by Pierre Pevel
Danvert was alert and gave precise orders, but otherwise said little. He was about fifty years old. With his trim figure, grey hair and the naturally hale complexion of Mediterranean folk, he had devoted his life to providing perfect service. He was gifted with all the qualities of the best maitres d’hotel, whose duty was to ensure the smooth running of a household and to manage the domestic staff. That is to say, he was discreet, intelligent, honest, attentive, and foresighted. But he also had a flaw that was very common in his profession: a type of arrogance inspired by the sense - often well-founded - of being indispensable.
In practice, he was the true master of La Renardiere. Assisted by a staff which was at his beck and call, he kept the premises in readiness to welcome any guest on short notice, even in the middle of the night, to stay for any length of time from a few hours to days or even weeks on end. He was aware of the exceptional nature of the guests the cardinal received here. It seemed he was never surprised by anything, did not ask to know any more than was necessary, and performed his duties with zeal without ever becoming emotional about his work. Leprat quickly took his measure and came to rely on him, in the same way that a good officer would rely on an experienced sergeant. It was a decision that the former musketeer was not given cause to regret, and on which he congratulated himself the first time he witnessed the servants’ systematic search of La Donna’s apartments: Danvert clearly knew what he was doing.
‘A problem?’ asked Leprat when the maitre d’hotel hesitated.
Only the two of them remained in Alessandra’s antechamber.
Danvert was chewing on his lower lip, a certain sign of perplexity. He did not answer, and, acting on an impulse, he went over to the cage where Alessandra’s dragonnets were cooped up. One of the twins — no doubt the male, Charybdis -growled at him when he checked the padlock securing the little door.
That done, the maitre d’hotel finally decided to leave and, in passing, gave Leprat an apologetic look for making him wait. But the Blade gave him a reassuring glance in return.
‘It would be simpler if we knew what we were looking for, wouldn’t it?’
‘Indeed, monsieur. We can never be too careful.’
Leprat closed the door, turned the key twice in the lock, and the two men walked away.
‘I’m going to get some sleep,’ announced the former musketeer, stifling a yawn. ‘Wake me if you need me.’
‘Very good, monsieur.’
The dragonnets waited for the voices and the sound of footsteps to fade away in the distance.
Once calm was restored to the deserted bedchamber, Scylla’s eyes sparkled and the padlock opened with a click. C’harybdis immediately pushed the little door open with a clawed foot. The twins escaped from their cage and swooped up the chimney flue. They emerged into the sunlight in a puff of soot that went unnoticed below and which — even had it been seen — would have had no clear cause. For although they were not invisible the two dragonnets had become translucent, looking as if they were made of a very pure water that barely disturbed the passage of light.
After some joyful and expert aerial acrobatics, Scylla called her brother back to their duties and they sped off towards Paris together.
2
At the Hotel de l’Epervier, they were waiting for La Fargue.
The Blades were gathered in the garden, in the shade of the chestnut tree, around the weather-bleached old table whose legs were tangled in the tall weeds. Agnes and Marciac were playing draughts while Ballardieu watched the game, sucking on his unlit clay pipe. Saint-Lucq, sitting casually nearby, as impassive as ever behind his red spectacles, juggled with a dagger. And Almades, leaning back against the tree trunk with his arms crossed, simply waited. Leprat was missing, and lor good reason: he had orders not to leave La Renardiere where La Donna was due to return early in the afternoon, under close guard. Glasses of wine and a bowl of juicy fruit attracted buzzing insects to the table, standing in the dappled sunlight which filtered through the chestnut tree’s leaves.
La Fargue finally arrived. He took a seat — turning a chair until its back was against the table, and straddling it — and they all listened to his words closely.
‘Here’s what it’s all about,’ he began. ‘You know that since she gave herself up La Donna has been interrogated in secret at Le Chatelet every morning, by the Paris provost’s lieutenant lor civil affairs.’
‘Monsieur de Laffemas,’ Agnes noted.
