Alchemist in the Shadows

by Pierre Pevel

  ‘But what exactly is it all about?’ asked Marciac. ‘Are they going to make an attempt on His Majesty’s life?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Agnes admitted.

  ‘Was there any mention of the Alchemist?’

  ‘No. But I think I know the queen’s motives . . . After she and the duchesse left, I slipped into her bedchamber to look for whatever the duchesse gave her to read in order to persuade her. And I found it. It was the pamphlet that the queen mother’s emissary was1 carrying hidden in the lining of his doublet.’

  ‘The pamphlet that accuses the king of planning to repudiate the queen because she has not borne him an heir?’ asked La Fargue.

  ‘And claims that the king has begun negotiations with the Pope on the subject, yes.’

  ‘So the queen has become involved in a plot against the king because she fears repudiation . . .’

  ‘Well, yes . . .’

  ‘But the king will never repudiate her!’ exclaimed Marciac. ‘Anne is the sister of the king of Spain. It would be an insult! It would mean war!’

  ‘It is enough that the queen believes it to be true,’ Agnes pointed out. ‘Or rather, it is enough that the duchesse has persuaded her that it is so . . .’

  The captain of the Blades nodded.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I must speak to Treville. Agnes, you must return to the queen and try not to let her out of your sight. The ball will begin soon.’

  Leprat ran through a syle as it tried to scurry between his legs and, on the point of his sword, held it up to the light from his lantern. With thick red arabesque patterns running down its black back, the salamander was as long and as heavy as a fair-sized rat. It squirmed on the sharp steel that was tormenting it, spitting and seeking to bite and claw at him rather than to work itself free.

  Filthy creature, thought Leprat as he cleared his blade with a quick flick that sent the reptile flying.

  The syle crashed into a wall, then fell to the ground with a soft thump. It was still alive, however. In the dark, forked tongues hissed. The sound preceded the massed rush that the musketeer was expecting. With claws clattering and bellies scraping against the stone, syles closed in from all directions to devour the injured member of their own kind. The excitement of combat and the scent of blood soon produced a predictable effect. The reptiles’ scaly backs began to glow and their furious melee, invisible up until now, became wreathed in a faint halo. The sacrificed syle was not the only victim of this savage frenzy. Others, wounded in turn, were attacked and eaten by bigger and more ferocious individuals.

  Leprat turned away from the carnage.

  Sword in hand, he continued his exploration of the underground chambers of the black tower, chambers whose scale he was still attempting to grasp. They were vast, perhaps immense, in any case far bigger than the two or three cellars he had imagined he would find beneath the ruins of a mediaeval donjon. Most of the rooms had flagstone floors with short round pillars supporting low, vaulted ceilings. Standing empty and bare, haunted only by the furtive movements of the syles guarding them, and dotted with puddles that the musketeer disturbed with his tread, these chambers had survived the passing centuries down here in a dark, abysmal silence.

  La Fargue managed to send a note to Treville and met him privately after the banquet. He informed him of the conversation Agnes had overheard between the queen and the duchesse de Chevreuse, affirmed that there was no longer any doubt that a plot was about to be sprung and insisted that the king’s security be reinforced until morning. In vain.

  ‘I will not increase the patrols or the number of sentries,’ replied the captain of the Musketeers.

  ‘The king’s safety is under threat, monsieur.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I cannot go against the will of His Majesty, who has demanded that my musketeers be as little visible as possible, in order to display his lack of concern over sleeping within these walls—’

  ‘—and thereby further relax the vigilance of those he will have arrested tomorrow,’ deduced La Fargue.

  ‘Precisely. On the other hand, if the castle, for whatever reason, should suddenly be swarming with blue capes . . .’

  The old gentleman nodded in resignation.

  His left hand on the pommel of the old Pappenheimer in his scabbard, the other? hand gripping the loop of his heavy belt, he turned to the window and lifted his eyes to the night sky.

