by Pierre Pevel
The Gascon resolved to join her. He hated explanations and reproaches, but this time would not be able to escape making the former or receiving the latter. Reluctantly, he fell into a chair.
‘My ankle is much better,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
Then he waited for the tongue-lashing to start.
‘Where were you?’ Gabrielle finally asked.
‘Out.’
‘In order to exchange a few words with Fortain, I imagine.’
Marciac frowned.
‘Fortain?’
‘The man who was watching the house. He was no longer there when I woke up. But you have reappeared. Whereas he—’
‘Then you know.’
‘That there are five or six men who have been discreetly watching the house these past few days? Yes, I know. The fact is, you see, I’m neither totally blind nor a complete idiot. Even the girls know something is up. The only one who hasn’t realised is poor old Thibault.’
Thibault, the porter at Les Petites Grenouilles, was a man of absolute devotion but limited intelligence.
Marciac nodded.
‘All right,’ he allowed. ‘But do you know who these men work for?’
‘Yes. For Rochefort.’
Astonished, the Gascon studied Gabrielle’s expressionless face. She still hadn’t accorded him the slightest glance.
‘And how do you know that Rochefort is behind all this?’
‘I recognised two of his men. Including Fortain.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything to me?’
‘I might ask you the same question. In my case, it was because I was afraid you would only make matters worse by getting mixed up in this. A strange idea, that, wasn’t it?’
Embarrassed, Marciac did not at first find a reply, but then he said:
‘I had to know, Gabrielle. I had to make sure that—’
‘That Rochefort was watching my house? Very well. Rochefort is watching my house. So what? He can discover nothing he doesn’t already know. But now that you’ve attacked one of lis men, what will happen? Do you believe he’ll let that go unanswered ?’
‘I’ll speak to him.’
‘And why would he listen to you, since he has no love for the Blades and only takes orders from the cardinal? He won’t be able to resist the temptation of reaching you through me. For if you’ve guessed that Rochefort has become interested in me, you must know it’s because of your captain’s hidden daughter. Isn’t it? Of course, I didn’t know that when I took her in and I don’t know where she is now, but what does that matter?’
Gabrielle rose, abandoning the plate of fruit and cheese which she had barely touched. She had, in fact, mostly been digging her fingertips into a quarter loaf of white bread.
She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders more tightly, walked towards the door, halted, turned round and looked at Marciac closely.
At last, she said:
‘I’m going to ask you one thing, Nicolas.’
‘Yes?’
‘You knew. Fven before you got rid of Fortain you knew that -’
He interrupted her:
‘Fortain is alive. And quite well. I am not an assassin, Gabrielle. I only dragged him off to get the truth out of him.’
She had no trouble believing him.
‘But even before that, you knew he was one of Rochefort’s men, didn’t you? And you knew why Les Petites Grenouilles were being watched . . .’
Maniac thought for a moment.
But however much it might cost him, he hated lying to Gabrielle.
‘Yes,’ he recognised, ‘I knew.’
‘So it wasn’t even a question of making sure . . . Merely of sending a message to Rochefort. So that he would understand that you and the Blades would not stand back with your arms crossed if he bothered La Fargue’s daughter.’
‘La Fargue’s daughter or you, Gabrielle. La Fargue’s daughter or you.’
She looked at him. He was sincere.
‘Yes,’ said Gabrielle. ‘And do you believe you have done well to protect me, today?’
She left the kitchen, went to the staircase and from there told Marciac:
‘I love you, Nicolas. But I would prefer it if you did not sleep here tonight.’
She returned alone to her bedchamber.
Leprat woke up with a severe headache and a devilish thirst. He was lying in his breeches, stockings and shirt, stretched out on a made-up bed in a chamber he had never seen before. He didn’t know how he came to be here, but he was sure of one thing: he had left Paris. The air smelled fresh.