‘Laffemas, yes. He is both honest and tenacious. He can be difficult at times, but he’s hardly the monster that some people claim. In any case, he’s smart and not easily fooled. In short, he seemed to be the perfect man to worm information out of La Donna—’
‘But?’ Marciac interrupted.
‘But La Donna is causing problems. Without her smile ever faltering, she deceives, lies, and evades him. Days have passed without her saying very much about what she has done or learned since she began her career as a spy.’
‘And concerning the plot?’ asked Saint-Lucq.
‘On that subject,’ the old gentleman answered, ‘she hasn’t even pretended to respond. She simply repeats, over and over, that the cardinal knows the price of that information. Laffe-mas has tried to learn a little more with indirect questions and falsely innocent allusions to the matter, but in vain. So far, La Donna has always seen straight through Laffemas’s game and she’s played her own cards marvellously.’
‘She’s a crafty bitch,’ the half-blood said. ‘But then, no one succeeds in her line of work by being an imbecile—’
‘Or ugly,’ added Marciac. ‘Is she as beautiful as they say? Could I relieve Leprat? He must be getting bored out there, all alone at La Renardiere—’
Agnes gave a ringing laugh, and Saint-Lucq smiled at the crudeness of this manoeuvre.
‘Out of the question,’ said La Fargue with absolute seriousness.
‘But—’
‘I said no.’
‘All right!’
The Gascon shrugged his shoulders and, sulking a little, poured himself a glass of wine. The young baronne de Vaudreuil gave him a sympathetic pat on the back.
Then she declared:
‘On this point at least, La Donna has never been mysterious: she has always said that she will reveal the details of the plot against the king in exchange for the cardinal’s protection. But she’s still waiting to receive that protection. How can we reproach her for remaining silent on the subject? What could she possibly hope to gain by speaking before she obtains her guarantees? She’s not an idiot—’
‘But that’s where the shoe pinches,’ said La Fargue.
‘How’s that?’ asked Ballardieu in his loud voice, frowning.
‘The cardinal cannot give La Donna his protection while she’s considered to be a criminal, which is what she will continue to be until she’s acquitted of the crimes she’s been convicted of. Or until the king pardons her.’
‘But we’re taking about La Donna!’ Agnes exclaimed. ‘Clearing the name of the adventuress would require a rehabilitation trial that would be a parody of justice!’
‘And for that same reason, the king cannot pardon her with the stroke of a quill without risking a scandal,’ La Fargue acknowledged. ‘In short, La Donna is asking for something she knows is impossible—’
‘Let’s not forget . . .’ added Almades in a flat tone which nonetheless drew everyone’s attention, ‘Let’s not forget that time is against La Donna as well as us—’
‘What?’ said the Gascon, astonished.
‘Let us suppose that there is in truth a plot against the king. A plot about which she has some vital intelligence. What will happen if the plotters make their move while La Donna is still at His Eminence’s mercy?’
Agnes understood:
‘The cardinal will be merciless.’
‘And La Donna will be lucky if this adventure doesn’t end in a noose,’ concluded Marciac.
The Spanish fencing master nodded.
‘So what
game is she playing at?’ the baronne de Vaudreuil wondered.
‘That is precisely what the cardinal wants us to discover,’ declared La Fargue with enough authority to retake control of the debate and nip any further idle speculation in the bud.
The others all turned back to him and waited for him to continue.
‘Let’s start by finding those black dracs who are hunting La Donna. They know more about her than we do, and if we could learn why they are tracking her . . . Besides the cardinal would be pleased to hear they have been prevented from doing any further mischief.’
‘How do we find them?’ enquired Saint-Lucq.
‘They are somewhere in Paris. They arrived five days ago.’
This piece of news aroused surprise. Then Ballardieu, who read the gazettes avidly, recalled that the previous week the guards at one of the Paris gates had been found dead without any clues as to who had killed them. The authorities had quickly removed the bodies. Was there a connection between the dracs’ arrival in the capital and the deaths of these unfortunate men?
