by Pierre Pevel
The Enclos du Temple was a former residence of the Knights Templar located on the right bank of the Seine, to the north of the Marais neighbourhood. Ceded to the Knights Hospitaller after the dissolution of the Templar Order in 1314, this building was finally sold to the Sisters of Saint Georges during the reign of Francois I. It still belonged to them in 1633 and was still surrounded by a high, crenelated wall, punctuated by turrets, and defended by a massive donjon flanked by four corner towers: the famous Tour du Temple. Visitors entered the premises by means of a drawbridge and inside one found everything necessary for the life of a religious community: a large church; a cloister; a refectory and dormitories; kitchens; granaries and wine cellars; workshops; stables; gardens, vegetable plots and more extensive fields; and even some houses and a lew shops. All of this contained within a mediaeval compound in Paris, on the rue du Temple, near the gate bearing the same name.
*
Having dined at place de Greve, Marciac and Agnes both entered the Enclos, but only the young baronne was admitted to meet the Mother Superior General. They had shared an enjoyable moment together, the Gascon regaling Agnes with comic tales of his trials and tribulations in love. He was aware that she had once been on the point of taking the veil with the Chatelaines, although he didn’t know of the circumstances that had prompted her to change paths and later join the Cardinal’s Blades. One thing was certain: at present, she no longer held the Sisters of Saint Georges in fond esteem and even seemed to nurture a particular rancour against the current Superior General, the formidable Mere Therese de Vaussambre.
While Marciac waited patiently outside, Agnes was conducted to the ancient chapter hall. The room was immense, broad, high-ceilinged and illuminated by arched windows. At the rear, a long table covered with several white cloths stretched parallel to a wall adorned with a huge mediaeval tapestry representing Saint Georges slaying the dragon. At the centre of this table, back to the wall, beneath the tapestry, sat the Mother Superior General. Tall, thin and stiff-looking, she had the same penetrating gaze as her cousin the cardinal. She was not yet fifty years of age, directed the Sisters of Saint Georges with an iron hand and had made their Order more influential than ever before.
‘Approach, Marie-Agnes.’
Her hat held in one hand and the other resting on the pommel of her sword, Agnes de Vaudreuil advanced, saluted and said:
‘It’s just Agnes, now, mother.’
‘Agnes . . . Yes. So it is. You do well to correct me,’ replied the Superior General in a tone that implied the exact opposite. ‘I have trouble forgetting the novice that you once were. You had so much promise! And what a louve you would have become . . . !’
Cautious, the young baronne de Vaudreuil waited silently.
‘But the day will come when you will realise your destiny . . .’ added the nun, as if to her herself.
Then she added in a solemn and imperious tone: ‘Madame, your services are required at the side of the queen, whose suite you will join as soon as possible. You have been chosen due to your skills, as well as the abilities revealed during the novitiate which you have so unhappily chosen to neglect. However, we know that we can place our trust in you . . .’
A short while later, in the courtyard of the Hotel de Chev-reuse, Laincourt was helping a delignted Aude de Saint-Avoid to climb into a coach when he felt a glance fall upon the back of his neck.
He turned around but only had time to see, at a window on the first storey of the mansion’s main building, a curtain hilling back into place before a thin, pallid face.
The Alchemist released the curtain and turned away from the window just as the duchesse came into his office.
‘You will meet her this evening,’ she promised him. ‘But for now, without further delay, I can give you some excellent news: our protegee will soon be joining the queen’s suite.’
‘What? So quickly . . . ? How have you managed this?’
‘Providence, monsieur Mauduit. Providence . . . Today, as a favour, someone asked me to—’ .Someone r
‘Cardinal Richelieu, through an intermediary ... In short, the cardinal asked me to favour a distant relative of his with an introduction into the queen’s entourage.’
‘The king is free to appoint whomever he pleases to the queen’s household. And similarly, to expel anyone he dislikes.’
