by Pierre Pevel
Alone in his bedchamber, leaning over the basin. Leprat lifted his face dripping with cool water and observed himself in the mirror. He was bare to the waist but already wore the breeches and boots of another man who was at this very instant floating dead in the Seine. The rest of his attire — a hat, a shirt, a doublet whose lining had been re-sewn and a steel sword in its scabbard - waited upon the bed.
Leprat gave his reflection a hard stare.
He had accepted the mission La Fargue had proposed to him, that is to say, infiltrating rnadame de Chevreuse’s clandestine schemes by passing himself off as Gueret, the agent the queen mother had sent to the duchesse from Brussels. Since he was ignorant of almost everything about the person he was supposed to replace, it was a risky business. Gueret was a French gentleman of no fortune, that much was certain. And no doubt he had followed the queen mother when, removed from power and humiliated, she had chosen to leave the kingdom. But aside from that?
Leprat, in fact, could only rely on a certain physical resemblance with the man whose identity he was trying to usurp. A resemblance which, furthermore, would not fool anyone who had met Gueret. And the musketeer knew that he would probably die under torture if he was unmasked . . .
Bah ... he told himself philosophically, as he bent once again to splash water on his face . . . if no one kills you today, you know what will kill you tomorrow . . .
Upon his back, the ranse spread in a broad violet rash with a rough surface. The disease was progressing. It would one day take his life and was already weakening him, as witnessed by the wound to his thigh that was taking longer than it should to completely heal.
How much time do you have left? Leprat wondered. And more, how much longer can you keep it a secret?
He stood up straight and smiled sadly at his image in the mirror.
This secret that is eating away at you . . .
The expression had never been so apt.
Agnes arrived in the early evening. The abbey was located in a peaceful corner of the countryside, far from any heavily travelled roads, and was surrounded by the fields, woodland and farms from which it derived its revenues. From the vantage point of her saddle, the young baronne took her time observing the handsome buildings and the white, veiled silhouettes moving about behind the enclosing walls. The memories of her novitiate with the Sisters of Saint Georges came back vividly to her. Then she gently nudged her horse forward with her heels as bells rang out in the dusk, calling the Sisters to prayer.
She was soon admitted to wait in the cloister where she stood a’lone, exposed to the curious glances and whispers from the passing nuns. She knew from experience how small a world an abbey was and how fast news travelled there. No doubt her name was circulating and it was already being murmured that she had asked to meet the mother superior. Did they remember her here? Perhaps. In any case, everyone would be wondering about the motive behind her visit . . .
Feeling quite satisfied with the effect that both her presence and her armed horseman’s outfit were having, in particular on the young novices who were jostling one another to spy on her from behind some columns, Agnes forced herself to remain patient and impassive. The severe sound of a throat being cleared, however, was enough to remind the adolescent girls of their duties, before the mother superior’s arrival dispersed them entirely.
About sixty years in age, Mere Emmanuelle de Cernay was an energetic woman with strong features and a frank gaze. Accompanied by two nuns who walked behind her, she gratified Agnes with a tender smile, hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. The young woman responded with similar warmth to these displays of affection.
‘Marie-Agnes! It’s been so long since we have seen you . . . And your last letter dates from over a month ago!’
‘The Blades have been reformed, mother.’
‘Really? Since when?’
‘Since about a month ago, in fact.’
‘I didn’t know . . . Are you still under the command of that old gentleman?’
‘Captain La Fargue, yes.’
‘And are you happy?’
‘My word . . .’ replied Agnes with a somewhat guilty smile.
‘Then that’s all right, that’s all right . . . Just don’t find yourself on the receiving end of a sword stroke that will make you regret not having taken the veil!’
‘It would have to be a very nasty sword stroke, indeed, mother . . .’
The abbess took Agnes by the arm and they walked together beneath the gallery of the cloister. Shaking her head resignedly, the old woman said:
‘Intrigue. Racing about on horseback. Sword play . . . You have always loved all that, Marie-Agnes . . .’
