by Pierre Pevel
‘Very good, monsieur.’
‘This way,’ he then indicated to Leprat.
‘No,’ Rauvin intervened. ‘He stays here.’
He and Mirebeau stared at one another for a moment and then the gentleman gave in.
‘All right.’ And turning to Leprat, he said, ‘Wait for us here, please. We’ll be back soon.’ .
The musketeer nodded.
He had resolved to appear docile, if only to avoid giving Rauvin any opportunity to tell him to shut up and obey. He wondered whether the man was once again demonstrating his excessive sense of wariness or was simply seeking to humiliate him. But he said nothing and, from the stable’s threshold, watched the two men cross the courtyard and enter the big house that constituted the inn’s main building.
He thus stood waiting, pretending to watch the dancers and to be enjoying the music, while he discreetly observed the courtyard and kept track of comings and goings without anything seeming out of the ordinary . . .
... at least, not until he saw Rauvin come hurtling out of a first-storey window.
That evening, La Fargue, alone in his office, asked for monsieur Guibot to come see him.
‘Any news of Leprat?’ he asked.
‘None, monsieur.’
‘And of Laincourt?’
‘Nothing from him, either.’
‘Very good. Thank you.’
As he was leaving the office, the old porter passed Marciac who knocked on the open door by way of announcing himself.
‘Yes, Marciac?’ asked La Fargue.
The Gascon seemed embarrassed. He entered, shut the door behind him and sat down.
‘Captain . . .’
‘What is it, Marciac?’
‘I have something to tell you. It’s about your daughter . . . I’m not sure of anything, but I think she may be in danger.’
Having been thrown, with a tremendous crash, through a first-storey window of the inn, Rauvin landed in the courtyard under the astonished eyes of the dancers, who came to a standstill, and of the musicians on their stage, who stopped playing. He immediately ran off, as a furious-looking comte de Rochefort stuck his head out of the wreckage above.
‘Stop!’ shouted the cardinal’s henchman, before firing his pistol.
But he missed his target and Rauvin disappeared into the darkness.
‘After him!’ Rochefort ordered, and a group of red-caped guards suddenly issued forth from the inn’s front door and set off in pursuit of the fugitive.
Out of instinct, Leprat had taken a step backward into the stable, and concealed himself from view.
Evidently Mirebeau and Rauvin had come here for a clandestine meeting, a meeting that Rochefort had gotten wind of and decided to attend, along with a detachment of Richelieu’s men. An ambush had been set up. But if Rochefort and the Cardinal’s Guards had arrived first to organise this mousetrap, they must have seen the duchesse de Chevreuse’s agents arrive.
Which made Leprat wonder why he had not yet been apprehended himself.
‘Don’t make a move!’ a voice behind him suddenly said. ‘You are under arrest.’
In spite of the pistol whose barrel was now touching the back of his neck, Leprat smiled.
‘You are going to be surprised, Biscarat,’ he replied, extending his arms away from his body and turning around slowly.
After even a few months’ service, the King’s Musketeers and the Cardinals’ Guards all knew one another by sight, if not by name and reputation. Leprat had earned considerable renown when he wore the blue cape, while Biscarat had been a member of the Guards for at least eight years and had achieved some fame of his own by crossing swords with Porthos in a celebrated duel.
The guard’s eyes widened upon recognising his prisoner.
‘You?’
There was no time for explanations, but this second of astonishment was all that Leprat required. Pushing the pistol to one side, he swiftly kneed Biscarat in the belly and knocked him out with a right hook to the head, catching the man as he fell to prevent any further injury. Then he relieved him of his scarlet cape and put it on before venturing back out of the stable.
He quickly made his way across the courtyard, beneath the lanterns, moving towards the main building of the inn.
