Alchemist in the Shadows

by Pierre Pevel

  Rather than continue going round in circles, Laincourt had decided to find out more about Mauduit, the duchesse’s master of magic. After all, he was directly involved with the pentacle, wasn’t he? Laincourt had thus gone to the Hotel de Chevreuse, which he found almost empty and where he had learned nothing about Mauduit except that he had only recently entered the duchesse’s service. The man was troubling and elusive. He was said to be a sorcerer. People tended to avoid having anything to do with him, and even the Swiss guard on duty at the mansion gate did not know his address in Paris.

  After rue de la Bucherie, Laincourt crossed Place Maubert which, at the entrance to rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Genevieve, was one of the five places in the city where prisoners were tortured and executed. Preoccupied by his mission, the young man did not even spare a glance for the gallows or the sinister wheel that was being set up on a new platform.

  Upon leaving the Hotel de Chevreuse, it occurred to him that the duchesse was fond of luxury. She only allowed herself the best, the most beautiful and the most expensive items available. Her new master of magic was, no doubt, no exception to the rule. Mauduit had probably been recommended to her or was at least fairly renowned in certain circles. The fact that Laincourt didn’t recognise his name wasn’t significant, since the small world of magic masters was extremely secretive.

  But there was someone who was well-acquainted with this small world.

  On rue Perdue, Laincourt entered Bertaud’s bookshop.

  An hour later, just as night was falling, Laincourt arrived back at the Hotel de l’Epervier, out of breath. He had hoped to find La Fargue still there, but the captain had already left for Dampierre with Almades and Marciac.

  ‘What about Ballardieu?’ he asked Guibot.

  ‘Monsieur Ballardieu has not yet returned,’ replied the old porter.

  ‘Too bad. Fetch me a horse. Quickly!’

  But just then a rider entered the courtyard. It was Ballardieu. He had come from the home of Teyssier, who had finally succeeded in identifying the pentacle described by Saint-Lucq.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this!’ the old soldier announced as he jumped down from the saddle.

  But Laincourt did believe him.

  He mounted Ballardieu’s horse and left at a gallop.

  *

  As evening descended upon Dampierre, raised voices and bursts of laughter resounded in the small castle courtyard. Some Italian actors were performing, by torchlight, a lively farce which had all the guests enthralled. Even the king, who had little taste for bawdiness, appeared to be enjoying the comedy. He guffawed readily enough. Since he was normally of a dismal, brooding nature, his excellent humour astonished those observing him. It should, instead, have alarmed some of them.

  La Fargue looked down into the courtyard from a first-storey window. The Italians’ pranks did not amuse him. Since arriving at Dampierre ,he had asked to be received by monsieur de Treville, captain of the King’s Musketeers, and had communicated his suspicions to him: a plot against His Majesty was about to unfold. The two men knew, liked and respected one another. But without taking La Fargue’s warnings lightly, Treville had assured him that Louis XIII could not be in danger because an elite company of gentlemen was there to protect him. The captain of the Musketeers nevertheless allowed La Fargue to remain, on the condition that he and his Blades would not hinder Treville’s own service. He also required that they stay away from the gardens, particularly once night fell.

  ‘My musketeers don’t know you and they have strict orders. They will open fire on your men, if they do not obey these instructions.’

  In the courtyard, before a painted backdrop, Arlecchino was kicking Matamoros’s rear end, for vainly seeking the hand of Colombina in marriage. In a decidedly joyful mood, Louis XIII was laughing heartily at the grotesque hopping of the actor each time he received a boot to the arse. It made a sharp contrast with the attitude of the queen, seated to the left of her husband, who was forcing herself to smile and, distracted, applauded with a slight delay. She was obviously preoccupied with something . . .

  ‘It will happen this evening,’ declared La Fargue in a grave tone. He looked up at the darkening sky where the stars were beginning to come out. ‘I can feel it. I know it . . .’

  Treville was reading a note that one of his musketeers had just brought him. He nodded.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said to the musketeer.

  The man withdrew with a martial step and, folding up the piece of paper, the comte de Troisvilles, more commonly cailed Treville, approached La Fargue and placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You’re obsessed with this Alchemist, my friend.’

  ‘No doubt . . . But he is one of the kingdom’s most formidable enemies. And I can sense his presence here.’

  Treville shrugged his shoulders

  ‘I can only repeat that all the necessary precautions to ensure His Majesty’s safety have been taken.’

  ‘They may not be enough.’

  ‘I know. There are always unforeseen events.’

  Both men were haunted by the spectre of Henri IV’s assassination. They remained silent for a moment and then La Fargue said:

  ‘The queen seems worried about something.’

  Treville leaned forward to have a look.

  ‘Indeed she does.’

  Turning from the window, La Fargue went over to open the door and called in Almades who was waiting in the ante-chamber.

  ‘Yes, captain?’

  ‘Go and find Marciac. I want him to ask Agnes if the queen has any legitimate, admissible cause for concern.’

  ‘Understood, captain.’

