by Pierre Pevel
‘Precisely because it concerns his son. The marquis is one of those men who believe that rank does not confer privileges. Asking for aid concerning his son would have been like asking for aid for himself, as a reward for his past services. D’Aubremont has too much nobility for that.’
Saint-Lucq put on his spectacles and observed:
‘But it is no longer just a question of his son.’
‘Indeed. So now the marquis sees fit to make use of his rank. It’s no longer a favour for himself, or for a noble of similar standing, but for another person. A woman, as it happens …’
‘That is a tribute to his sense of honour. So why convince him to do nothing?’
‘Because we aren’t certain of anything and I would like to speak with His Eminence first. D’Aubremont will help us as best he can, if we request his assistance.’
André led out the two saddled mounts. La Fargue thanked the groom and mounted up, immediately imitated by Saint-Lucq. In the courtyard, the air was already baking under a high, bright sun. The Saint-Germain abbey bells, in the distance, were ringing half past the hour.
‘God’s blood, it’s hot!’ murmured La Fargue, before lightly spurring his horse forward.
The stone was cool in the deep shade.
There was a metallic rattling sound in the heavy lock before the door opened with a creak that sounded like a high-pitched scream in the heavy silence. As it slowly swung wide, torchlight from the corridor illuminated an irregular trapezoid patch that gradually extended across the floor, strewn with old straw, before lapping against the rear wall. Widening further, the light finally reached Agnès, sitting in a corner of the cell. She looked up, a lock of hair falling across her weary face, and squinted painfully in the brightness.
2
The hot weather had endured for too many long days and the brief nocturnal storm that had interrupted it the previous week had brought little respite. Paris was condemned to a prolonged ordeal under the scorching sun. Along with the heat came the smell and the filth. The still air stank, aggravated to the point of nausea by the acrid odour from the cesspits, the piles of manure in the courtyards, and the latrines where a mixture of urine and excrement fermented. And then there was the Parisian muck, a vile mud born of all the rubbish and droppings which proved impossible to remove from the streets of the capital. In the heat it formed a hard crust that crumbled beneath shoes, hooves, and iron-bound wheels, becoming a dust that got everywhere, sticking to damp skin, burning eyes, irritating throats and nostrils, and invading lungs. Even the most hardened individuals suffered sickness and headaches from this pollution, and one could only imagine the damage it did to those with weaker constitutions. Every year during this season, the dust drove the well-to-do out of the city and into the countryside in search of pure air. Today, as La Fargue and Saint-Lucq were crossing the Pont Neuf on their way to the Palais-Cardinal, the king himself was preparing to move his royal court to the Château de Saint-Germain.
But was his purpose solely to flee the foul air of Paris?
Sitting behind the desk in his splendid library, Cardinal Richelieu scratched Petit-Ami’s scaly skull with one fingernail. Rolled into a ball on his lap, the scarlet dragonnet sighed happily, its eyelids half-closed, while its master meditated, absently gazing at the documents before him.
There was a knock. Then Charpentier, His Eminence’s old and faithful secretary, appeared in the doorway.
‘It’s La Fargue, monseigneur.’
‘Send him in.’
Bowing, Charpentier withdrew at the same time as the Blades’ captain, his hat in hand, entered with a firm martial step, stood at attention in front of the desk, and waited, left fist gripping the pommel of his heavy Pappenheimer.
He didn’t move when the cardinal rose to put Petit-Ami back in its suspended cage, the dragonnet allowing itself to be shut away with obvious reluctance. Having performed this task, Richelieu did not return to his seat. Instead, turning his back to the room and to his visitor, he looked out of the window for a moment. He had a view of the magnificent gardens and the fountain that were being laid out to the rear of his palace, but his eyes were lost in the distance beyond them.
‘Paris is growling,’ he said. ‘I can hear her. Paris is growling with anger and this heat is not likely to help. But how can we blame her?’
The cardinal fell silent for a moment, then added:
‘Paris was attacked by a dragon, captain. In broad daylight, and without our being able to determine why. Furthermore, and worse, it singled out Le Châtelet, one of the symbols of His Majesty’s justice and authority. Do you know what people are saying? That before leaving, it circled the Louvre three times, roaring. A final challenge, as if to add insult to injury. It’s untrue, of course. But the rumour itself is significant, don’t you think?
The cardinal sat back down at his desk. La Fargue thought he looked more tired than usual, his face gaunt, skin pale and lips dry. And there was a worried gleam in his eyes.
‘The people of Paris are angry because they are afraid. And, since that anger has to be directed somewhere, I seem to be their target of choice.’ Richelieu smothered a small laugh. ‘As far as that goes, I am no more to blame than the poor dragonnets that are being exterminated in the streets … But that would be of no account if Parisians were not Parisians – by which I mean, if they were not so prompt to run riot. And these messieurs who sit in Parlement, and claim to speak on behalf of the kingdom, they have no qualms about demanding measures to calm the hotheads down. I have no doubt that the very first of such measures would be to remove me from power. Which is something neither you nor I wish to happen, is it?’
The question was perhaps not entirely rhetorical.
‘It is being murmured that the Mother Superior General of the Chatelaines may be soon admitted to the king’s Council,’ said La Fargue.
Richelieu gave him an inscrutable look, and then invited him to present his business. La Fargue proceeded to explain that he had been without news of Agnès and Ballardieu for several days, that he was growing worried, and that he was asking for permission to investigate the Sisters of Saint Georges.
‘Why?’ asked the cardinal with a frown.
La Fargue mentioned the other disappearance; that of the chevalier d’Ombreuse, son of the marquis d’Aubremont.
‘So, the son of monsieur d’Aubremont is with the Black Guards?’ Richelieu interjected.