‘And the boys. You’re forgetting the boys, mother superior.’
The abbess chuckled.
‘Yes. And the boys . . . Did you know that the ivy on the north wall is still called “Agnes’s ivy” by some of the older nuns?’
‘I didn’t climb it that often . . .’
‘Let’s say rather that you weren’t caught every time you climbed it . . .’
Still talking in this relaxed manner, they left the cloister for a garden at the entrance to which the mother superior asked the two nuns trailing them to wait behind. And once she and Agnes had moved out of earshot, she confided:
‘One of those two is spying on me. I don’t know which one. But what can I do? The Mother Superior General continues to be suspicious of me, after all these years . . .’
Mere Emmanuelle had previously been the head of the Sinters of Saint Georges. But following some dark dealings, she had been ousted in favour of the current Superior General, who happened to be part of the Richelieu family. Since then, the Order had become a more or less blatant instrument of the cardinal’s policies, to the great displeasure of Rome. The concordat of Bologna, however, had granted the king the right to appoint the recipients of the Church’s major benefices in France, including the abbesses and abbots of the religious orders.
‘But what can 1 do for you, Marie-Agnes? I imagine that you have not come to tell me that you wish to complete your novitiate . . .’
The young baronne smiled as she thought of how very close she had come to taking the veil, then she spoke of the fears of the marquis d’Aubremont, his approach to the Blades and the promise she had made to him.
The mother superior thought for a moment.
‘An expedition to Alsace, you say . . . ? Yes, I think I did hear something about that. Its goal, I believe, was the destruction of a powerful dragon. And as is proper in such cases, a louve was leading the hunt.’
Among the Chatelaines, there existed a small number of exceptional sisters who, thanks to a papal dispensation, were allowed to wield magic as well as the sword to fight the draconic menace. They were nicknamed the louves, or she-wolves, because their headquarters were located in the Chateau de Saint-Loup, not far from Poitiers. But also, and above all, because they were solitary and merciless huntresses. If Agnes had come close to pronouncing her own vows, it had been with the sole intention of becoming a louve herself.
‘But I don’t know the details of this affair,’ Mere Emmanu-elle was saying. ‘And, inr particular, I don’t know what success the expedition had . . . But if you like, I can make enquiries and let you know what I discover.’
‘Thank you, mother superior.’
‘Nevertheless . . . Nevertheless, be very careful, Marie-Agnes. It won’t take the Superior General long to learn of the reasons for your visit, and I doubt she will take a kind view of your becoming mixed up in the Order’s business . . .’
In the office of magic at the splendid Hotel de Chevreuse, in rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, the man bent forward to examine the painted portrait the duchesse was showing him. Tall, thin and pale, he appeared to be about fifty-five years in age. He was wearing the black robes of a scholar and a cloth beret, also black in colour, with a turned-up, crenelated edge.
‘Do you see, master?’ asked madame de Chevreuse.
He was her mas
ter of magic and exercised an insidious but immense influence over her. She believed he was called Mauduit, was of Italian origin and had spent long years studying and practising the occult arts abroad. In truth, he was a dragon as well as an agent of the Black Claw.
While he studied the portrait by candlelight, the duchesse poured two glasses of a golden liqueur with a heady aroma. When he heard the clink of crystal and smelled the odour of henbane the Alchemist’s nostrils flared and a gleam of longing briefly lit up his steely grey eyes, while the tip of a rosy tongue licked at his lips. But he retained control of himself, succeeded in masking a desire that was becoming a need and, with a steady hand, accepted — casually, without taking his eyes off the canvas — the glass held out to him. He dipped his bloodless lips in the liqueur and contained the shiver of pleasure that obliged him to shut his eyes.
‘You will soon have to find me some more of this delicious henbane from Lorraine,’ said madame de Chevreuse.
