by Pierre Pevel
The cardinal granted himself another moment of reflection and then said:
‘Very well, captain. Since the life of the king may depend on it, endeavour to foil this plot that threatens him. It may, possibly, lead you to the Alchemist, who is an enemy of France. If it does, you must neutralise him . . .’
The captain of the Blades wanted to thank him, but Richelieu raised his index finger to signal that he had not finished yet.
‘However, I am aware that this enemy of France is also your own since the tragic events at La Rochelle. Do not let that obscure your judgement. Be prudent and discreet. Forbid yourself the slightest false step. Do not act lightly, and above all, do not commit some mistake that might irretrievably wreck the trials we are now preparing . . .’
La Fargue nodded. The cardinal, however, continued:
‘That being said, I set two further conditions. The first is that you keep me informed of your projects, and of your successes as well as your failures.
‘Certainly, monseigneur.’
‘The second is that you transfer Saint-Lucq to my service.’
Although it left La Fargue unperturbed, this request — which was in fact an order — surprised Laincourt. But it confirmed in his mind the half-blood’s unique status within the Blades. Did he really belong to them? The others seemed to consider him one of their best. However, where they willingly expressed their pride at serving under La Fargue, Saint-Lucq set himself apart and adopted the pose of an exceptional mercenary who remained with the Blades by choice, but who could leave tomorrow. Moreover, Laincourt knew that when the Blades had been disbanded, Saint-Lucq was the only member the cardinal had continued to employ on secret missions. That could not be insignificant.
‘All of the Blades serve at Your Eminence’s discretion, monseigneur,’ said La Fargue.
‘Good,’ replied Richelieu, rising and accepting La Houdi-niere’s aid in donning his cloak. ‘I’m relying on you, La Fargue. But you should know that you don’t have much time. The duchesse de Chevreuse will be hosting a great ball at Dampierre. The morning after this ball she shall be placed under arrest, as will all those who are implicated in her schemes, throughout France. The king desires this, so that her fall immediately follows her moment of triumph.’
The cardinal paused here, thinking to himself that this decision corresponded well with the character, at times cruel and devious, of Louis XIII. Calmly, he put on his gloves.
‘One last thing, captain. The king is very attached to the success of this . . . Chevreuse affair. He has been following its slow development closely for several months now and is growing impatient. He will not tolerate seeing the duchesse escape from the arm of his justice, even if it were to occur in the course of protecting His Majesty from a plot . . .’
Before putting on his hat, Richelieu fixed La Fargue with his steely gaze and added:
‘Do you understand me, captain? And are you fully aware how ungrateful kings can be?’
‘Merde!’ Marciac snarled, seeing the runaway jump from one roof to another across an alleyway.
Not knowing whether Agnes was following him closely or not, he did not slow down, took the same leap in turn and, in the dark and the wet, landed as best he could on the other side.
He swore again as he almost lost his balance.
‘Merde!’
And then he resumed the pursuit under the pouring rain . . .
. . . hoping mightily that he was in fact chasing Gueret, the agent that the queen mother had sent to the duchesse de Chevreuse. Provided La Donna hadn’t lied. Provided they had not been mistaken about the room at the inn or its occupant. Nothing was certain. On discovering two strangers searching his belongings the other man, to be sure, had not raised a hue and cry but had instead immediately taken to his heels. And now he was still fleeing as if he had the Devil on his trail, over rain-slicked rooftops in the middle of a stormy night, at the risk of breaking his neck. Frankly it was not the behaviour of a man with a clear conscience. Nevertheless. If this fellow was not Gueret, then Marciac was making a huge mistake . . .
Out of breath, soaked to the skin, his face spattered by volleys of fat, stinging raindrops, he slowed down for an instant and sought to catch a glimpse of his fugitive. He spotted his silhouette thanks to a flash of lightning. The loolhardy man had not weakened. He continued running and appeared to be taking a giant leap over a major obstacle. Feeling anger grow within him, the Gascon resumed the chase and discovered, by almost falling into it, the nature of the obstacle in question. He managed to halt himself at the last minute on the verge of empty space. This time, it was not a matter of crossing a narrow alley. Or even a street. He looked down into the shadowy well of a small courtyard.
