patiently.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, returning inside. ‘We have much to do.’
The old woman was sitting in a peaceful, sunny garden in one of the numerous convents in the faubourg Saint-Jacques.
She spent the better part of her days here, when the heat was bearable, reading and biding her time in an armchair that was brought out from her bedchamber for her. Otherwise she shared the ordinary life of the nuns, punctuated by prayers and meals. She was not obliged to do so, but it suited the character she had invented for herself, that of a rich, pious widow, weary of the world and desiring to pass the last years of her life in retreat from it. Within the convent she was known as madame de Chantegrelle. Only a month earlier, however, she had been the vivacious vicomtesse de Malicorne and, thanks to magic, had looked less than twenty years old. An age which was scarcely more deceptive than the one her present appearance suggested. For her true age was a number of years which stretched far beyond the ordinary span. Ordinary for human kind, that is.
But she was a dragon.
The so-called madame de Chantegrelle lifted her eyes from her book and sighed as she considered both the garden and the life that was hers at present. She had loved being the vicomtesse de Malicorne. She’d possessed youth, beauty, wealth, and power. All of Paris had courted her and vied for her favours. What a shame to have been forced to abandon that role! Officially, the vicomtesse had perished in a fire that had left nothing of her but a charred, unrecognisable corpse — in point of fact, that of some wretched woman taken from the gutter. It was a tragic loss but an almost banal event in Paris, where fire was the cause of many fatal accidents . . .
The truth was, the ritual intended to mark her triumph had instead brought about her ruin. Anyone but her would not have survived the ordeal, no doubt. But that did not assuage her regrets. And it did nothing to diminish the desire for revenge that burned inside her. If not for Cardinal Richelieu, if not for Captain La Fargue and his cursed Blades, today she would have been at the head of the first Black Claw lodge ever founded in France . . .
The sound of a light footstep on the gravel garden path drew madame de Chantegrelle’s attention. A nun approached her and, after making sure she wasn’t asleep, whispered a few words in her ear. The old woman nodded before turning her head to look at her announced visitor, who stood a short distance away beneath a stone arch covered with climbing roses in flower. A fleeting expression of surprise and fear passed across her face, but she greeted her visitor with a polite smile and extended a hand to be kissed.
The man was dressed as a gentleman, in grey and black, with a sword at his side. He might have been fifty or fifty-five years of age. He was an intimidating figure: tall, rather thin, and hieratic in bearing. He had an emaciated oval face with strangely smooth skin, as if it had been stretched a little too tight over the ridges of his face, and a morbid, sickly pallor. His icy grey eyes crinkled up whenever he coughed — with a dry, brief, guttural sound - into the handkerchief which he dabbed at his fine, livid lips.
Like the woman he now joined, he was a dragon. He had borne many names, some of which she had learned. But the one he preferred was a nom de guerre: the Alchimiste des Ombres, the Alchemist of the Shadows. Where had it originated, exactly? She didn’t know. In any case, it was by this pseudonym — or sometimes merely by a sign featuring an A‘ and an ’O‘ intertwined - that the Black Claw designated one of its best independent agents.
A novice having brought him a chair, the Alchemist sat down with a nod — not so much in thanks but rather in acknowledgement of the chair being placed at his disposal, as a matter of course.
‘I have known of your setbacks for some time, madame. But I have only now had the opportunity to pay you a visit. Please forgive me.’
‘My “setbacks”,’ noted the old woman. ‘How kindly put—’
‘I will add, in my defence, that it was hardly easy to find you.’
‘What can I say? Madame de Chantegrelle is far more discreet than the vicomtesse de Malicorne. And who would concern themselves with a dying old lady living out her final days in a convent, surrounded by sisters whose affection for her was ensured by bequeathing to them what remains of her fortune?’
The Alchemist gave one of his rare smiles, which barely lifted the corners of his thin lips. Like all dragons, he was amused by human religions and the shortcomings of their representatives. His race had no other form of worship than that of ancestors, no other divinities than the Ancestral Dragons whose existence, even in times immemorial, was not subject to doubt.
‘Do you lack money, madame?’
‘No, thank you. But I am touched by your concern, although it does seem to me that your visit cannot be one of pure courtesy.’
