by Pierre Pevel
After a moment, La Fargue rose and went to a window. It opened onto the wet garden, where the chestnut tree’s leaves were shedding their final drops upon the old table. Hands behind his back, he took the time to regain his calm. Then, still facing the garden, he said in a quieter voice:
‘Any witnesses?’
‘None,’ replied Agnes. ‘And the innkeeper will hold his tongue.’
‘The body?’
‘Thrown, naked and unrecognisable, into the Seine. With the waters still high from the storm, he’ll never be found.’
‘His belongings?’
‘I lis baggage and the clothes he was wearing are all here.’
From over his shoulder, La Fargue glanced at the table the young woman was pointing to. On it were placed the small travelling chest, the big leather bag and Gueret’s still-damp clothing. Papers found in the false bottom of the chest were also spread out.
Leprat was already inspecting them in silence.
‘There are sealed letters, a map of Lorraine and another of Champagne, false passports, promissory notes . . .’ he finally announced. ‘Add to that French, Spanish and Lorraine currency, and you have everything one might expect to find in the possession of a spy who, according to marks on this map, came from Lorraine and passed through Champagne to reach Paris.’
‘And the letters?’ asked Marciac, craning his neck to see from his armchair.
‘There are three of them, all addressed to the duchesse de Chevreuse. The first comes from Charles IV, the second is from his brother, the cardinal of Lorraine, and the third is from the Spanish ambassador to Lorraine. I did not think it appropriate for me to open them.’
Nancy was the capital of the duchy de Lorraine, of which Charles IV was the sovereign. Located on the border of the Holy Roman Empire and defended by one of the most formidable fortresses in Europe, Lorraine was a rich territory much coveted by France. Relations between Louis XIII and his ‘dear cousin’ Charles were, moreover, execrable, the duke seeming to do everything in his power to exasperate the king and defy his authority. Twice now, royal armies had marched on Nancy to compel Charles to respect the treaties he had signed. And twice the duke had made promises that he failed to keep. Thus his palace continued to welcome dissenters, plotters and other adversaries of Louis XIII. Banished for a time from France, the duchesse de Chevreuse had been one of their number.
‘And that’s everything?’ asked Agnes.
‘My word,’ replied Leprat in surprise, ‘it doesn’t seem such a bad haul to me . . .’
Even La Fargue looked at the young baronne with puzzlement.
Was she joking?
‘To be sure,’ she explained, ‘these passports, maps, and letters are by no means worthless. But Gueret was sent to the duchesse de Chevreuse by the queen mother, wasn’t he?’
She looked at them all intently, as if they were missing something obvious. And it was the captain of the Blades who was the first to see what she was driving at.
‘In all this,’ he said, pointing at the documents cluttering the table, ‘there is nothing from the queen mother addressed to La Chevreuse . . .’
‘Exactly. The queen mother is not going to dispatch one of her agents merely to collect a few letters in Lorraine and deliver them to the duchesse, is she . . . ? Are you sure you haven’t missed anything, Antoine?’
Leprat considered the dead spy’s belongings displayed before him.
‘I believe so, yes . . .’
‘What about the clothes our man was wearing last night?’ suggested Marciac.
Agnes came to the musketeer’s assistance and together they lound a leather envelope concealed in the lining of Gueret’s doublet. As it was closed with a strip of sealed cloth, they hesitated and looked to La Fargue for permission to proceed. He nodded gravely and they broke the wax seal.
The envelope contained a letter along with several handwritten sheets that Agnes perused, showing signs of a growing astonishment.
‘It’s a pamphlet,’ she said. ‘It’s about the queen, her failure to give birth to an heir and the king’s supposed intention to repudiate her on those grounds. The author claims that the king has already communicated with Rome on this matter and that he will soon be in a position to choose a new wife . . .’
All those listening gaped in disbelief.