Rauvin had fled and, under the cover of night, would no doubt evade capture, but Mirebeau appeared to be trapped. While the fate of the first man was of little concern to him, Leprat could not permit the second to be arrested. The gentleman in the beige doublet was the only means he had of becoming involved in the duchesse de Chevreuse’s schemes. Leprat was thus forced to rescue Mirebeau, even if it meant thwarting Rochefort and inflicting some blows and injuries on His Eminence’s Guards.
The success of his mission depended on it.
With a resolute step, Leprat approached the row of curious onlookers who had gathered before the door of the main building and, lowering his hat to conceal his eyes, he passed through them with an authoritative air.
‘Make way! Make way!’
The red cape was impressive and a passage was cleared for him.
Inside, dozens of torches lit an immense hall thai rose to the rafters. Twenty tables were set out on a dirt floor scattered with straw. A gallery ran along the rear wall, with a corridor and several doors on the first storey, which was accessible via two staircases that climbed the walls on either side. The hall was packed and noisy, to the point that it was impossible to be heard without raising one’s voice, or to move without sidling and shouldering past people. The crowd here was the same as in the courtyard: soldiers and non-commissioned officers, prostitutes and serving wenches, plus a few debauched gentlemen. Almost everyone was on their feet protesting. The sound of a brawl coming from one of the chambers, followed by that of a breaking window and gunfire, had initially caused confusion. The appearance of the Guards in their capes and the prohibition of anyone entering or leaving the premises had then started to worry some of those present and to anger others.
Rochefort had in fact given orders to seal all the exits from the building. He was descending one of the stairways from the gallery when Leprat entered, and two guards armed with short muskets immediately took up post in front of the doors. The musketeer congratulated himself on not having delayed any longer. He didn’t know how he was going to get out, but at least he had managed to slip inside without hindrance.
‘Place more guards here at the bottom of these stairs!’ ordered Rochefort. ‘And where is Biscarat? Somebody go find Biscarat! There were three of them!’
Merely one more red cape among all the others, Leprat shoved his way through the crowd while keeping his chin down. He chose the stairs opposite those Rochefort had taken, arrived at the bottom of the steps where three guards were standing and walked brazenly past them, helped by the fact that their eyes were fixed on the angry crowd. The inn was full of soldiers and gentlemen who did not appreciate being locked inside. Emboldened by wine, some were just waiting for a chance to have a go at the cardinal’s representatives, who were almost universally detested throughout the kingdom.
With the exception of Rochefort, who followed his progress with a frowning gaze, Leprat reached the gallery without attracting anyone’s attention. Then he walked along the corridor where a guard was posted in front of a door.
Why keep watch on a door, unless Mirebeau was being held prisoner behind it?
Still walking with the assured step of someone who knows where he is going and who has every right to be there, while keeping his chin tucked in so that the brim of his hat concealed the top of his face, Leprat was relying on the scarlet cape to work its magic. He advanced and, at the last minute, surprised the guard by brandishing the pistol he had stolen from Biscarat. Then he forced him to turn round and roughly pushed him against the wall.
‘Open the door,’ he demanded.
‘Impossible.’
‘Where’s the key?’
‘Rochefort.’
Leprat cursed but did take long to
reach a decision. He knocked out the guard with a blow from his pistol and then kicked open the door with his heel.
‘It’s me,’ he announced to Mirebeau, who stood at the rear of the small room in which he had been imprisoned, blinking in the sudden light.
‘Gueret?’
‘Yes. Hurry up!’
Waving Mirebeau forward, Leprat glanced towards the end of the corridor.
‘Good Lord! I thought you had fled—’
‘I’m not Rauvin. Come on!’
The gentleman in the beige doublet was coming out just as Rochefort arrived, intrigued by this guard he had seen coming up the stairs, perhaps a little too hastily.
‘Guards! To me!’ he shouted as soon as he came onto the gallery. ‘Up here!’