‘Madame, I—’
‘No, monsieur. Don’t defend yourself on this subject; you would only be lying, after all . . .’ She sighed. ‘I am indeed most ungrateful in reproaching you. Since . . . since my setbacks, visitors have been rare. The Black Claw is quick to forget anyone who can no longer serve it. I do not regret that -I’m happy to still be alive. I imagine I owe it to my birth, to my rank. And perhaps because they believe I’ve been rendered harmless once and for all—’
‘I wager that they are mistaken on that point.’
‘Do you really think so?’
The former vicomtesse looked at the Alchemist.
‘Yes,’ he said, returning her gaze without wavering.
It meant nothing, she knew that.
Nevertheless, she chose to believe that he was sincere.
‘I just need to rest, hence my self-imposed retreat here. And then one day, when I have recovered some semblance of my past power—’
She broke off, eyes shining and lost in the distance . . .
The Alchemist waited for her to return from her dreams of restored glory. But perhaps those dreams had carried her too far away. After a moment, he heard her murmuring, as she nodded her head vaguely:
‘Yes . . . Some rest ... I only need some rest . . .’
*
The inn, a little way from Vincennes on the road to Champagne, was full of soldiers going to join their regiment at Chalons-sur-Marne. Swords, daggers and pistols lay on all the tables; muskets and halberds leant against the walls. The noisy, mixed-up, indistinct, but warlike conversations reverberated around the common room where a golden light poured in through the windows. Mocking sallies were thrown above heads wreathed in pipe smoke. Other jests answered them and loud laughter erupted.
Captain La Fargue entered and, from the inn’s threshold, where his impressive silhouette was outlined against daylight and blocked the exit, he surveyed the assembly with a slow glance. Eyes narrowed, he did not find the person he was looking for, while ignoring the curious looks that were being warily cast in his direction. Anyone but him would no doubt have drawn some remark that would have started a fight. But none of the soldiers present were stupid enough or drunk enough to pick a quarrel with a man like La Fargue.
A rare kind of man, intimidating and dangerous.
Entering in turn, Almades approached the captain from behind and said in his ear:
‘Round the back.’
La Fargue nodded and, accompanied by the Spaniard, went out into the sunny back yard. There he found the comte de Rochefort, who was playing skittles with a group of gentlemen.
Seeing who had arrived, the cardinal’s henchman took his time to aim, launched the ball, and managed a fairly good throw. Satisfied, he rubbed his hands together while his playing companions congratulated him. He thanked them, excused himself, finally nodded to the captain of the Blades, and went to recover his doublet which he had removed in order to play more comfortably. Putting it back on, he invited La Fargue to sit with him at a small table beneath a tree. There was a glass and a jug placed upon it. Rochefort drank from the glass and La Fargue, provocatively, from the jug.
‘Please, help yourself,’ said the cardinal’s man ironically.
The old gentleman soldier gazed at him steadily. And for good measure, without blinking, he wiped his mouth with the hack of his hand and smacked his lips.
‘How very elegant . . .’
‘What do you want, Rochefort? I have better things to do than watch you play skittles.’
The comte nodded vaguely. He glanced distractedly at their surroundings, and then took a deep breath as he collected his thoughts. Finally, in an almost casual tone, he asked:
‘What do you make of La Donna?’
La Fargue sighed and leaned back in his chair.
‘My opinion of her has not changed,’ he replied in a weary voice. ‘I believe we cannot trust the woman. But I also believe she has come to us with a story that forces us to give her allegations serious consideration. For even if it were the duch-esse de Chevreuse herself claiming to denounce a plot against the king . . .’ At these words, Rochefort raised an eyebrow, but the captain was not deterred. ‘Even if La Donna were La Chevreuse, I say, we would have to lend her an attentive ear.’
‘The cardinal is of the same mind as you. Moreover, there is this . . .’
Rochefort discreetly pushed something across the table to La Fargue, an object which looked very much like a jewel case made of precious wood. The captain took it, opened it, and saw a black wax seal inside, still attached to the torn corner of a sheet of parchment.
‘That was in the packet La Donna gave you, not long ago, to deliver to His Eminence. Do you know what it is?’
La Fargue sat up in his chair.
‘Yes. This is a Black Seal. Each of them contains a drop of dragon’s blood, used by the Black Claw to seal its most precious documents . . .’ He returned the case, and Rochefort pocketed it immediately. ‘So the Black Claw is a player in this game.’
‘In one fashion or another, yes.’