  ‘Besides,’ added Treville, ‘the ball is about to begin. The king will open it with the queen and then, as he said he would, he will retire for the night, on the pretext that that he needs his rest before the hunt the duc de Chevreuse has organised for him in the morning ... So the king will soon be in his apartments, with musketeers at his door and even in his antechamber.’

  A musketeer entered and announced to his captain:

  ‘A rider has just arrived. He claims to have urgent information concerning the safety of the king.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Laincourt. A former member of the Cardinal’s Guards.’

  La Fargue spun round.

  After the ordeal of his long ride, Laincourt was trying to make himself presentable when Marciac found him in the stable courtyard. In his shirt sleeves, he was washing his face and neck with water from a bucket. Upon seeing the Gascon, he quickly dried himself with a towel and pulled on the freshly brushed doublet held out to him by a servant.

  ‘I must speak to the captain,’ he declared, giving a coin to the servant and accepting his hat in return.

  ‘I will take you to him,’ replied Marciac.

  ‘Good.’

  Grabbing his sword as he passed, Laincourt matched his stride to that of the Gascon, who asked him:

  ‘Any news from Teyssier?’

  ‘Yes. He finally recognised the pentacle.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It is a pentacle of fecundity, employed in a ritual intended to make a barren womb fertile.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘No. But according to Ballardieu, His Eminence’s magic master was positive. That’s enough for me.’

  They crossed the small drawbridge just as the first notes of music from the ball sounded within the castle.

  As he continued exploring the ancient underground spaces beneath the black tower, sword in one hand and his lantern in the other, Leprat wondered who had built them and to what end.

  They called to mind a sanctuary or refuge that might have once sheltered a community of sorcerers, or members of a heretical sect, or dragons. Who could say? The only thing for certain was that this place was no longer — if it had ever been — a peaceful haven. It was as if its walls were impregnated with an evil that weighed upon the soul. Its silence seemed haunted by painful echoes and its shadows hid lurking nightmares. And the air he breathed had . . .

  Leprat suddenly realised his mind was starting to wander.

  He shook his head and shoulders in an effort to gather his wits.

  He could not allow these sinister chambers to take control of his thoughts. No doubt he had been wandering down here for too long. How long had it been, in fact? No matter. The musketeer deemed that he had seen enough. Besides, he noticed that the syles were starting to become dangerously hold and, to make matters worse, the flame in his lantern was showing signs of weakness.

  Rather than retrace his steps, Leprat looked for stairs leading upwards. But it was, instead, a door caught his eye: a large, black double door whose stone lintel was decorated with entwined draconic motifs. Intrigued, he approached cautiously. He listened closely and heard nothing within, then drew in a breath before pushing one half of the door open . . .

  ... to find himself in a circular room beneath an onyx dome.

  Vast but empty, it was plunged in a dim amber light, coming from the glowing golden veins in the black marble that lined the floor and ran around the room in a frieze where the dome rose from the wall. The room had a large well at its centre. And four identical doors — including the one by which Leprat had entered �
� which faced one another in pairs as if marking the cardinal points of a compass.

  The musketeer set down his now useless lantern and stepped forward, keeping his rapier unsheathed. He became filled with the conviction that the black tower had once risen directly above this dome which he examined with an attentive eye. But his thoughts were interrupted by a sound that made him turn round.

  Mirebeau was aiming a cocked pistol at him.

  ‘A fertility ritual,’ repeated La Fargue after listening to Laincourt’s report.

  ‘That’s what Teyssier claims. And we already knew that this pentacle was not harmful in purpose . . .’

  They were in a small room adjoining Treville’s bedchamber. The captain of the Musketeers had allowed the Blades to meet here while he watched over the opening of the ball. The orchestra was playing at the other end of the castle. They could hear the music rising through the open windows into the warm night.

  ‘Might the pentacle be for the duchesse de Chevreuse?’ suggested Marciac. ‘After all, we’re here in her home and it is her master of magic who—’

  ‘She has already had six children,’ Laincourt pointed out.