Leprat fired his pistol in Rochefort’s direction, taking care, as he did to aim high. The pistol ball lodged itself in a beam, but caused the cardinal’s henchman to retreat, which was all the musketeer had wanted. With Mirebeau on his heels, he entered the nearest chamber and the two men pushed the bed against the door before Leprat went to take a look through the window. It opened onto a section of roof by means of which the fugitives made their escape as the guards attempted to force their way into the room.
‘To the stable!’ Leprat cried. ‘We need horses, it’s our only chance!’
Mirebeau nodded.
A few seconds later, just as Rochefort ran into the courtyard with several guards, and still more were cautiously exploring the rooftops, Leprat and Mirebeau burst out of the stable at a gallop, having first liberated all the horses they found there. Spurring their own mounts and yelling like demons, they provoked a stampede, aggravated by the muskets fired at them on Rochefort’s order, the furious shouts from the soldiers who saw their horses dispersing into the darkness and, lastly, by the anger of those inside the inn jostling with the guards who were still trying to prevent them from leaving. Leprat and Mirebeau, moreover, decided to take the shortest route away from the scene. Charging straight at the gate, they jumped their horses over the musicians’ stage, and in doing so, carried away with them the strings of hanging lanterns. The little oil lamps broke as they fell. Trailing behind the pair of riders, they formed blazing splatters pointing in the direction of the exit, completing the panic of the other horses that had been set free. The two fugitives made good their escape, galloping flat out into the night and leaving a veritable state of chaos in their wake, as men and beasts alike ran among the scattered flames.
4
Having been warned by Marciac that Rochefort — which amounted to saying Cardinal Richelieu — was seeking to lay hands on his daughter, La Fargue had kept his fear firmly in check. But once night had fallen he retired to his bedchamber, carefully locked his door and used the flame he had brought to light some candles, filling the room with a red and amber glow.
He took out a small key which he always kept on his person and used it to open a case tucked away among his clothing, removing a silver mirror which he placed on a table in front of him. That done, he gathered his spirit, keeping eyes closed, and in a low voice uttered ancient words in a language that had not been invented by men.
The surface of the precious mirror rippled, like a pool of mercury stirred by a breeze. It ceased to send back the reflection of a tired old gentleman, replacing it with the image of the one answering his call. The mirror did not lie. It revealed the true nature of those who used it and, in this case, revealed the slightly translucent head of a white dragon.
Such was the nature of La Fargue’s contact.
But what did the dragon see, when it looked back at La Fargue ?
‘I need to meet with one of the Seven,’ said the captain of the Blades.
‘Impossible,’ replied the dragon. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Do whatever is necessary.’
‘No.’
‘No later than three nights from now.’
‘Or else what?’
‘No later than three nights from now. In the usual time and place.’
1
In an antechamber at the Louvre, Captain La Fargue stood looking out the window while Almades maintained a discreet guard at the door. They were waiting for Agnes, who had joined the queen’s household three days previously and had not communicated with the Blades since.
Attached to the household of Anne d’Autriche, Agnes now lived in the palace and was no longer free to dispose of her time. Moreover, she knew she was being closely observed, the public manner of her arrival having aroused both curiosity and envy amongst her new peers. Although of the noblest breeding, she was nevertheless practically unknown and her sudden ascension had surprised the entire court. For two whole days, no one had spoken of anything else. It was rumoured she had been presented to the queen by the duchesse de Chevreuse, which was true. It was also said that the king had admitted her to his wife’s entourage in order to initiate a reconciliation with the duchesse, which was false. Agnes’s role was watch over Anne d’Autriche and to protect her if needed — a mission which the Sisters of Saint Georges’ Superior General had entrusted to her with Richelieu’s assent and which she was now carrying out, albeit under protest.
La Fargue turned round upon hearing the door open and saw Agnes enter. She looked very beautiful, with her hair and dress done in the latest style, her outfit including an elegant red hooped skirt, a square neckline and short puffed sleeves.
‘I only have a little time,’ she said as she carefully closed the door behind her.
The old gentleman understood.
‘Yesterday,’ he said, ‘Laincourt supped at the Hotel de Chevreuse . . .’