The musketeer sat up and, as he rubbed his skull and the handsome bump where he had been struck, he considered his surroundings. His boots were neatly awaiting him by the door. His doublet hung from the back of a chair. His hat was placed upon a table and his sword hung in its scabbard from one of the bedposts. The room was modest but clean and quiet, plunged into an agreeable shade by the curtains that obscured the window.
As he stood, Leprat noticed that the pockets of his breeches had been turned inside out and he concluded that his boots had probably been removed to make sure he was not concealing anything inside them. That made him think of his doublet and he hastened to feel the lining. It was empty and he saw that it had been carefully unsewn. The people who had knocked him out and brought him here had stolen all the secret documents he was supposed to deliver personally to the duchesse de Chevreuse. His career as the queen mother’s agent had not got off to a very good start.
Except, despite what the nasty blow to his head seemed to portend, he was neither dead nor a prisoner. If he had been unmasked, he would not have woken here in this manner. Indeed, he would perhaps not have woken at all.
A cow lowed outside.
Leprat went to part the curtains and was dazzled for a moment by the flood of light that suddenly poured into the room. Then he gradually began to make out a pleasant rural landscape, but one which failed to evoke any particular incmories in him. He still didn’t know where he was, except that he was looking at a corner of the countryside from the upper storey of a house located at the entrance to a village or small town. And if his day’s growth of beard was not lying, he had not slept more than a night and was therefore still in France, probably not far from Paris.
But apart from that . . .
Determined to find out more, Leprat dressed and put on his baldric, finding Gueret’s steel sword to be much heavier than his ivory rapier, and then left the room. He descended some stairs and emerged into a charming, sunlit garden where he found, eating at a small table beneath a canopy, the man in the beige doublet who had approached him in The Bronze Glaive.
The gentleman rose as soon as he caught sight of Leprat and welcomed him with an open smile.
‘Monsieur de Gueret! How are you feeling? Did you sleep well?’
‘Fairly well, yes,’ replied Leprat, who still did not know what lack he should adopt in these circumstances.
‘I’m delighted to hear that. Join me, please.’ The gentleman pointed to an empty chair at his table and sat back down. ‘I’ve just returned from Paris and finally found time to eat. Will you share this late breakfast with me?’
‘Certainly.’
‘I am the chevalier de Mirebeau and you are here in my home.’
‘Your home, which is to say . . . ?’
‘In Ivry. Paris is little more than a league from here.’
Leprat sat down at the table and discovered he possessed a healthy appetite.
‘Bertrand!’ called the gentleman. ‘Bertrand!’
A stooped and rather dreary-looking lackey appeared in the doorway.
‘Yes, monsieur?’
‘A glass for monsieur de Gueret.’
‘Very good, monsieur.’
And tearing a leg from a chicken, Mirebeau said:
‘I imagine you have many questions. I don’t know if I can answer all of them just yet, but I owe you an apology for the nasty trick we played on you last night. I can only hope t
hat Rauvin did not strike you too hard . . .’
‘Rauvin?’
‘You will meet him soon. The man has a tendency to be . . . zealous about his work. And he has an excessive, indeed, almost unnatural, sense of wariness ... In short, it’s down to him that you were knocked out—’
‘Knocked out and searched.’
‘You realise we needed to assure ourselves that you were in fact who you claimed to be. As for the documents you were carrying, have no fear. I delivered them to the person for whom they were intended.’
‘My orders were to place them personally in madame de Chevreuse’s hands.’
Mirebeau smiled.
‘Unfortunately, it is impossible for you to meet the duchesse immediately. But these papers needed to be delivered to her as soon as possible, didn’t they . . . ? Also, there was an encoded letter inside your doublet. Do you know of its nature?’
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘The queen mother invites the duchess to take you into her service.’
‘That much, yes, I did know. And have already accepted in advance.’
‘Perfect! In that case, the duchesse’s desire is for us to form a team. Does that pose an inconvenience to you?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Really?’ said the gentleman in surprise. ‘Why is that?’
Leprat looked directly into Mirebeau’s eyes.