‘Yes,’ La Fargue asserted. ‘One of the guards survived a few days in a delirious state. He spoke of dracs and of a “creeping black death”. The cardinal’s master of magic thinks it’s the same black mist that accompanies our dracs ... By the way, Agnes and Marciac, you will be seeing him this afternoon.’
‘The master of magic?’ asked the Gascon.
‘The cardinal believes he can be useful to us.’
‘Good,’ said Agnes.
The old captain then’turned to Saint-Lucq:
‘As for you—’
‘I know,’ replied the half-blood. ‘If the dracs have been in Paris for five days without being spotted, there is only one place they can be . . . Do you have any special instructions?’
‘No. Find them, that’s all. And don’t get yourself killed . . . For my part, I will be meeting a man Rochefort claims knows La Donna well, who might be able to help us pin her down.’
‘Who?’ Marciac asked distractedly, observing bitterly that the bottle of wine was empty.
‘Do you remember Laincourt?’
‘The man Richelieu wanted us to recruit last month? The one who refused?’
Listening to the Gascon, one might wonder which crime, in his eyes, weighed more heavily against the former Cardinal’s Guard: having almost become a member of the Blades out of favouritism, or having declined the offer?
‘The very same.’
Marciac pulled a face.
‘He saved my life at risk of his own,’ Agnes said in a conciliatory tone.
‘So what?’ the Gascon retorted in perfectly bad faith. ‘We save each other’s lives all the time and we don’t make a song and dance out of it—’
The captain clapped his hands and stood:
‘Get going!’ he cried. ‘Into your saddles!’ And then, in an almost paternal manner, he added: ‘And watch out for yourselves.’
The group of people in the service of any great personage formed his ‘household’. Thus one might speak of the king’s household, or those of the queen, the duc d’Orleans and the marquis de Chateauneuf. As social customs required that everyone lived in a manner befitting their birth and rank, some households could have as many as two thousand servants all of whom had to be paid, fed, dressed, lodged, and looked after as needed. This applied especially to the king’s household, but also to that of Cardinal Richelieu. And it cost fortunes.
Numerous, prestigious, and particularly onerous to maintain, the cardinal’s household was commensurate in size with the rank of the public figure it served. It was composed of a military household and a civil household. Devoted to the protection of His Eminence, the military household comprised a company of horse guards, a company of musketeers and a third unit of gendarmes, which was generally deployed in military campaigns. In practice, the right to maintain a military household amounted to possessing a small private army. It was thus a privilege the king rarely granted. But the numerous plots aimed at Richelieu had made it necessary in his case, as well as a mark of the trust which Louis XIII accorded his chief minister.
The cardinal’s civil household encompassed all those who were not men of war. In addition to the multitude of domestic servants, kitchen boys, and stable hands, along with other minor employees occupied with necessary but largely anonymous tasks, it included: a high almoner and master of the chamber who filled the role of general superintendent and thus controlled the household’s purse strings; a confessor; three auxiliary almoners; secretaries; squires and gentlemen servants, all well-born, the first looking after the cardinal’s horses and teams, the second accompanying him about his duties or carrying out delicate missions on his behalf; five valets who commanded the lackeys in livery; a maitre d’hotel who reigned over the ordinary staff and dealt with suppliers; a bursar; three chefs, each assisted by their own cooks; four wine stewards; a bread steward; two coachmen and four postillions; a mule driver; and porters.
To which list, one could add a physician, an apothecary, and two surgeons.
Plus one master of magic.
Every great household had to have one. Of course as the practice of draconic magic was against the law, masters of magic were not themselves magicians. Or, at least, they weren’t supposed to be. But their knowledge of dragons and associated arcana was much sought after in order to detect and thwart any possible threats. Some of them called themselves astrologers or seers; others were doctors or philosophers; some were even men of the Church. Many were simply charlatans or incompetents. However, for a select few scholars, draconic magic was an object of serious study which required a reasoned approach.
