by Pierre Pevel
‘Nicolas . . .’ Agnes sighed.
‘I swear to you it doesn’t involve a woman. Or a card game.’
‘So what is it then? Or rather, who?’
‘I would tell you if I could . . .’ Then in a more breezy tone, as if they had already reached an accord, he said: ‘Listen, I promise I won’t be long. And anyway, Ballardieu will be here. It’s not as if I’m abandoning the place to the enemy, is it?’
And after dropping a quick kiss on the young woman’s brow, he left her there, making a discreet exit from the mansion through the rear garden. Agnes stood for a moment with a troubled expression on her face, before pulling herself together and quickly dashing up the main staircase to her bedchamber.
Now armed and booted, a leather cord securing the heavy plait of her black hair, Agnes joined Laincourt in the stable, where he was helping Andre and Ballardieu saddle two more horses.
‘We need to make haste,’ she said. ‘The Paris gates will be closing soon. Need a hand?’
Although its ramshackle walls and muddy ditches were very poor defences indeed, Paris was a fortified city and its gates were closed during the night. The Hotel de l’Epervier, being located in the faubourg Saint-Germain, lay outside the city’s walls, whereas His Eminence’s master of magic lived within. To be sure, the Blades all possessed passes signed by Richelieu himself, but persuading the city watch to open up was both a tiresome business and an enormous waste of time.
Laincourt did not answer. He continued to busy himself with the horses as if he had not heard Agnes, and then, with a stony expression, he asked:
‘Will you tell me what this is all about?’
The young baronne de Vaudreuil exchanged an embarrassed look with Ballardieu. Then she told herself that the cardinal’s former agent no doubt deserved to know the heart of the matter. She sighed and with a resigned air, waved to Andre and Ballardieu that they should leave.
And once she and Laincourt were alone in the stable she said:
‘Go ahead, ask your questions. I will answer if I have the right to do so.’
He had just finished saddling his mount. After tightening a last strap, he stood up and caught the baronne’s gaze.
‘What happened, just now?’ he wanted to know. ‘Why did La Fargue react the way he did when he heard me speak the Alchemist’s name? And why did the rest of you, at that same moment, seem so worried?’
Agnes wondered where she should start.
‘What do you know of the Alchemist, monsieur?’
Laincourt pursed his lips.
‘I know what is said about him.’
‘Which is?’
‘Which is that he is the oldest, the craftiest, and the most formidable of the Black Claw’s agents. The very best of them, in fact. But this name — the Alchemist — is all anyone knows of him, and it is, no doubt, a nom de guerre. No one knows what he looks like, his age, or even his true gender. He is supposed to have been involved, to a greater or lesser degree, in every important plot and bloody revolt that has taken place. Yet, even if we can detect his presence everywhere, no one has ever caught sight of him anywhere—’
‘—to the point that some people doubt his very existence,’ Agnes finished for him. ‘Yes, I’ve heard all that before . . . But are you one of these sceptics, Arnaud? If you are, then I urge you to revise your opinion. Because the Alchemist, to our great misfortune, does indeed exist. He was even on the verge of being captured, once. By us, by the Blades, acting on La Fargue’s initiative.’
Laincourt frowned.
‘I didn’t know that,’ he confessed.
The young woman’s face darkened.
‘It was five years ago,’ she said.
Night had fallen upon Ile Notre-Dame-des-Ecailles when Kh’Shak, returning after an hour’s absence, entered a miserable back yard and found his soldiers standing in front of the shack where they had been hiding these past few days. Ready for an expedition, the black dracs were heavily armed and struggling to contain their impatience. Kh’Shak was surprised. He had given no orders to prepare for a sortie before he left in search of Ni’Akt, the youngest member of his unit. Since they had been in Paris, Ni’Akt had suffered more than his fair share of humiliation and insults from his elders and Kh’Shak had feared for a moment that he’d deserted. But guided by rumours, he had quickly found his dead body -already stripped of its possessions — lying in a fresh pool of blood. And then he had come right back.