‘What does La Donna say on this matter?’
The cardinal’s man grimaced.
‘Not much . . . neither on this matter nor, indeed, on any other. According to Laffemas she has no equal when it comes to answering a question without saying anything . . .’
For several days now, the beautiful Alessandra di Santi had been transported in secret to a room in Le Chatelet and interrogated, also in the greatest secrecy, all morning. Monsieur de Laffemas conducted these sessions. Beginning his career as an advocate in Parlement, then a master of petitions, he had since been appointed a state councillor. He enjoyed the confidence and esteem of Richelieu, to whom he owed a great deal. Now, at the age of fifty, he was the lieutenant of civil affairs at Le Chatelet, that is to say, one of the two magistrates - the other being the lieutenant of criminal affairs - who worked as deputies to the provost of Paris. An honest, rigorous and devoted man, Isaac de Laffemas was in charge of State prosecutions and therefore the object of enduring hatred due to his role in the great trials ordered by the cardinal.
Thinking about the man’s difficulties with La Donna, La Fargue couldn’t prevent himself from letting a smile show. Rochefort saw it and also smiled, adding:
‘To top it all, without a doubt, is the fact that Laffemas always comes out feeling quite pleased with himself. It is only when he reads the minutes of his interrogation that he realises how, every time, La Donna has not answered the question, or only very partially, or she has merely repeated information she has already given him, and which wasn’t worth very much to begin with. She mixes truth and falsehood, all the while cleverly wielding allusion, innuendo, digression, hollow phrases and misleading revelations. She knows how to play at being nai’ve, foolish, forgetful and charming by turn. Poor Laffemas is losing his wits as well as his sleep over her. And yet, he still returns each morning determined not to let her get the best of him—’
Rochefort was interrupted by the skittles players, applauding an able bowler.
‘Very well,’ said La Fargue. ‘La Donna is leading Laffemas around by the nose. But it’s only fair . . . After all, she promised to tell us what she knows of this plot on the condition that she is protected. That means a pardon, without which she will always be persecuted in France. In accordance with the sentences passed by the Parlement, her proper place, right now, is in prison. She knows this full well and, unless she is subjected to torture, she will remain silent on the essential question until she receives her guarantees.’
‘The cardinal is not in a position to offer her such guarantees right now. And time is running out. Not simply because we believe the date of execution of the plot against His Majesty is fast approaching. But also because each day that goes by increases the chances that La Donna’s presence will be discovered. And when it reaches th
e ears of the members of the Parlement—’
‘The king can annul a ruling by the Parlement, in his Council. He has that power.’
‘Certainly. But will he want to use it?’
La Fargue raised an astonished eyebrow.
‘Do you mean to say that His Majesty does not know what is going on?’
Rochefort ignored the question:
‘Whenever the king annuls a ruling it’s always a very unpopular decision. The Parlement protests loudly, everyone gets stirred up, and there are inevitably a few brave souls ready to stoke the people’s anger and cry tyranny . . . And kings dislike it when there are rumblings among the people. Especially on the eve of a war.’
‘Lorraine.’
‘Yes, Lorraine . . . You see, La Fargue, to succeed without making too many waves, these sorts of affairs have to be carefully arranged. Public opinion has to be prepared, some loyalties have to be bought in advance, favourable pamphlets have to be written, suitable rumours propagated . . . It’s much easier than you probably think, but it demands care, money and, above all, time. And time is what we lack most . . .’
La Fargue was starting to take full stock of the problem: a spy who would or could not talk, a plot threatening the king looming on the horizon, and an hourglass whose sands were already funnelling downwards.
After a brief moment of reflection, he asked: ‘What are His Eminence’s orders?’
Holding the door, Leprat waited patiently while Danvert gave Alessandra di Santi’s bedchamber a final but thorough glance.
This had been their routine since La Donna came to stay at La Renardiere. Each morning, as soon as the coach which took her to Le Chatelet departed, they visited her apartments. Leprat supervised, although his presence was not truly necessary. The domestic servants the cardinal had so graciously assigned to serve the lady spy knew their business. They did not content themselves with observing her every deed and gesture and making daily reports. They also inspected her bedchamber and antechamber with a fine-tooth comb, under the maitre d’hotel’s keen eye, and he - rather than Leprat — directed their search and ensured that nothing was overlooked.