  ‘No,’ said La Fargue. ‘The ritual is intended for the queen.

  She has not yet provided an heir to the throne and we know she now fears being repudiated.‘

  ‘We do?’

  ‘This evening Agnes overheard a conversation between the queen and the duchesse,’ the Gascon explained to the cardinal’s former spy. ‘Very upset, the queen said that she wanted to renounce . . . we don’t quite know what. In order to overcome her misgivings, the duchesse gave her the pamphlet that the queen mother’s secret emissary had on his person. You recall it?’

  ‘Yes. Claiming the king intends to repudiate the queen.’

  ‘We believed this prospect was enough to convince the queen to participate in the final act of a plot against the king. An act that would take place this evening or later in the night.’

  ‘It seems we were wrong,’ concluded La Fargue.

  His eyes became absorbed in thought.

  Anne d’Autriche was desperate to become a mother. But the years had passed leaving her prayers unanswered and now, in addition to suffering from the king’s estrangement and attacks from within his court, she faced the despicable threat of repudiation . . .

  ‘So the queen has decided to resort to magic in order to become fertile,’ Marciac reflected out loud. ‘As for the duchesse de Chevreuse, she has taken it upon herself to arrange the whole matter with the aid of her new master of magic. And all this is taking place in utmost secrecy, as one might imagine. For if it were discovered that a queen of France—’

  ‘A queen of Spanish origin, moreover,’ added Laincourt. —was subjecting herself to a draconic ritual . . .‘

  The Gascon judged that there was no need to finish his sentence.

  ‘Whatever the queen’s motives,’ said Laincourt, ‘the king will not pardon her. In addition to other considerations, he has despised all magical arts ever since La Galigai was beheaded for bewitching his mother.’

  ‘Not to mention the fact that an heir born in such circumstances could only be—’

  Once again, Marciac did not complete his sentence, but this time because Almades had knocked on the door and entered.

  La Fargue shot him a questioning look.

  ‘Their Majesties have just opened the ball,’ the Spaniard reassured him. ‘All is well.’

  ‘And Agnes?’

  ‘I saw her and she saw me. She did not seem alarmed.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you.’

  Almades nodded and returned to keeping track of the comings and goings in the castle.

  ‘The king must be warned about what is afoot,’ said Marciac after a moment of silence. ‘But there is no plot. Only a desperate queen.’

  ‘You’re forgetting a little quickly that the Alchemist and the Black Claw are also mixed up in this,’ replied the old captain. ‘Last night, Saint-Lucq formally recognised Savelda in the company of the duchesse and Mauduit.’

  ‘True, at least as far as Savelda and the Black Claw are concerned. But as for the Alchemist, we only have La Donna’s word that—’

  ‘What does it matter?’ asked La Fargue, raising his voice. ‘Why would the Black Claw want to help the queen have a child? Why would it favour the birth of a royal heir and thereby put an end to the divisions weakening the kingdom? And why the devil would it seek to prevent a repudiation of the queen which, if it were merely hinted at by the king, would be enough to provoke a war between France and Spain . . . ? Do you even have the beginning of an answer to any of these questions?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Marciac, lowering his eyes.

  ‘There is a plot!’ declared the captain of the Blades between clenched jaws. ‘There is a plot, and the Alchemist is at its head!’

  The Gascon did not reply, but turned his head away.

  ‘Captain,’ ventured Laincourt.

  What?‘

  ‘It’s about Mauduit. I’m not sure, but . . . well, here’s the thing. One of my friends is a bookseller and I was able to consult a very rare work that he has in his shop, of which Mauduit is the author. There was a portrait at the front of the book and ... I know these engravings can often be misleading, captain. But this picture looked nothing at all like the man serving the duchesse de Chevreuse as her magic master.’

  For a long moment La Fargue remained immobile, silent and expressionless. Could Mauduit be the Alchemist? The conviction slowly took shape in his mind, and at last he began to grasp the nature of the plot against which La Donna had warned them . . .