Kh’Shak walked right through his men without looking at them.
He went into the shack and descended the rotting stairs to the damp cellar filled with its appetising odour of rotting meat. Gutted animal carcasses littered the dirt floor and there were yellow candles burning that produced much smoke in addition to their dim light.
Kh’Shak had expected to find his saaskir cross-legged on the ground in the middle of the room. But the old pale-scaled drac was sitting on a keg, gnawing a haunch of raw, spoiled meat with what remained of his yellowed teeth, finally at the end of his long fast.
‘Ni’Akt is dead,’ announced the hulking black drac. ‘He went out despite my orders and was killed. I think the half-blood murdered him.’
The other drac nodded but continued to eat.
‘That means he will find us soon,’ added Kh’Shak. ‘He is very close now.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said the sorcerer. ‘The one we are searching for has finally revealed herself to the Eye of the Night Dragon. I know where she is hiding and I shall lead you there by thought.’
‘At last!’
‘Did you believe the task was easy?’
‘No, but—’
The old drac lifted a thin clawed hand in an appeasing gesture.
‘Rejoin your men, Kh’Shak. Find your horses and leave without further delay. If you act quickly and well, La Donna will be dead this very night.’
3
That night, at La Renardiere, Alessandra di Santi was reading when she heard riders approaching at a gallop. As her hedchamber only offered a view of the garden paths and the great tree-lined park, she went into the antechamber and, parting the curtains slightly, caught a glimpse of La Fargue and Almades as they jumped down from their saddles and climbed the front steps where they were met by Leprat.
She smiled, withdrew from the window, adjusted her red curls as she passed in front of a mirror, told herself that the soft yellow light of the candles decidedly suited her and, back in her room, returned to her armchair and her book.
The chambermaid soon admitted La Fargue, and lifting her eyes to his, La Donna greeted him with a dazzling smile.
‘Good evening, captain. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’
The old gentleman closed the door without replying, turned the key twice in the lock, looked briefly out the window, drew the curtains, and then, looking grave and almost menacing, came to stand before the beautiful lady spy.
‘Ah!’ she said, putting her book down. ‘So this is not a social visit . . .’
‘Enough play, madame.’
Serene, Alessandra rose under the pretext of pouring herself a glass of liqueur from a bottle placed on the side table. If she remained seated, she would be permitting La Fargue to dominate her with his massive figure and hold sway over her, something which she detested.
‘And what game do you think I am playing, monsieur?’
‘I still don’t know the rules or the object. But I can affirm that it ends here and now. I am not monsieur de Laffemas, madame. I am a soldier. If you persist in playing games, our conversation will take a most discourteous turn.’
‘Are you threatening me monsieur?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are a man who is willing to transform your threats into action . . .’
This time, the captain of the Blades was silent.
La Donna met his stare without blinking, returned to her armchair, and invited La Fargue to sit facing her, to which he consented after removing his baldric and his sword.
/> ‘It’s about the Alchemist, isn’t it?’ Alessandra guessed.
The old gentleman raised an eyebrow. What exactly did she know about the blows’t«he Alchemist had struck against the Blades?
‘Rest assured,’ she said as if reading his thoughts, ‘I don’t know the details of what transpired a few years ago at La Rochelle. I only know the bare essence. But perhaps that is already too much for your taste?’
La Fargue gave La Donna an expressionless stare.
‘Do you know the nature of the documents that you arranged to have handed over to us today?’
Alessandra shrugged with an air of annoyance.
‘Obviously.’
‘Is the Alchemist part of the plot against the king that you claim to have information about?’
‘Of the plot against the throne,’ she corrected. ‘And yes, the Alchemist is the principal instigator. The duchesse de Chevreuse is also a participant—’
La Fargue greeted this revelation without much surprise, but he hadn’t heard the worst yet.