Alter eighteen years of marriage Queen Anne d’Autriche was still childless. She had had several miscarriages and, for some time now, had suffered from the disaffection and indif-ference of her husband. Indeed, Louis XIII only rarely visited her bed. Nevertheless, the repudiation of the queen would provoke an outcry in the kingdom and a possible scandal at the royal court. But above all, it would constitute a casus belli with Madrid, Anne being the king of Spain’s sister.
‘Do you think there’s any truth in it?’ asked Agnes.
‘Who knows?’ replied La Fargue. ‘But if people believe it, what does it matter?’
‘This text was no doubt meant to be printed secretly in Paris,’ noted Leprat. ‘And then spread like wildfire.’
‘In order to provoke unrest?’ asked Marciac.
‘Or to cause a big enough upset in Europe to embarrass the king and oblige him to renounce any such project . . .’
‘And so that’s it? La Donna’s plot against the king?’ the baronne de Vaudreuil exclaimed incredulously. ‘Tell me another one!’
‘No,’ La Fargue intervened. ‘There’s something else going on. But whether its content is true or pure invention and calumny, this pamphlet is by no means innocent. I believe we have laid our hands on the package the queen mother was seeking to have delivered to the duchesse de Chevreuse.’
‘And the letter probably contains special instructions to go with it.’
‘Shall I open it?’ asked the musketeer, holding up the missive that accompanied the manuscript.
‘Yes,’ ordered La Fargue.
There was, in an iron cabinet somewhere within the Palais-Cardinal, a whole collection of stolen or counterfeit seals, including that of the queen mother. Her seal could be replaced if necessary.
Leprat split the seal and unfolded the letter.
‘We have a problem,’ he said immediately. ‘This is all in code.’
When he arrived at the Hotel de l’Epervier, Arnaud de Laincourt saw a sedan chair leaving with Marciac as its passenger, escorted by Ballardieu. The spectacle astonished the former spy, who moved aside and bemusedly acknowledged the Gascon’s wave.
‘I’m going to rest my wounds at Les Petites Grenouilles,’
Marciac announced. ‘Come and visit me there when you have a moment. I’m sure you’ll receive a fine welcome!’
Laincourt watched without saying a word as the chair passed through the door and then spotted La Fargue walking briskly towards the stable, where Almades was holding two saddled horses by their bridles.
‘Monsieur!’ he called.
The captain of the Blades halted.
‘Yes, Laincourt?’
‘Could you grant me a minute?’
‘It will be a short one. I have to take some documents we found in Gueret’s possession to the Palais-Cardinal.’
‘You captured him?’
La Fargue reflected that he would probably save time if he fully briefed Laincourt right away.
‘Follow me,’ he said, signalling to Almades that he should wait there.
They entered the main building by the closest door, which was that of the kitchen. The two men sat down and, having asked Na’is to leave them, the old gentleman recounted the most recent events to Laincourt. The latter listened very attentively, occasionally nodding and taking mental note of every detail.
‘One thing is for certain,’ he said when the captain concluded, ‘this pamphlet does indeed smack of the queen mother.’
Banished from the kingdom and exiled in Brussels, Marie de Medicis, widow of Henri IV and mother of Louis XIII, was an embittered old woman still brooding over the way her eldest son had brutally evicted her from
power and replaced her with Richelieu. She schemed, dreamed of revenge and placed all her hopes in her other son, Gaston d’Orleans, also known as ‘Monsieur’, who she hoped to one day see ascend to the French throne.
‘You’re right,’ the captain of the Blades acknowledged.
‘And this encrypted letter, could you show it to me, please?’
‘Might you be able to decipher it?’
‘Possibly. I used to be one of the cardinal’s code secretaries.’
Laincourt took the letter that La Fargue held out to him and ran his eyes over it rapidly. The text consisted of a single block - without punctuation or breaks in the lines — made up of symbols that were mostly borrowed from alchemy.
The cardinal’s former spy smiled faintly.
‘It’s a very simple cipher. Each symbol stands for a letter, and that’s about all there is to it.’
‘You can tell all this with just a glance?’ asked La Fargue, giving the young man a measuring look.
But Laincourt was already absorbed in deciphering the text.