‘If I was ordered to place the documents in the duchesse’s own hands, it was not merely to ensure that they arrived at their proper destination, but also to satisfy myself that no one was trying to trick me. I do not know you, monsieur. I do not know if you are in the service of madame de Chevreuse. I do not even know if you have ever met her. In fact, for all I do know, you could very well be in the service of Cardinal Richelieu . . . On the other hand, if the duchesse were to receive me . . .’
Still maintaining a smiling, friendly demeanour, the man in the beige doublet nodded calmly and then said:
‘I applaud your prudence, monsieur. And I understand your concerns . . . However, considering your position, your only option is the following: to place your trust in me during the time it takes to prove yourself . . .’
‘Or?’
‘Or you can choose to leave.’
‘Which is not likely to please Rauvin, is it?’
‘Probably not.’
Agnes returned to the Hotel de l’Epervier at the same time as Marciac. She was on horseback. He was on foot and still limped a little, carrying a bundle of his belongings on one shoulder.
‘Already recovered?’ she asked.
‘Already cast out,’ he corrected.
She nodded, the tumultuous relationship between the Gascon and Gabrielle having long ceased to surprise anyone who knew them both.
‘And you, Agnes? Where do you return from?’
The young baronne de Vaudreuil jumped down from her saddle while Guibot opened up one of the doors of the carriage gate and she apprised Marciac of her approach to the former Mother Superior General of the Sisters of Saint Georges. Then, once inside the courtyard, she entrusted the reins of her horse to Andre and asked the old porter with the wooden leg:
‘Is the captain here?’
‘No, madame. He was called to the Palais-Cardinal. And this letter arrived for you this morning.’
It was now almost noon.
Agnes took the missive, recognised the seal of the Order the White Ladies printed on the red wax, opened it and read.
‘Bad news?’ enquired Marciac.
‘This letter is from the Superior General of the Chatelaines. It expresses her wish to see me this afternoon, which amounts to the same thing as a summons.’
‘Like that? All of a sudden?’
‘Yes, in a manner of speaking . . .’
‘Will you go?’
‘I don’t have a choice in the matter. But I should have liked to speak with La Fargue before going.’
‘You will have to content yourself with talking to me,’ said Marciac, taking Agnes fey the elbow. ‘Come, we’ll have dinner and then I will accompany you to the Enclos.’
Laincourt had made an effort with his appearance before presenting himself for the second time at the Hotel de Chevreuse. He had donned his most elegant doublet, found a matching pair of gloves, carefully polished his boots and stuck a new feather in his hat. His meeting the previous day with the duchesse had made a deep impression on him. She was not only breathtakingly beautiful, but her elegance, poise and nonchalant manner had disarmed him. She moved with the most natural ease in extraordinarily luxurious settings.
This time he was expected and Laincourt was immediately conducted to the terrace, where a square table had been set beneath a white cloth canopy embroidered with gold thread. There, madame de Chevreuse, looking radiant and serene, was chatting with a young girl and an older woman who, like her, was sipping raspberry water that had been cooled at outrageous expense with snow preserved from the previous winter. The young girl was very pretty, lively and very daintily attired. In contrast, the woman was grey-haired and unassuming, with a dull look in her eye.
Upon seeing her visitor, the duchesse greeted Laincourt with a bright smile and, without rising, signalled him to approach.
‘Monsieur de Laincourt! Join us, please.’
He obeyed, saluting the mistress of the house first and then her guests, finding himself introduced to Aude de Saint-Avoid and her aunt, madame de Jarville. Aude, who was a relative of the duc de Chevreuse, had arrived from Lorraine to be presented at the French court. Her aunt was acting as her chaperone.
‘But now that I think of it,’ remarked the duchesse, ‘you also come from Lorraine, monsieur de Laincourt.’
‘Madame, I must disabuse you of this notion. I was born in Nancy, it is true. But I am French.’
‘Really? How is that possible?’
Laincourt, as was often the case when speaking of himself, became evasive.