‘Yes, and the queen is free to turn a cold shoulder to anyone whose presence is forced upon her. And it is just such treatment that the cardinal wishes to avoid for this relative, by asking me to intercede in her favour. I believe it is also the cardinal’s way of measuring my goodwill with respect to him.’
‘So you accepted.’
‘Of course. But, at the same time, requested that one of my own protegees be admitted to the queen’s entourage. After all, I am the duchesse de Chevreuse. It would be uncharacteristic of me to give without receiving anything in return.’
‘My congratulations.’
‘Thank you, monsieur. And on your side?’
‘All is ready. However—’
‘What?’
‘This relative of the cardinal, who is she?’
‘How should I know?’
‘A spy?’
‘Without a doubt, since such manoeuvres are very much in the manner of the king, who may not love the queen but still wishes to know her every deed and gesture. No doubt to make sure she is unhappy . . .’
The duchesse’s expression grew hard: she hated the king.
‘This spy could do us mischief,’ said the master of magic.
‘In the little time between now and the ball? Come now . . . When the moment arrives, we only need to keep her apart from our . . . arrangements.’
The Alchemist, still looking concerned, fell silent.
Mirebeau did not return until the end of the afternoon.
He had left on horseback three hours previously without saying where he was going or proposing that Leprat should accompany him. The musketeer had waited in the house at Ivry with Bertrand, the chevalier’s very dour-looking valet, and a translation of The Decameron as his sole company. He was at liberty to move about, but he preferred not to stray beyond the garden. He was perhaps being watched and did not wish to raise any alarms.
Hearing horses approaching, Leprat rose from his bed, where he had been reading, and went to look out the window of his first-storey bedchamber. He took up his rapier as he passed, placed himself to one side so he would not easily be seen and gently pushed open a window frame that was already ajar, just as two riders drew up.
One of them, still elegantly dressed in beige, was Mirebeau.
He jumped down from his mount and, calling out for Ber-trand, disappeared into the house. The other man had the look of a mercenary, wearing boots, thick breeches, a leather doublet, a sword at his side and an old battered hat. Leprat guessed he must be this Rauvin of whom Mirebeau had spoken, the same man who had knocked him out by surprise in the courtyard of The Bronze Glaive. The man with the unnatural sense of wariness, as the gentleman had put it. And therefore someone of whom he should be particularly wary himself.
Very much at ease in his saddle, Rauvin - if it was indeed him — removed his hat long enough to wipe his brow with the back of a sleeve. Leprat caught a glimpse of a blade-like face and a balding crown wreathed by long black hair, belonging to a thirty-year-old man. The man took a Jew’s harp from his pocket, raised it to his mouth and made the metal strip vibrate to produce a strange melody.
As he played, he calmly lifted his eyes to the window where the musketeer stood watching him, as if to signify that he had known Leprat was there all along and could not have cared less.
Their gazes met for a long while and Leprat was filled with an absolute certainty that Rauvin represented a deadly threat to him.
‘Gueret!’ Mirebeau called from the stairway. ‘Gueret!’
The false agent of the queen mother turned away from the window just as Mirebeau entered.
‘Please get ready,’ requeste
d the gentleman in the beige doublet. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘We?’
‘You, me and Rauvin, who is waiting for us below.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To a place near Neuilly.’
‘And what will we do there?’
‘So lull of questions!’ exclaimed Mirebeau in a jovial manner. ‘Come now, monsieur. Make haste. Bertrand is already saddling a horse for you.’
3
Upon their return to the Hotel de l’Epervier, Agnes and Marciac waited for La Fargue who, barely a quarter of an hour later, returned with Almades from the Palais-Cardinal.
‘I know,’ he said, seeing Agnes looking both angry and worried. ‘The cardinal just informed me of your . . . mission.’
‘Damn it, captain! What is going on ... ? Did you agree to this!?’
‘Hold your horses, Agnes. I did not agree to anything at all. As I just told you, I was summoned to the Palais-Cardinal to have this fait accompli presented to me.’
They were in the fencing room, where the young woman was pacing up and down.