‘Merde de merdeP exclaimed Marciac furiously.
Going around would mean letting the other man escape. But so would waiting here for much longer.
The Gascon hesitated. He backed up a few steps, all the while cursing himself, his contrary fate, and imbeciles who scarpered over roofs during a deluge in the middle of night. He took a deep breath. Cursed some more.
And launched himself into thin air.
Windmilling his arms and kicking his legs, Marciac’s leap was not a beauteous thing to behold. But it propelled him across five metres of cavernous darkness to land on the ridge of a sloping roof.
After that, things took a turn for the worse.
The roof was not only sloped but also streaming with water, that is to say,, it was extremely slippery. And most of its tiles were just waiting to be dislodged.
Like a high wire artist in a gale, Marciac teetered, waving his arms, shifting from one leg to the other . . .
‘Oh, merde . . .’
He fell onto his arse and slid down the slope, faster and faster, preceded by a cascade of tiles which came loose beneath his heels.
‘Merde-merde-merde-merde-merde-merde-merde . . .’
And then there was only empty space.
‘Meeeeeeeeeeerde!’
Some worm-eaten planks slowed his fall with a crash, a thick layer of straw then cushioned it further and finally a hard bump on the floor of a stable brought matters to a conclusion. Marciac felt pain, swore in his usual manner and still very angry, rolled over on his side, grimacing.
Which he probably would not have done if he had known he was about to put his nose in a pile of . . .
‘Merde.’
Agnes’s heart leapt in her chest when she saw Marciac fall.
‘Nicolas!’
She too jumped across the small courtyard, landed with more aplomb than the Gascon and cautiously succeeded in reaching the edge of the roof.
‘Nicolas!’ she called out in an anxious voice. ‘Nicolas!’
‘I’m down here.’
‘Anything broken?’
‘Don’t think so, no.’
‘How are you?’
Displaying a definite sign of good health, Marciac’s boiling temper rose to the surface.
‘Admirably well!’ he shouted sarcastically. ‘No Gascon
HAS EVER SPENT A BETTER EVENING! So HOW ABOUT GOING AFTER THAT OTHER ACROBAT, HMM?
Reassured, Agnes withdrew from the edge of the roof and stood up. Beneath the storm and making use of the flashes of lightning she scanned the rooftops around her, but did not see the runaway and finally picked a direction at random. She doubted she would ever be able to catch him. Even if she knew which way to go, the man now had too great a lead.
A little further on, coming around an enormous chimney, Agnes found herself looking out over a wide crossroads. The person she was looking for was not visible on any of the surrounding rooftops.
It was the end of the chase.
Regretfully, she was about to turn back when her glance fell onto the street below.
And there, dimly lit by one of the big lanterns that were left burning all night in a few scattered places in the capital, she saw the man lying unmoving on the pavement five storeys down, surrounded by a dark puddle riddled b
y the falling raindrops.
They rode at a walk, through the night, along the road towards Paris and the storm. La Fargue and Laincourt went ahead. Almades followed, quiet and attentive. The old gentleman had not said a word since they had left The Golden Hart shortly after the cardinal’s departure with his escort and Saint-Lucq. He seemed absorbed in his thoughts and Laincourt chose to respect his silence. Besides, he was fairly preoccupied himself.
Around them, the darkness seemed immense and the storm rumbled in the distance like the anger of some ancient god.
‘It was at La Rochelle,’ La Fargue said suddenly, without taking his eyes off from the path ahead. ‘Five years ago, during the siege of 1628. We were there, some of the Blades and I, the others being busy in Lorraine. We had infiltrated the besieged town in order to carry out the kind of missions that you might expect . . .’