‘Perhaps certain symbols stand for frequently used words. Or certain persons. But there’s nothing more complicated than that . . . And see how this sign occurs so frequently? No doubt it’s an “a” or “e”,. if the text is in French. And you see this one, it’s doubled several times suggesting that it’s a consonant, an “r” or “s” or “t”, for example . . .’
His eyes shining, Laincourt displayed an excitement that was unusual for this young man, ordinarily so thoughtful and reserved.
‘Just a moment,’ he said.
And, without waiting, he rose, went over to the chimney mantelpiece, snatched up a small notebook that Nai’s used for her shopping, tore off a page, returned to his seat and with a lead pencil began to transcribe the coded letter. His eyes danced from one sheet to another while his hand wrote nimbly, as if possessed of a life of its own. With pinched lips and clenched jaws, his face betrayed his intense concentration.
‘This will be easier than I dared to hope,’ he said.
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I already know this cipher.’
La Fargue was discovering that Laincourt had hidden talents which could be highly useful to the Blades. A few minutes went by in a tense silence, broken only by the scratching of pencil on paper.
‘And there you have it!’ the young man declared, pushing both the letter and his transcription towards La Fargue. ‘You may have trouble reading my writing, but at least you won’t be late in arriving at the Palais-Cardinal.’
He was almost out of breath, but displayed no pride or even satisfaction in his work.
Smiling, the captain of the Blades sat back in his chair and considered Laincourt with the admiring and amused gaze of someone who has just been fooled by an amazing feat of magic.
‘You asked if I could spare you a little of my time,’ he said after a moment. ‘For what reason?’
‘I have a way to get close to La Chevreuse.’
‘How?’
The young man then explained how the chevalier de Mirebeau had approached him with his offer, and a note that would give him entry to the Hotel de Chevreuse.
‘And you propose to make use of this note,’ concluded La Fargue.
‘Yes.’
The old gentleman thought for a moment, weighing the pros and cons.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘But you must be very careful.’
‘Understood.’
‘Keep your eyes and ears open, but in a natural fashion. Remember the cardinal’s orders: we must not, at any price, risk arousing the duchesse’s suspicions. Don’t listen at doors, peer through keyholes or ask any indiscreet questions.’
‘Very well.’
‘And above all, be very wary of the duchesse de Chevreuse. You wouldn’t be the first person that she has led astray . . .’
La Fargue had just rejoined Almades, who was patiently waiting for him in the courtyard with their two horses, when a coach entered by the carriage gate which Guibot, hobbling on his wooden leg, had hastened to open.
‘Who is that?’ asked the Blades’ captain. ‘Did you hear the name announced through the hatch?’
‘No,’ admitted the Spanish fencing master. ‘But it’s rare to see monsieur Guibot hurry like that.’
Drawn by a smart team of horses, the vehicle halted in front of them and they understood the reason for their concierge’s alacrity upon seeing the marquis d’Aubremont emerge from the cabin. A man of honour and duty, he bore one of the most prestigious and respected names in France. He was also the last friend La Fargue possessed in this world. Like the captain, he was about sixty years old with grey hair, a dignified air and precise mannerisms. He and La Fargue exchanged a warm greeting. They hadn’t seen one another since the marquis had buried his eldest son.
‘My friend,’ said La Fargue, whose eyes sparkled with a contained joy. ‘If you know the pleasure that I—’
‘Thank you, my friend, thank you ... I too am very happy to see you again.’
They had once been part of an inseparable trio: La Fargue, d’Aubremont and Louveciennes. Companions and brothers-in-arms, they fought together during the civil and religious wars that had ravaged the kingdom, and then helped the ‘man from Bearn’ take the French throne and become King Henri IV. Upon the death of his father, d’Aubremont had been called away by the family obligations that came with bearing a great and noble name. Twenty years later, however, the first of his sons, who had until then been a member of the King’s Musketeers, was to follow Leprat and join the Blades. Endowed with an adventurous and rebellious spirit, the young man had grown distant from his father and adopted the name of a small holding belonging his mother, that of Bretteville. And it was only after recruiting him that La Fargue learned that he was the eldest son of his old friend.