‘Certainly, madame.’
‘Will you tell me, someday, who your supplier is?’
‘Madame, whatever would become of a master of magic who gave away his secrets?’
She smiled, rose and took several paces about the room as she gazed incuriously at the books of magic and various alchemical and esoteric objects that were on display.
Then she asked:
‘So? What do you think of my find? I can assure you that this portrait is most faithful.’
The Alchemist pursed his lips.
‘Precisely, madame. This young woman is far too pretty. She won’t fool anyone.’
The duchesse was expecting this reaction and had prepared a visual effect. Smiling, she showed him a small piece of carton shaped like a theatre mask, which she placed upon the portrait.
‘And now, master?’
The master of magic looked again at the painting and could not prevent a start of surprise.
‘Admirable ... !’ he admitted. Then a shadow of doubt passed over his face. ‘But her size? Her figure?’
‘They are a perfect match in every respect,’ madame de Chevreuse reassured him.
‘As is her hair . . . And where is this marvel hiding?’
‘She has been staying here, in my home, for several days now. I will present her to you during the course of a dinner I am hosting.’
‘But will she be capable of—’
‘I will answer for her.’
‘On condition that she accepts.’
‘How can one refuse a queen?’
The Alchemist gave one of his rare smiles, which always seemed cruel.
‘Yes, of course . . .’ he said. ‘But it will still require some scheming on your part to place your protegee in the queen’s entourage. How do you hope to accomplish that?’
‘Through the marquis,’ replied the duchesse with a hint of annoyance. ‘Or through my husband the duc. We’ll see.’
‘Time is running short, madame. If all is not ready in time for your great ball at Dampierre . . .’
‘I know it all too well, monsieur. All too well . . . Now, a little more henbane?’
Leprat had already been waiting for an hour. With an ordinary sword at his side, he was wearing Gueret’s clothing and jewellery, including a ring adorned with a handsome opaline stone that he had slipped on his left ring finger. He had of course put away his ivory rapier and the Blades’ steel signet ring, along with anything that might compromise his false identity. He hoped it would suffice. For although he had no doubt that the duchesse de Chevreuse was not personally acquainted with Gueret, this was perhaps not the case for all those who surrounded her and served her.
Once again, he gazed about the tavern’s taproom. Sitting at the end of a table, he did not conceal the opaline on his ring finger but nor did he flash it about, to avoid trouble. While The Bronze Glaive was no cutthroats’ den, it was not the most reputable of places. Located outside the faubourg Saint-Jacques, less than a quarter of an hour’s walk from the inn where Gueret had been lodging, the establishment was exempt from the taxes and regulations that applied in Paris. Wine was cheaper here and they continued serving it after curfew every evening of the week, until midnight.
Every evening of the week, that is, except the previous evening, when the owner, having gone to Tours to bury a dead relative, had closed the tavern. Leprat had discovered this by listening to a conversation between two regulars. It explained, at least, why Gueret had returned to the inn earlier than expected and surprised Agnes and Marciac in his bedchamber. This extraordinary closure had indirectly killed him.
The difference between life and death often depends on the tiniest things, Leprat mused.
Absentmindedly toying with the opaline that served as his recognition sign, he did not react when a gentleman sat down next to him and asked without giving him a look:
‘Did you have a safe journey from Flanders?’
‘I’ve come from Lorraine.’
‘Did you take pains to ensure you were not followed?’
‘From Nancy?’
‘The cardinal has eyes and ears everywhere.’
Leprat glanced at the stranger. He was slender and fair-haired, with a well-trimmed moustache and royale beard. He was elegantly but unobtrusively dressed in a beige doublet. And he had a friendly air.
The musketeer lowered his eyes to the gentleman’s hands, who let him catch a glimpse of an opaline ring on his own index finger before he said:
‘Wait a little while and then meet me around the back.’
He immediately rose and went out, after paying for the glass of wine which he had not touched.