‘One of those accidents of life, madame.’
‘We were speaking of the court at Nancy. Don’t you think it is so much more appealing and gay than the French court?’
‘I am forced to admit that it is, madame.’
The court of Charles IV in fact surpassed that of Louis XIII by far. In Nancy, at the ducal palace, the revels were almost unceasing and often licentious, whereas it was easy to grow bored at the Louvre with its austere and timid king who hated to appear in public. The duchesse thus retained an excellent memory of her stay in Nancy, where the duc had welcomed her with great pomp. Laincourt supposed she had made the acquaintance of Aude de Saint-Avoid during her time there.
Aude de Saint-Avoid.
As he engaged in the conversation, he had trouble taking his eyes off this young woman. She not only pleased him, she also intrigued him. She had a very charming face, with silky light brown hair, lively green eyes and full, luscious lips. Who could fail to find her ravishing? She did not even suffer from comparison with the splendid madame de Chevreuse. In her fashion, she was less beautiful but prettier than the duchesse, less seductive but more moving. And if the duch-esse’s confidence added a touch of triumphant arrogance to her beauty, young Aude had preserved something fragile from her adolescence, somehow both sad and carefree.
However, other than the fact that it was lovely, Aude’s face attracted Laincourt’s eye because he seemed to recognise it. Had he met her in Nancy? Perhaps. But her name meant nothing to him. Could the duchesse have brought Aude to Paris under a borrowed identity?
Ably solicited by madame de Chevreuse, who had no equal when it came to drawing the best out of men, Laincourt surprised himself by sparkling in conversation. He proved himself gallant, witty and humorous, finding particular pleasure in entertaining Aude de Saint-Avoid, whose sincere laughter enthralled him. And so their conversation had been following a most pleasant course for more than an hour when the maitre d’hotel brought a note to the duchesse. She read it without blinking, excused herself, rose, promised to return soon and took her lea
ve/
Laincourt’s gaze followed her and he caught a glimpse of man in a black cap and black robes who was waiting for her inside the mansion.
‘Who is he?’ he asked.
‘He is the duchesse’s master of magic, I believe,’ Aude replied. ‘But I have not been introduced to him yet.’
Without the duchesse, the conversation lagged a little and they could not count on madame de Jarville to remedy matters: made sleepy by the heat, she drowsed in her chair. The two young people perceived this at the same time, exchanged an amused glance, and stifled mocking laughs. Madame de Chevreuse soon rejoined them, but only to say that she was going to be detained elsewhere and was entrusting Aude to Laincourt’s care.
‘Be good,’ she said as she left them.
Which was a little like the devil warning them not to sin.
‘What if we escaped?’ Aude de Saint-Avoid suggested with a rebellious gleam in her eye.
‘I beg your pardon, madame?’
‘Abduct me. Madame de Chevreuse has placed a coach at my disposal. Let’s take it. And go to . . . Let’s go to Le Cours!’
‘To Le Cours?’
‘What? Isn’t that what it’s called?’
‘Indeed. But . . .’
Le Cours, located near the Saint-Antoine gate, was one of the most popular places for Parisians wishing to take a stroll. Rich or poor, aristocrat or commoner, all went there to promenade, seek distractions or display themselves in public. People chatted, joked or courted one another. They played hide-and-seek or skittles or pall-mall. On fine days, especially, the place was very popular. The young woman’s idea was thus by no means a bad one. But Le Cours was never so crowded as on a Sunday, as Laincourt explained to her.
‘Oh . . . You see how ignorant I am of all these things . . . It will take a long time to make a Parisienne of me, won’t it?’
Aude’s disappointment saddened Laincourt, who felt a compelling need to console her.
‘But we could go to the garden at Les Tuileries,’ he heard himself propose.
‘Really?’
‘Yes! We should definitely go, now that it’s been said!’
‘But . . . What about madame de Jarville?’ whispered the young woman with the tone of an anxious conspirator.
‘Let’s leave her to her rest.’