‘Pardon my arrival in this fashion,’ said d’Aubremont. ‘But I could not set down in a letter what I am about to tell you . . .’
‘What is it?’ asked the captain of Blades in a worried tone.
‘Could we speak inside, please?’
Exhausted after a particularly active and sleepless night, Agnes went upstairs to lie down in her bedchamber. She slipped between the fresh sheets with a shiver of delight and, already drowsy, vaguely heard the sound of a coach entering the courtyard. Then she closed her eyes and it seemed to her that she had just dozed off when there was a knock at her door.
‘Madame . . . Madame!’
It was Nais, whose voice reached her from the corridor, through the fog of her interrupted sleep.
Agnes muttered something into her pillow that very fortunately was transmuted into an indistinct groan, as her words were hardly polite and certainly unworthy of a baronne de Vaudreuil.
‘Madame . . . Madame . . . You must come, madame . . .’
‘Let me sleep, Nais . . .’
‘You were sleeping?’
‘Yes, by God!’
Timid NaTs must have hesitated, for there ensued a moment of silence during which Agnes nourished the hope of having prevailed.
‘But monsieur de La Fargue is asking for you, madame! He’s waiting for you. And he’s not alone.’
‘Is he with the king of France?’
‘Uhh . . . no.’
‘The Pope?’
‘No.’
‘The Great Turk?’
Not him, either, but—‘
‘Then I’m going back to sleep.’
Agnes turned over, hugged her pillow, gave a long sigh of contentment and let a faint smile appear on her lips as she once again abandoned herself to slumber.
But she heard NaTs announce in a small voice:
‘He’s with the marquis d’Aubremont, madame.’
La Fargue and d’Aubremont were in the captain’s private office. Having finished tying back her heavy black mane of hair with a leather cord as she dashed down the stairs, Agnes hurried to join them. She granted herself a pause in front of the door, however, to
briefly check her appearance and catch her breath. Then she knocked, entered, greeted the marquis with whom she was already acquainted, sat down at La Fargue’s invitation and waited.
With a small nod of his head, the captain indicated to his friend that he could speak freely.
‘Madame, I have come here today seeking advice and assistance from monsieur de La Fargue, who, after listening to me, thought that you might be able to help.’
‘But of course, monsieur.’
Agnes had the deepest respect for this honest and upright gentleman, a father whom fate had struck all the more cruelly since his son had been killed before they had the chance to effect a reconciliation. Like all the Blades, she felt somewhat beholden to him because, of this.
‘It’s about my son . . .’
Agnes was surprised. Did the marquis mean Bretteville?‘
‘My younger son, I should say. Francois, the chevalier d’Ombreuse.
‘Isn’t he serving with the Black Guards?’
‘Indeed, madame.’
The Black Guards were one of the kingdom’s most prestigious light cavalry companies. The king financed them from his own private purse, although they did not belong to his military household, and he appointed their officers. These hand-picked gentlemen served the Sisters of Saint Georges, the famous Chatelaines. They formed the military guard for these nuns whose mysterious rituals, over the past two centuries, had been successful in defending France and her throne against the dragons. In their black uniforms, they protected the Sisters, escorted them and, occasionally, carried out perilous missions on their behalf.
‘Here’s how matters stand,’ continued d’Aubremont. ‘My son has disappeared and I do not know whether he is alive or dead.’
The young baronne de Vaudreuil addressed a concerned glance at La Fargue, who told her:
‘Three weeks ago, the chevalier left on an expedition along with a few men from his company. It seems he was supposed to make his way to Alsace, with a possible detour into the Rhineland.’
Alsace not being French territory, Agnes thought the expedition must have been either an escort mission or a covert military operation. But even without that, the region was filled with dangers. War was raging there. Imperial and Swedish troops were contending for control of the cities while mercenary bands pillaged the countryside.