  The Spaniard immediately complied, descending the stairs to find the Gascon, who was busy trying to work his charm on a very pretty and still very innocent young baronne. If there was little doubt that he wished for her to remain pretty, her nnocence, on the other hand, was under serious threat. He was unflustered at seeing Almades, but promised the young woman that he would return, caressing her chin with his index finger and grinning before going over to the austere fencing master.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘The queen is preoccupied. Perhaps Agnes knows why.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And who is that you’re with?

  ‘Delicious, isn’t she?’

  At that very instant, Matamoros finished covering himself in ridicule, the Dottore married Colombina off to Arlecchino and the play ended to considerable applause.

  ‘Don’t delay, Marciac’

  The Gascon thus hurried off, repeating his promise to the pretty young baronne as he passed, then seemed to change his mind by turning back and surprising the lady with a kiss on the cheek, before going in search of Agnes.

  Thanks to Saint-Lucq’s directions, Leprat located the secret passage leading to the black tower.

  This edifice had long ago been taken apart stone by stone, before its very foundations were buried, no doubt so that all memory of it would be lost forever. But it had once stood in the middle of the pond at Dampierre, less than a cannon shot from the present castle belonging to the due de Chevreuse. Legend said that a dragon sorcerer had built it and lived there. Legend also said he had worked terrible, evil magic and added that he had been finally vanquished by valiant knights. The tale might have been mostly invention, but Leprat was convinced the underground vestiges of the cursed tower had not yet given up all of their secrets.

  The entrance to the passage lay in the forest, not far from a granite cross that stood where two tracks met. The way had recently been cleared to an old gate set in the brush-covered flank of a mound topped by a large oak tree. Behind the gate were stone steps, the beginnings of a narrow spiral staircase that led down into the darkness.

  Leprat tethered his horse a good distance away, where it would not be spotted.

  Then he approached the gate cautiously, creeping through the underbrush, his sword in his fist. He had feared that the place might be watched, but there
was no one about. However, he did see numerous boot prints scattered across the ground, no doubt left by Savelda’s men when they had opened a path to the passage. And close by, at the beginning of one of the tracks, there were traces indicating that horses had been guarded here.

  Leprat had brought a lantern. He lit the candle with his tinder lighter and, without re-sheathing his rapier, started down the stairs.

  At the bottom he found a long corridor leading in the direction of the pond, and the island.

  In the castle courtyard, the guests had watched the comedy standing behind the royal couple. Still chuckling over the antics of the players, they were slow to disperse, walking towards the salons and stairways, or lingering to converse in the light of the great torches held aloft by lackeys in livery aligned at regular intervals with their backs to the wall, standing as still as Atlases on a palace facade. Supper was due to be served before the costume ball and a fireworks display that promised to be splendid.

  With a quick step that betrayed her anxiety, Anne d’Autriche regained the apartments that madame de Chev-reuse had assigned to her. Accompanied by the duchesse, she was trailed by the women of her suite, including Agnes de Vaudreuil who was doing her best to keep up her role as a lady-in-waiting. She tried to be discreet, helpful and considerate, taking care not to encroach where she was not wanted. With her hair and face prettily made up, this evening she was wearing a magnificent scarlet dress with a plunging neckline trimmed with lace, a starched bodice and a hooped skirt. She knew she looked beautiful. Nevertheless, she had missed having her rapier these past few days since she had joined the queen’s household. The stiletto dagger tucked in her garter was a poor substitute.

  One of the last ladies to start up the great stairway, Agnes felt someone take her by the hand . . .

  . . . and allowed Marciac to drag her behind a pillar.

  ‘Do you know what’s wrong with the queen?’ he asked without any preamble.

  ‘No. But she was in a very sombre mood when she woke this morning, and it has only grown worse since. In fact, she has spent most of the day in prayer.’

  ‘Try to find out more, all right?’

  ‘All right. Where can I find the captain?’

  ‘He is with Treville.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Say . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’ve been seen going off together on our own.’

  ‘So?’ ‘

  ‘Perhaps we should kiss. To keep up appearances, of course.’

  ‘Or perhaps I should just slap you and adjust my attire as I leave. To keep up appearances, of course.’

  With a quirk at the corner of her lips, Agnes climbed the stairs as quickly as her dress and manners allowed. She passed between two halberdiers, opened the door to the queen’s apartments, entered an antechamber and smiled at the duc d’Uzes, who served as knight-of-honour. Proceeding to a second antechamber, she joined madame de Senecey, a lady-in-waiting, the elderly madame de La Flotte, a royal wardrobe mistress, and several other attending ladies, including two ravishing young women, Louise Angelique de La Fayette and Aude de Saint-Avoid. All of them were waiting in the antechamber unsure what to do because, bordering on tears, Anne d’Autriche had just shut herself up in her bedchamber with madame de Chevreuse.

  On learning this news, Agnes adopted a suitably serious expression, asked whether there was anything she could do to assist and upon being told there was not, she withdrew. Then she moved quickly without seeming to be in any great hurry. She smiled again at monsieur d’Uzes, left the apartments and followed the corridor as far as a small door hidden behind a curtain. She wailed until no one was looking at her and then promptly disappeared through this exit. She had discovered it that afternoon, during a discreet examination of the castle’s layout.