Leprat imitated him five minutes later.
In the dark night, he had difficulty finding the narrow arched passageway that led to the rear of the tavern. He could not see a thing and was unfamiliar with the place. His instinct, moreover, told him that something was amiss. Had he already been unmasked? He thought for an instant about giving up, turning around and returning to the Hotel de l’Epervier.
Despite everything, he decided to continue.
And was knocked unconscious the moment he set foot in the rear courtyard.
Each house in Paris had a sign. The shops and taverns had them, of course. But so did the dwellings, which was how one told them apart in lieu of numbers. These signs served to designate the addresses of both commercial establishments and private individuals: Rue Saint-Martin, where the sign of the Red Cock hangs, for example. This only applied, however, to premises belonging to commoners. Private mansions, still reserved solely to the aristocracy under Louis XIII, did not have signs. Instead they took the names of their owners, often decorated with prestigious coats-of-arms on their pediment, and that was address enough: Hotel de Chateauneuf, rue Coquilliere. Or even: Hotel de Chevreuse, Paris.
Parisian streets were thus graced with innumerable signs in multicoloured wood that added to the capital’s renown and gave it, when the weather was fine, a festive air. The subjects of these signs were varied — saints, kings of France and other sacred or profane characters; tools, weapons and utensils; trees, fruits and flowers; animals and other imaginary creatures — but showed no evidence, on the whole, of any real artistic vision or profound taste for the picturesque. For every Horse Wielding a Pickaxe or Gloved Wyvern, how many Tin Plates and Golden Lions? The most curious thing, however, was the fact that the signs for shops never evoked anything related to the nature of their business. There were no boots for cobblers or anvils for blacksmiths. Only taverns were required to distinguish themselves with a sheaf: a handful of knotted hay or twigs.
If signs served a useful purpose and brightened up an otherwise sordid urban setting, they nevertheless represented a certain hazard to the public due to the tendency of shopkeepers to give them excessive dimensions for the purposes of publicity. The ironwork that supported them often extended out a toise, or a measure of about two metres, into the street. Considering the width of an ordinary street in Paris, that meant signs often hung in the middle of the pa
vement. Added to the usual stalls and awnings, these ornaments thus hindered traffic and aggravated the crush in the most commercial streets, which were also the most heavily frequented. There were more than three hundred signs in the neighbourhood of Les Halles, and almost as many on rue Saint-Denis alone. Coaches were constantly knocking them down. Riders on lorseback had to duck to avoid them. And even pedestrians )ften bashed their skulls on these gaudily painted wooden xinels.
Usually due to distraction.
But not always.
‘Hup!’
Turning round, the man saw a monkey’s head diving towards him, received a blow from the sign in the middle of his trow and keeled over backwards, while the suspended panel :ontinued its forward motion before reversing at the height of ts swing.
Marciac caught it and stopped its movement.
Then he gave a calm, satisfied look at the man lying un-:onscious in the street at his feet, his arms spread out in a ;ross.
This scene took place in rue Grenouillere at the crack of lawn where, as in the rest of Paris, the neighbourhood was ust beginning to wake.
Vlarciac returned to Les Petites Grenouilles on tiptoe. The louse was still sleeping at this hour of the morning, since the ast customers, as usual, had taken their leave late during the previous night. This suited the Gascon perfectly, as he was ounting on regaining the warmth of Gabrielle’s bed without her being aware he had ever left. But as he was about to take the stairs, holding his boots in his hand, he heard a voice say:
‘So? How is that ankle?’
He froze, grimacing as he closed his eyelids tightly, then re-opcned one eye and turned his head to look through a wide-open door. He saw Gabrielle sitting alone at the kitchen table. Her lace was in profile and she held her head stiffly upright as she ale, staring straight ahead of her. She had a large shawl around her shoulders and was wearing only a nightshirt, without having done anything about her hair or appearance.
She was beautiful, nevertheless.