‘I’m sure it was more amusing there than it is here.’
‘No doubt. This supper, in which the marquis de Chateau-neuf also took part, was given in honour of a certain Aude de Saint-Avoid.’
The young baronne nodded.
‘She is to be presented at court today, before joining the queen’s household tomorrow. As a maiden-of-honour, I believe . . .’
‘She is a distant relative of the due de Chevreuse. She has arrived in Paris directly from Lorraine, where the duchesse no doubt made her acquaintance during her exile . . . Coming a few days after your own, this new appointment to the queen’s household cannot be a coincidence.’
It was only at Cardinal Richelieu’s private request that madame de Chevreuse had agreed to introduce Agnes to the queen and to recommend her. Louis XIII alone decided who was to be admitted to his wife’s entourage and had occasionally used this privilege to punish her by excluding ladies she liked, claiming they exercised a bad influence over her. Thus Anne d’Autriche had learned to be wary of new faces, for she knew they had been chosen by the king and his chief minister. That was why the cardinal had sought, in this case, the good offices of the duchesse who enjoyed the queen’s trust. The problem was that the duchesse had no particular desire to please either the cardinal or the king, and the fate of this little baronne de Vaudreuil was a matter of perfect indifference to her. She thus required some persuasion to become better disposed towards the idea . . .
‘The duchesse,’ Agnes suggested, ‘might have agreed to vouch for me with the queen on condition that Aude de Saint-Avoid also became a maiden-of-honour.’
‘Is there anything else that would have induced the king to allow one of La Chevreuse’s protegees to join the queen’s suite? Especially given that . . .’
La Fargue did not complete his train of thought
They both knew that the duchesse — who never ceased to plot — was on the point of being arrested as part of a general round-up of suspects which would spare neither the wealthy nor the powerful. The king had decided to strike the day after the great ball the duchesse would be hosting at the Chateau de Dampierre, so that her fall would come as swiftly as possible after her apparent triumph.
‘What do you expect of me, captain?’
‘Laincourt assures me that this young Saint-Avoid is not mixed up in La Chevreuse’s schemes. Neverthele
ss, keep your eye on her. You never know.’
Agnes sighed in resignation.
‘All right,’ she agreed.
‘Listen, Agnes, I know you feel you are wasting your time here, but—’
‘What could possibly happen to the queen here? The Louvre is swarming with the king’s men, including both the Swiss Guards and the Musketeers!’
‘There are dangers against which courage and steel alone do not always suffice. And it is those sorts of dangers, with respect to the queen, that worry the cardinal and the Mother Superior General . . .’
The dangers that La Fargue was referring to were dragons and their spells. And he was not mistaken in his assertion that it required more than good soldiers to combat them. It took counter-spells and fearless souls who could wield them. It took the Sisters of Saint Georges, who had been protecting the throne of France for the past three centuries.
But the Chatelaines - entrusted with Anne d’Autriche’s security — were now claiming they could no longer carry out their sacred duty.
‘What exactly is the problem?’ the Blades’ captain wanted to know.
And Agnes was regretfully forced to admit:
‘It is true that the queen does nothing to make the Sisters’ task any easier. You might even think she is trying to hamper them—’
‘But the queen’s dislike for the Sisters of Saint Georges didn’t start yesterday.’
‘Oh, as far as that goes, she spares the unhappy wretches assigned to her protection nothing. She gives them the cold shoulder, openly expresses her scorn and never misses an opportunity to humiliate them. From what I have been able to learn, there is nothing new there. What has changed, however, is the fact that the queen now avoids them whenever she is permitted to do so. And sometimes more. Last Friday, for example, she forbade them to accompany her to the Val-de-Grace.’
The Val-de-Grace, on rue Saint-Honore, was a convent for which Anne d’Autriche had laid the first stone and was one of her favourite retreats.
‘That’s extremely imprudent,’ commented La Fargue.