‘Captain, I—’
‘No, Laincourt. It’s important that you understand. And I know you are the sort of man who can keep a secret. So don’t interrupt me, will you?-J
‘Very well.’
‘Thank you . . . For the most part, it was a matter of collecting intelligence and, by night, taking it back to our own lines. The cardinal was thus kept informed of the state of La Rochelle’s defences, of the imminence and scale of relief from the English, of the true severity of the food shortages caused by the blockade, of the shifting opinion among the population and the difficulties encountered by the town’s leaders. We also carried out, on occasion, acts of sabotage. And, more rarely, we eliminated traitors and foreign agents.’
La Fargue turned to Laincourt and asked him:
‘But you already know all that, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
Nodding to himself, the captain of the Blades shifted his position in the saddle slightly to ease the pain in his back.
‘We were doing what we do best. Meanwhile, the siege was turning in favour of the royal armies after the cardinal ordered a dike built to prevent ships reaching or leaving the port . . . Then one evening, when I secretly met with Roche-fort, he told me the Alchemist was in La Rochelle. Why was he there? My new mission was precisely to learn this and, if possible, to seize him. I endeavoured to do so with zeal because the Alchemist’s renown, as well as the mystery surrounding him, was already immense. He was an enemy of
France and his arrival in La Rochelle had to be significant: something important was afoot . . .‘
La Fargue paused in his recital of the tale and, holding back a grimace, rotated an aching shoulder. After his fall into the moat at La Renardiere, Marciac — who had once almost become a doctor — examined him and determined that nothing was broken. But the captain of the Blades, as solid and tough as he was despite his age, was not indestructible and had increasing difficulty recovering from the physical ordeals he inflicted upon himself in the line of duty.
‘I soon learned that the Alchemist was supposed to attend a meeting. With whom, I did not know. But I knew where and when, so I prepared an ambush. And in doing so, I walked straight into the trap that the Alchemist had set for us.’
La Fargue’s glance was lost in memory for a moment.
hie resumed his account:
‘I am convinced, now, that the Alchemist’s mission was in fact to unmask us and remove us as an effective unit in the conflict.’
‘Were you under suspicion?’
‘No. But the blows we struck against La Rochelle’s forces would have indicated that a clandestine enemy unit was operating within the town walls . . .’
‘So the Alchemist arranged for the cardinal’s men to learn he was in La Rochelle, is that it? So that you would be informed in turn and make every effort to capture him.’
‘Yes, that’s my belief. Aware of his own value, he made himself the bait to flush us out, which he managed without difficulty. A simple, effective plan. A brilliant plan. Often, the real’t rick consists in making your opponent believe he’s calling the tune . . .’ The old gentleman slowly shook his head, as if the years had suddenly caught up with him. ‘It was a disaster. One of us, Bretteville, perished during the ambush. And another, Louveciennes—’
—betrayed you and fled. Today he lives in Spain, as the wealthy comte de Pontevedra.‘
The captain of the Blades nodded gravely before adding:
‘That same night, the dike gave way. Soon English supplies and relief forces arrived in La Rochelle by sea. The king realised that he could no longer win by force of arms alone, not without beggaring the kingdom, and he commanded the cardinal to open negotiations. Richelieu disavowed us to avoid having to justify our activities during the siege; he affirmed that we were acting without orders and that he was not even aware of our existence. For the Blades, it meant disgrace. And soon the end, since the cardinal dismissed us from his service.’
‘Until recently.’
‘Yes. Until recently.’
La Fargue fell silent.
Laincourt followed suit, but one question continued to haunt him. A question he did not dare to ask, but which the captain of the Blades was able to guess:
‘Ask it.’
‘I beg your pardon, captain?’
‘Your question. Go ahead, ask it.’
The young man hesitated, and then:
‘How can we ever know for sure?’ he heard himself wonder aloud. ‘How can we know if you’re pursuing this mission to avenge yourself upon the Alchemist or not? How can we know if you prefer seeking justice for yourself to serving the king and France?’
Behind them, Almades pricked up an ear.