  ‘The Alchemist,’ he said in a grave voice, ‘plans to abduct the queen.’

  His pistol aimed at Leprat, Mirebeau crossed the threshold of the circular room but did not come any closer. Perhaps he feared to advance any further beneath the rock dome. Perhaps he was reluctant to step on the slabs of black marble with their strangely glowing golden veins. Perhaps he preferred to keep his distance from the man who, sword in hand, was looking him straight in the eye without blinking.

  They stood about seven metres apart. The musketeer had his back to the well, the other man had the dark cellars of the black tower behind him.

  ‘What is this room?’ asked Leprat. ‘What is its purpose?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just as I didn’t know of the existence of these underground chambers until I followed you. Indeed, one might be surprised to find you of all people down here . . .’

  Leprat did not reply.

  ‘But considering that I am the one holding the pistol,’ Mirebeau continued, ‘let us agree that I shall be the one who asks the questions. All right? Good. Who are you, monsieur?’

  ‘My name will tell you nothing.’

  ‘Nevertheless, please satisfy my curiosity.’

  ‘I am Antoine Leprat, chevalier d’Orgueil.’

  ‘A musketeer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A spy, then.’

  ‘I obey the cardinal’s orders in the service of the king.’

  ‘A musketeer who obeys the cardinal? Is that possible?’

  ‘It is in my case.’

  ‘And the real Gueret?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Killed by your hand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘On that point, I’ll have to take your word, won’t I? Since you are a gentleman, I won’t ask you to relinquish your sword. But please return it to its scabbard . . .’

  Leprat honoured his request.

  Mirebeau looked at him sadly. He was slightly more relaxed but still had not lowered his weapon.

  ‘What am I to do with you, monsieur le chevalier d’Orgueil?’

  ‘As you said: you are the one holding the pistol.’

  ‘I offered you my friendship. I offered you my friendship and you accepted it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You betrayed my trust.’

&nbs
p; ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t blame you. It was me. I made a mistake. Why didn’t I listen to Rauvin’s initial warnings? Unlike me, he saw right through you from the beginning. Did you know I took your side this morning when Rauvin claimed to see you returning on horseback before dawn from some mysterious errand? I thought he was slandering you out of jealousy, that he had not forgiven you for behaving better than he did on that famous night when the comte de Rochefort arrested me. After all, he fled while you stayed behind to free me. But I imagine that was just to safeguard your mission, wasn’t it? And to win my trust.’

  When Leprat failed, again, to reply, Mirebeau let out a desolate sigh.

  ‘Fortunately, the friendship that I felt for you did not completely blind me. And that brings us to this . . . What am

  I to do with you, monsieur le chevalier d’Orgueil? Rauvin would shoot you down.‘

  ‘You won’t do that. You’re a gentleman.’

  ‘So are you. Let us settle this affair as gentlemen, then.’

  The musketeer shook his head.

  ‘I feel both friendship and esteem for you, Mirebeau. Don’t make me cross swords with you . . . Besides, it would be futile.’

  ‘Futile?’

  ‘Tomorrow, at the break of dawn, the marquis de Chateau-neuf will be arrested for treason, among other things. So will the duchesse de Chevreuse and all those who have plotted the downfall of the cardinal, or against the king. Everything is ready. The orders have already been signed and Treville’s musketeers are masters of Dampierre. His Majesty has already won the match. But you are guilty of nothing but loyally serving a master who proved unworthy.’

  “What do you know about that?‘

  ‘I know you to be a man of honour, Mirebeau. Nothing obliges you to pay the price for the crimes of Chateauneuf. Nothing.’

  ‘One is not always free to choose.’

  ‘Chateauneuf fancied that he might one day replace the cardinal. Forgetting all that he owed Richelieu, he schemed against him. His ambition has made him lose everything. Don’t accompany him in his downfall.’

  Mirebeau hesitated.

  ‘It’s . . . It’s too late,’ he finally said.