‘—as is the queen,’ the adventuress finished.
The old captain was visibly shaken.
‘You mean the queen mother, of course . . .’
Alessandra rose from her chair, going over to the large cage and teasing one of her dragonnets by sliding an index finger between the bars.
‘It’s true, of course, that the queen you speak of is also implicated,’ said the beautiful Italian woman in a light-hearted tone. ‘Isn’t she always? But I was thinking of the other, of the reigning queen . . .’
‘Of Anne d’Autriche.’
‘Yes.’
La Fargue now rose in turn, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace; and finally asked:
‘These documents from the Black Claw, how did you come by them?’
‘I stole them.’
‘From whom?’
‘By God! From one of its members . . . ! And as you can imagine, although I don’t know how they learned it was me, they are most displeased about it!’
‘Why?’
Sincerely puzzled, Alessandra looked at the old gentleman.
‘I beg your pardon?’
“Why did you steal these documents from the Black Claw?‘
‘Ah . . . !’ she said, finally understanding. ‘Would you believe me if I told you that I dislike the Black Claw as much as you do and that, when possible, I apply myself to doing them harm?’
He approached her.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I would not believe it.’
She smiled and resisted the temptation to step back.
‘So, why?’ La Fargue insisted.
‘Because I received the order to do so.’
He came closer still.
Now they were practically touching and Alessandra had to tilt her head to see the black look on her interrogator’s face.
‘Who was it, who gave this order?’ he demanded in a grave, menacing tone.
‘It came from our masters, of course, captain.’
‘I serve the king of France and Cardinal Richelieu. Do you claim to do the same, madame?’
The young woman did not blink.
‘1 claim nothing of the sort, monsieur. Do you really want me, here and now, to name those I am thinking of, and know that you are too?’
La Donna and the old captain both remained silent for a moment, face-to-face, he trying to probe her soul and she opposing him with the calmness of an indomitable will. They did not move, glaring at one another, barely breathing.
And someone knocked at the door.
‘Captain!’ called Leprat.
La Fargue hurried to open up.
‘What is it?’
‘The sentries in the park no longer answer to the calls,’ replied Leprat. ‘And the valet I sent to alert the other musketeers posted at the entrance to the domain has not returned.’
Marciac had been waiting in front of the massive Saint-Eustache church for a few moments when Rochefort finally arrived. The cardinal’s henchman was accompanied by two other gentlemen, whom he asked to wait behind. Then he walked up to the forecourt alone and, not seeing the Gascon, slowly spun around, searching the darkness.
‘Since when do you bring company to our meetings?’ Marciac asked him, emerging from the shadows.
‘Since it pleases me to do so.’
‘It’s contrary to our accords.’
‘They are far enough off that they cannot hear you or see you. And don’t speak to me of accords that you have been the first to betray.’
‘Does the cardinal have any reason to complain about the success of my mission in La Rochelle?’
‘No. But he still recalls that, not so long ago, you refrained from saying anything about a certain person of interest to us.’
Marciac knew that Rochefort was referring to the hidden daughter of La Fargue, who had been found and protected a month earlier by the Blades. To ensure her security, the Gascon had even entrusted her to the care of the only woman he had ever loved. Gabrielle, who happened to keep a certain establishment The Little Frogs, in rue Grenouillere — where amiable young women practised the profession of satisfying the desires of generous men.
‘I didn’t know who she was and, therefore, was unaware of the interest that she might hold for you,’ Marciac defended himself.
‘And where is she, at present?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘But there was a time when she was hiding in Paris, wasn’t there?’
‘Yes,’ the Gascon admitted reluctantly.
‘And where was she?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Rochefort displayed a sinister smile.
‘I have the notion that this girl was in a house that was quite ill-suited to someone of her sex and her age. And since you are not offering me any information, it’s possible that I might have to start knocking down doors and asking questions in rue Grenouillere . . .’