The cardinal’s master of magic was named Pierre Teyssier. He possessed a brilliant and original mind and although Richelieu rarely called on his services he did finance Teyssier’s research and publications, in his capacity as a patron and friend of the sciences.
Teyssier lived in rue des Enfants-Rouges, and he was expecting a visit from the Cardinal’s Blades.
Agnes and Marciac, accompanied by Ballardieu, decided to go to rue des Enfants-Rouges on horseback and thus spare their boots from contact with the foul Parisian muck, which — in addition to being sticky and smelly — was corrosive and ruined even the best leathers. They would also be able to breathe more easily, with their heads above the crowds in the streets which would soon become oppressive in this heat. Indeed, they made a detour in order to take the Pont Neuf across the Seine, more to benefit from the breeze from the river than from the lively street entertainers performing there. This bridge, unlike others in the city, was not lined with houses, making it possible to enjoy the open air, as well as the unique view of the capital’s river banks.
Having travelled along the quays, however, they were finally forced to return to the stuffy, noisy, and polluted atmosphere of the city’s streets. With Ballardieu bringing up the rear, the three Blades crossed the narrow, populous Place de Greve, in front of the Hotel de Ville, without even glancing at the bodies rotting on the gallows. Next they took rue des Coquilles and rue Barre-du-Bec, tiny mediaeval alleys where passers-by were tightly squeezed, then rue Sainte-Avoye and rue du Temple, until they reached their destination.
Located in the northeast of the capital, rue des Enfants-Rouges was named after the hospital of the same name, a hospice for orphans whose little inmates were dressed in red. The neighbourhood was peaceful, still dotted with cultivated fields and dominated by the hulking donjon that rose in the Lnclos du Temple. Surrounded by a crenelated wall, this former residence of the Templar knights now belonged to the Order of the Chatelaine Sisters. Marciac pointed out the house La Fargue had described to them before they left the Hotel de l’Epervier.
‘This one,’ he said.
He and Agnes dismounted, knocked at the door, introduced themselves to the old manservant who came to open up, and followed him inside. Ballardieu was left with the horses. There was a stall selling refreshment further up the street and the former soldier, with his e
yes shining and his mouth dry, cheerfully envisaged a long wait.
‘Don’t get drunk,’ the young baronne warned him before they parted.
Ballardieu made his promise and went off, leading the mounts by the bridle.
The cool air inside the magic master’s dwelling was pleasant. As they waited in an antechamber Marciac removed his brown felt hat and wiped his brow. Agnes envied the comfortable casualness of his attire; she, too, would have liked to go about with her shirt collar wide open and her doublet unbuttoned, although in honesty she had little cause for complaint. True, the thick leather corset that cinched her waist was a little heavy, but her riding outfit — with breeches and boots — was far more practical than the starched dresses that polite society would have normally imposed on her given her gender and rank. Polite society which the baronne Agnes Anne Marie de Vaudreuil blithely chose to ignore.
‘What?’ asked the Gascon, noticing her watching him out of the corner of her eye.
‘Nothing,’ she said at first. Then she added impishly, ‘That’s a pretty doublet.’
They were standing side by side, looking straight ahead, in an antechamber which was almost devoid of furnishings.
‘Are you mocking me?’ asked Marciac warily.
He feigned nonchalance, if not indifference, towards his clothing, but was in fact quite careful of the image that he presented and even fastidious in his own fashion.
‘No!’ Agnes protested, hiding a smile.
‘Then, thank you,’ he retorted, without looking at her.
The doublet in question was a crimson garment that Marciac had not been seen wearing before his long, solitary mission to La Rochelle. The cloth was of quality and the cut elegant. It must have been expensive, yet all of the Blades knew full well that the Gascon chased after two things in life: money and skirts. And he was only ever lacking for money.
‘A gift?’ Agnes persisted.