  The queen’s bedchamber communicated with the antechamber where the ladies of her suite gathered, but also with another small room where the duchesse would sleep tonight, a bed having been installed there for the occasion. Agnes found this room lying empty. She slipped inside and, on tiptoe, went to press her ear to the door behind which Anne d’Autriche and madame de Chevreuse were alone.

  One of them was pacing back and forth.

  It was the queen who, in a nervous tone, was explaining that after much reflection and much prayer she no longer wished to go through with a certain project. That it was madness and she should never have agreed to it in the first place. How could she have ever believed in the success of this enterprise? But she saw things more clearly now. Yes, she was going to renounce the whole thing.

  ‘Madame,’ the duchesse replied calmly, ‘there is still time to back out. Everything will be done according to your wishes. You only need to give the order.’

  ‘Very well. Then I am giving the order.’

  ‘What could be accomplished this evening may never be possible again. The stars are not —’

  ‘I don’t care about the stars!’

  ‘Are you certain you have thought this through, madame? Your Majesty’s duties—’

  ‘My duties forbid me to betray the king! As for the rest, I must place myself in the hands of divine Providence. One day my prayers shall be heard.’

  ‘I las it occurred to you that if you renounce this project, you will still have to confess everything to the king? For the secret will come out, madame. Believe me, secrets always come out in the end. The cardinal’s men are everywhere.’

  ‘I shall beg for the king’s pardon.’

  ‘And for those who have lent you their assistance?’

  ‘I will not allow you to be persecuted, Marie.’

  ‘I was not thinking of myself, but of all the others.’

  ‘How can one reproach them for having obeyed their queen ?’

  ‘Richelieu can, and he will.’

  There was a silence.

  Then Agnes heard madame de Chevreuse rise and take a few steps ... A drawer was opened and closed . . . Then her steps returned . . . And the duchesse said:

  ‘I had hoped to spare you this ordeal, madame. I’d hoped that . . . Well, look at this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I beg you, madame, read. And see what they have been hiding from you.’

  There was a rustling of heavy silk fabric: Anne d’Autriche had just sat down. The two women remained silent, until the queen asked in a strangled voice:

  ‘All this ... Is it true?’

  ‘I believe so. I fear so.’

  ‘The king really intends to repud—’

  ‘Yes, madame.’

  The queen began to sob.

  It might have been a spectral rider passing in the night.

  But in fact it was a dust-covered Laincourt who was galloping on an ashen horse. He had been riding since Paris at a speed that risked killing his mount. He charged through villages, cut across fields and farmyards whenever possible, leapt over hedges, ditches and streams, taking all manner of risks. He now knew the purpose of the pentacle. And thanks to his friend the bookseller, he also knew that the master of magic serving the duchesse de Chevreuse was not who he claimed to be.

  Faster, boy! Faster!

  Laincourt would arrive at the Chateau de Dampierre within the hour.

  But would he be in time?

  At Dampierre, supper was being served, the queen having reappeared before anyone began to wonder about her absence.

  Three tahles had been set up in the castle’s great hall. The high table was at the rear. The two others, much longer, faced one another and were perpendicular to the first. At these tables, the guests were seated on only one side, with their backs to the wall, while the servants waited on them from the space in the middle. Helped along by wine, the proceedings were very merry. Men and women ate with their fingers, exchanging anecdotes and jests, making fun of one another and laughing. Toasts were made, where a glass was passed from hand to hand, each person taking a small sip, until it reached the person to whom the toast was addressed. The recipien
t had no choice but to finish off the drink and, accompanied by cheers, eat the tostee, the piece of toasted bread that lay soaking at the bottom of the glass. These toasts went back and forth along the tables like playful challenges and provided an excellent pretext to become drunk. The selection of a new victim was greeted with expectant joy by all present and of course no one dreamed of declining.

  Naturally the king and queen sat at the high table, in the company of the duc de Chevreuse, the duchesse and a few privileged individuals such as monsieur de Treville and the marquis de Chateauneuf, the kingdom’s Keeper of the Seals. The atmosphere was a little more formal than at the longer tables, although Louis XIII did honour to all the dishes — as was usual for him, since he had the same solid appetite as his father, Henri IV. Still looking pale, Anne d’Autriche only picked at her plate. Her eyes were a little red, causing madame de Chevreuse to worry aloud, as if on cue. The queen explained that she was suffering irritation from the heavy fragrance of a bouquet of flowers in her bedchamber. Did this little comedy fool anyone? It made the king smile, at any rate.

  Retained by her duties as a lady-in-waiting, Agnes was unable to escape until halfway through the meal. Slipping out of the hall, she found La Fargue and Marciac in the dimness of an out-of-the-way antechamber. Almades closed the door behind her as soon as she arrived.

  ‘Well?’ demanded the Gascon.

  Agnes recounted the conversation she had overheard between the queen and madame de Chevreuse.

  ‘So La Chevreuse has indeed hatched a plot against the king,’ concluded La Fargue. ‘A plot that will unfold tonight. And the queen is an accomplice . . .’