Marciac’s blood started to boil. His face turned red and, with a sudden move, he seized Rochefort by the collar, lifted him up on the tip of his toes, and forced him back several steps until he thumped into the church door.
Don’t you dare go near Gabrielle!‘ he spat. ’Don’t threaten her! Don’t even look at her. Forget you even know of her or, as God is my witness, I’ll kill you.‘
Livid, his lips twitching, Rochefort replied in a toneless voice:
‘Release me, Marciac. Remember we have spectators who won’t keep their distance for long if you cause trouble . . .’
The Gascon had indeed forgotten about the gentlemen who were waiting at the corner of rue du Four. In the darkness of night they would have difficulty seeing what was happening. But from their attitude, he could see that they were starting to worry.
‘Will they do me an evil turn?’ Marciac asked mockingly.
‘It will be enough that they recognise you.’
The Gascon thought about it and then reluctantly released his grip on Rochefort.
‘Don’t go near Gabrielle,’ he warned again, jabbing a menacing finger. ‘Ever.’
And he was so wrapped up in his anger that he did not see the blow coming that caused him to topple backwards.
‘And you,’ hissed Rochefort, ‘don’t ever lay a hand on me again. Don’t forget who I am, don’t forget who I serve, and above all, don’t forget what you are.’
Upon which, the cardinal’s henchman turned on his heels and calmly walked away, rubbing his fist.
‘Damn!’ La Fargue swore.
Leprat had just informed him that, in all likelihood, La Renardiere was being attacked.
Without sparing La Donna a glance, he left his lieutenant by the door and went to look out of the window. The garden looked deserted despite the fact that musketeers were supposed to be patrolling there. Further off, the park was a great rectangular lake of blackness, surrounded by trees as far as the eye could see. A crescent moon and some stars dispensed a paltry bluish glow over the scene.
The Bl
ades’ captain cursed under his breath.
If the enemy had overcome the sentries without a fight, by now they could be anywhere within the domain.
‘It’s the dracs,’ announced Alessandra. ‘They’ve found me.’
At that instant, a silhouette — with a round back and taking large strides — crossed a garden path and vanished again into the shadows. A hired blade, clearly. But a drac? A man? La Fargue couldn’t say. But his instinct told him La Donna was right.
‘Stay right here,’ he ordered her in a tone that brooked no argument.
Snatching up his rapier in its scabbard, he buckled on his baldric as he left the room with a determined step, Leprat following in his wake.
‘The chambermaid?’ he asked the former musketeer.
‘I am here, monsieur.’
The woman in the service of La Donna was standing in a corner of the antechamber, near the cot on which she normally slept. Worried, almost frightened, she did not dare to move.
‘Go and join your mistress next door,’ La Fargue commanded her. ‘Do you have the key?’
‘Yes,’ replied the woman showing him her bunch.
‘Then lock yourselves in.’ Leprat said in turn. ‘And don’t open the door for anyone except the captain or myself. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
The two men did not wait to see if they were obeyed.
They hurried down the great stairway to join Almades on the ground floor where, as a security measure, he had already extinguished most of the torches. Only a few candles remained lit here and there.
‘Well?’ La Fargue asked in the large front hall filled with shadows and echoes.
‘They are still not showing themselves,’ said the Spaniard, standing slightly back from the window through which he kept watch on the courtyard. ‘But I’ve seen some wisps of that black mist—’
‘So it is the dracs.’
‘They’ve come to capture La Donna,’ said Leprat.
‘Yes. Or to kill her.’
The old captain also took up a position at a window from which he tried to take stock of the situation. The hunting lodge consisted of a small central pavilion and two wings enclosing its courtyard. The whole building was surrounded by a dry moat crossed by a stone bridge, a bridge which, unfortunately, they were too late to defend. The servant quarters lay beyond the moat, on either side of a long forecourt that stretched along the axis of the path leading to the woods.