‘And you accepted this?’ she asked angrily, as if La Fargue had betrayed her.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Because we are the Cardinal’s Blades. Not La Fargue’s Blades. And even less, de Vaudreuil’s Blades . . . His Eminence gives the orders. And we obey them . . .’
With a resigned air, Agnes let herself fall into an armchair.
‘Merde!’ she exclaimed.
‘You will only be joining the queen’s suite temporarily,’ the old gentleman explained in a patient tone. ‘Your sole mission will be to keep your eyes and ears wide open. It’s not so terrible . . .’
‘But this is simply a manoeuvre, captain. A manoeuvre!’
‘That’s quite possible.’
‘It’s damn certain, you mean! Just think for a minute! One evening I go to meet the former Mother Superior General about an affair that might very well prove embarrassing to the Chatelaines, and the very next morning I find myself summoned by the current Superior General. And given an assignment where I will be unable to upset anyone. Come now! You may fool others, but not me!’
La Fargue nodded.
‘It may well be true that Mere de Vaussambre wants to keep you away from certain matters. But she did not hesitate in calling upon the cardinal in order to achieve her aims: the threat against the queen could very well be real . . .’
‘I don’t believe that for a second.’
‘But what if La Donna’s plot was directed at the queen rather the king?’ interjected Marciac.
Agnes shrugged.
‘The duchesse de Chevreuse? Scheming against the queen . . . ? It’s impossible.’
‘As far as I can recall,’ said Almades, who spoke so rarely that everyone pricked up their ears when he did, ‘La Donna always referred to a plot “against the throne”. She never said anything about a plot “against the king”. We were the ones who concluded that the person of the king was under threat . . .’
‘Nevertheless,’ insisted the young baronne de Vaudreuil. ‘La Chevreuse and the queen are sincere friends. Whenever the duchesse has been involved in a scheme, it has been against the king or the cardinal. Never against the queen.’
In this, Agnes was right.
‘Be that as it may,’ said La Fargue after a silence, ‘there is nothing we can do. I’m sorry, Agnes, but if the Superior General wanted you out of the way, then she has succeeded.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ declared Agnes before turning round and striding away.
Where are you going?‘ La Fargue called after her.
‘To find a dressmaker who can work miracles, by God! I’m going to need something decent to wear at court . . .’
Alter their stroll in the Tuileries gardens, Laincourt and Aude de Saint-Avoid returned looking pleased with themselves and with one another, sharing a sense of being guilty of a delicious prank. They were still laughing as they descended from the coach in the courtyard of the Hotel de Chevreuse, simply two carefree young people on a fine summer day in June. For the space of a few sunny hours, Laincourt had forgotten his mission. He had forgotten about the perils that weighed upon France, the Alchemist’s plot, madame de Chevreuse’s intrigues and the war being prepared against Lorraine. He had forgotten his hated profession as a spy and felt like a schoolboy.
Indeed, hadn’t they just been playing truant? It was not a serious misdemeanour and the duchesse, who had boldly committed so many of her own, would no doubt forgive them. She might even be amused by their escapade, given her own fondness for the pleasures of life. As for madame de Jarville, the aunt they had been st> careful not to wake, she would have to accept matters. It must be said that Laincourt had behaved like the perfect attending gentleman. Thoughtful and courteous, he had offered his arm as they strolled along the crowded lanes of the great park. Then, growing worried about the heat from the blazing sun above, he had insisted on purchasing a parasol for Aude from a hawker. The parasol turned out to be cheap rubbish and broke the moment it was opened, but the young girl laughed and held onto it as a keepsake. Finally, they drank fresh orange juice at a stand, near the pit where they saw the sleeping hydras that the queen mother had presented to the king a few years previously.
And that was all that had occurred, apart from the glances and smiles . . .
Aude de Saint-Avoid was pretty, agreeable, witty and cultivated. Moreover, she was quick to wield irony with such an innocent air that she caught Laincourt by surprise several times. But above all, there was something luminous and happy about her, like a live flame, transmitted by her eyes and her smile.