La Fargue smiled sadly.
‘You can’t,’ he replied.
In the faubourg Saint-Jacques, Agnes was making her way back towards the hostelry under the continuing downpour, through deserted streets sporadically lit by flashes of lightning. The young baronne, soaked and furious, walked briskly, a curl of hair dangling in front of one eye.
She soon met up with Marciac and Ballardieu. They were going in the same direction, the old soldier supporting the limping Gascon.
Ballardieu lowered his eyes upon seeing Agnes.
‘Well?’ she asked, directing her words at Marciac.
‘Sprained ankle. Very painful . . . And the other man? Did you lose him?’
‘Dead.’
‘You killed—?’
‘No! He fell and broke his skull.’
‘So we have a problem.’
‘As you say.’
The young woman turned to Ballardieu and told him in a frosty tone where he could find the body. Then she ordered:
‘Dump it in the Seine. But strip it first and make sure it’s unrecognisable. And keep all the clothing.’
‘Yes, Agnes.’
The old soldier went about his tasks without further ado.
Taking his place, Agnes propped Marciac up and slowly, because the Gascon was heavy and could only hobble, they made their way back to the inn.
‘He may not be to blame,’ said Marciac.
Agnes knew he was referring to Ballardieu and replied:
‘He should have warned us the man was coming. That was his job. And I’m convinced he’s been drinking . . .’
The Gascon could find nothing to say in response to this.
But after a few more metres in the rain, he said:
‘La Fargue isn’t going to be happy, is he?’
‘Not in the least bit.’
They had just lost the only lead likely to take them to the duchesse de Chevreuse, to the Alchemist and to the plot against the king.
2
The rain continued after the storm and did not cease until dawn. Paris woke fresh and reinvigorated. To say that the capital was clean would have been an exaggeration; it would have required a deluge of biblical proportions to carry away the filth accumulated on its streets and to remove the foul muck clinging to its pavements. But the worst had been washed away and Parisians, upon rising from their beds, were grateful to have finally been relieved of the dust and stink o
f recent days. It even seemed that the cocks crowed more valiantly and the bells rang more clearly this morning, while the city glistened beneath the sun’s first rays.
‘Dead,’ repeated La Fargue in a tone which did not bode well. ‘Gueret ... is dead.’
The garden still being soaked, they had gathered in the large fencing room inside the Hotel de l’Epervier. The atmosphere was tense. Even those Blades who were not involved in the previous evening’s fiasco were keeping their heads down. Only Almades, who had stationed himself slightly apart from the others to guard the door, seemed completely aloof.
‘Yes, captain,’ Agnes confirmed.
She, Marciac and Ballardieu had not had time to change from the night before. Their clothing had dried on their backs and left them looking bedraggled, not to mention their tousled hair, weary faces and obvious chagrin. Ballardieu in particular wore a hangdog look.
‘How?’ La Fargue demanded.
‘Gueret surprised us while we were in his room,’ Marciac explained.
He was sitting down with one bare foot resting on a stool.
‘And killing him seemed like a good idea to you?’
‘No!’ the Gascon defended himself. ‘He fled over the rooftops. We pursued him and, unfortunately, he broke his skull in a fall.’
‘Unfortunately. That’s one way of putting it . . . And how was it that Gueret managed to surprise you? Was no one keeping watch?’
Agnes and Marciac exchanged an embarrassed glance. Ballardieu kept his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him.
‘Yes,’ said the old soldier. ‘I was.’
‘And you didn’t see the man coming back . . .’
‘It was a dark night,’ the Gascon interjected. ‘And with the rain, the storm—’
‘—and the wine, am I wrong?’ La Fargue continued relentlessly.
‘No,’ confessed Ballardieu. ‘I just went off for a moment to buy a bottle and—’
The Blades’ captain thundered at him:
‘You BLOODY OLD TOSS-POT! HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT YOUR FOOLISHNESS HAS COST US?’
Ballardieu kept his mouth shut. There was an oppressive silence in the room.