Gallant to the end, Laincourt accompanied Aude from the coach to the splendid front hall of the Hotel de Chevreuse, where the maitre d’hotel informed her that madame la duchesse was waiting for her. Laincourt then wanted to withdraw but the young woman from Lorraine implored him to stay.
‘Oh no, monsieur! Don’t abandon me!’
‘Abandon you, madame?’
‘I’m sure to be scolded for our stroll,’ explained Aude, half-seriously. ‘I shall tell them you abducted me and you must confirm it!’
‘Madame!’ exclaimed Laincourt, pretending to be worried. ‘Me? Accuse myself of abducting you? I’ll be thrown directly into prison.’
‘Never fear. I shall arrange for your escape,’ the girl whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
‘Well, in that case . . .’
Thus it was on Laincourt’s arm that Aude de Saint-Avoid entered the salon where madame de Chevreuse was idly perusing a book on astrology. And he learned at the same time as Aude that she had been admitted to the queen’s household as a maiden-of-honour. The distinction was both immense and unexpected. In the heat of her emotion, Aude forgot all about proper form and threw herself at the duch-esse’s feet, kissing her hands and calling her ‘benefactress’. The duchesse, laughing, asked her to rise and when she was not obeyed, begged Laincourt to intervene. He helped Aude take a seat in an armchair and held her hand.
She cried, but her tears were those of joy.
‘Will you visit me, monsieur?’ she asked.
Arnaud de Laincourt smiled.
Maidens-of-honour were all of noble birth, lived under the watchful eye of a governess and did not appear in public except to accompany the queen on grand occasions. As for approaching them . . .
‘Madame,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘for that, I would have to be admitted to the queen’s entourage as well . . .’
Before Aude could even begin to express her regret, the duchesse de Chevreuse announced in a playful tone:
‘Bah! Consider it done, monsieur.’
Dusk was filling as the three riders came in sight of the inn. They had not exchanged so much as three words since leaving Ivry. Mirebeau, who led the way, did not seem to be in a talkative mood. As for Rauvin, he expressed his suspicious nature through silence and long stares which Leprat pretended to ignore. But the truth was that the man’s hostility weighed on him
. Constant and insidious, it seemed designed to play on his nerves and trip him up, and thereby provoke a confrontation. Since Mirebeau acted as if nothing was going on, the musketeer was forced to put up with it. The worst part, however, was that Rauvin — deliberately — rode last. It was his way of saying that he was keeping his eye on Leprat. And he was not the kind of man that anyone wanted to have at their back ...
The riders stopped for a moment upon a hill.
The inn was still some distance away. Isolated, it was a former farm whose thick-walled buildings surrounded a courtyard defended by a massive gate. Right now, the two great doors remained open and there was movement in the lantern-lit courtyard. Most of the windows were brightly lit and festive sounds rose into the night: laughter, shouts, music and singing.
‘Is that where we’re going?’ asked Leprat.
‘Yes,’ replied Mirebeau, urging his horse forward.
They reached the inn at a fast trot, dismounted after passing through the carriage gate and walked to the stable leading their horses by the bridle. Tables had been set up in the courtyard, along with a stage where musicians were playing. People were dancing. At the tables, the refrains were taken up in chorus, hands were clapped in time with the beat and glasses were raised only to be swiftly drained. Most of those present were soldiers, enjoying a last night of debauchery before rejoining their regiments, and here they found everything they desired: wine, drinking companions and women. There were not very many of the latter, but they did not mind being shared. Bawdy and drunk, they went from arm to arm, dancing a turn with every man, sitting on every knee, willingly allowing themselves to be rudely handled, laughing when a hand grasped their waist or a face plunged into their bosom. Anything more than that had to be paid for, however, and couples went off, out of sight from the lanterns and voyeurs, for brief fumbling embraces.
Mirebeau knew the place and was known here. Summoning the stable boy, who responded with the promptness reserved for good customers, he asked that their horses be tended to but not unsaddled.
‘Keep them ready for us,’ he said, giving the boy a generous tip. ‘We won’t be here for long.’