‘Yes, monseigneur.’
‘I didn’t know that. Continue.’
La Fargue resumed his tale, recounting how Agnès had promised to do her utmost to discover, through her connections with the Chatelaines, what had become of François Reynault d’Ombreuse. This led to the letter from the former Mother Superior General, and the subsequent hurried departure of Agnès and Ballardieu.
‘Since then,’ he concluded, ‘there has been no news.’
‘Do you know the content of this letter?’
‘No, monseigneur.’
His elbows on the arms of his chair, Richelieu gathered his bony fingers into a steeple before him, and asked in a calm voice:
‘What is it that you want from me?’
‘First, I am asking Your Eminence to let me search for Agnès de Vaudreuil and Ballardieu.’
‘And why should I do that, rather than employ you to learn why a dragon attacked Le Châtelet and killed the Alchemist of the Shadows,’ replied the cardinal, betraying a dry sense of irony. ‘Or assign you to some secret mission in Lorraine, where the armies of His Majesty are preparing to invade—’
‘Monseigneur—’
‘And those are merely the first two ideas that spring to my mind, captain.’
‘Monseigneur, Almades is dead and the chevalier d’Orgueil has rejoined the King’s Musketeers for good. How can I carry out any mission without Agnès and Ballardieu? If it weren’t for the timely arrival of Laincourt, I would be forced to rely on just two men!’
‘Marciac and Saint-Lucq. There are captains who would gi
ve their right arms to have those two …’
‘Nevertheless, they are only two, monseigneur.’
‘Why don’t you recruit more?’
‘Time presses, monseigneur. And the present circumstances are not propitious.’
‘That’s true … So?’
‘So I beseech Your Eminence to persuade the Chatelaines’ Mother Superior General to receive me.’
Before replying, the cardinal gave himself a few seconds to think, during which his gaze remained locked with the captain’s.
‘How are you?’ asked Tréville.
‘I’m fine, captain.’
‘Really? You’re fully recovered?’
‘Fully recovered, captain. Thank you,’ said Leprat.
He was lying.
Although he felt fine at this particular instant he knew he was seriously ill, and so did everyone else, ever since he collapsed at the foot of the grand stairway in the Hôtel de Tréville, with black bile on his lips and his body shaken by terrible convulsions before the eyes of all those – musketeers and gentlemen, valets and servants, traders and petitioners – who had been present that day. He had been immediately attended to and carried to a bed, while the bells of Paris pealed in alarm around him. It had happened on the very day he had come to tell Tréville that he was leaving the Blades to rejoin the Musketeers. And it had been the very same hour when the great black dragon had attacked Le Châtelet.
Leprat had the ranse; the disease believed to be transmitted by the dragons, or brought on by the noxious effects of their magic. Western physicians maintained that good health depended on the balance of four humours that suffused the body’s organs: blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm. To these four humours, some added a fifth, called obâtre, which was peculiar to the race of dragons. According to this school of thought, the ranse was caused by the abnormal production of obâtre by a human. But this theory mattered little to the unfortunate wretches who suffered from the disease. They knew they were condemned to a slow corruption of their flesh and an irremediable fall from social grace, because death would not release them from their fate until they had been reduced to deformed, pathetic creatures; quivering idiots afflicted by incomprehensible ravings, their bodies twisted and full of ulcers, their eyes crazed, their mouths drooling and muttering as they held out their begging bowl to seek a miserable pittance.
Leprat had resolved to kill himself before that happened. But he had not reached that stage yet. To be sure, the ranse had spread across his back in a scaly violet rash threaded with black veins, which seemed at times to palpitate with a will of its own. And to be sure, he felt less vigorous than he had previously and his wounds took longer to heal. But he had only been infected for two years and could still lead a normal existence, despite the alarming nature of the fit that had so publicly revealed his condition.
A normal life, yes. But the life of a musketeer?
It was precisely this point that worried monsieur de Tréville, without his feeling able to fully acknowledge the fact. This was the day that Leprat resumed service in the uniform of the Musketeers, and his captain had summoned him to a private interview, as was the custom in such circumstances. The two men were in Tréville’s office, on the first floor of his mansion on rue du Vieux-Colombier.
‘I can assure you,’ said Leprat, ‘that I am perfectly fit to perform my tasks, and to do more if necessary.’
Tréville, who felt a deep affection for his musketeers but tolerated no failings where their duties were concerned, gave a sincere smile.
‘Fine, fine … Let’s drink to that, shall we?’
Without waiting for a reply, he filled two glasses from a silver ewer placed on a small table, between the two windows overlooking the courtyard. They clinked, Leprat smiling while maintaining a certain reserve and that severe military posture that was second nature to him. Even without his cape he was clearly an officer. Tall, athletic, with an even gaze and a determined air, he was left-handed and thus wore his white rapier on his right. The rapier which, from pommel to point, had been carved in a single piece from the tooth of a great dragon of high rank.
‘I am truly delighted to welcome you back among us,’ said Tréville.
‘Thank you, captain.’
‘You’ll see that nothing has changed. D’Artagnan is still my lieutenant. Of course, after you left, the rank of ensign you were expecting went to another man …’
‘I understand.’
‘But there are two ensigns in my company, and although I can’t promise you anything the other post may become vacant soon.’
Leprat nodded.
‘Good!’ exclaimed Tréville, rubbing his hands together. ‘If you have any other matters to attend to, do so right away. The king will be leaving soon, for his château at Saint-Germain, and we will accompany him as is proper. We depart the day after tomorrow, fully equipped. Do you have a musket, a horse and a lackey?’
‘I am only in need of a lackey.’
‘You can borrow one.’
Leprat saluted and Tréville insisted on accompanying him to the door, before taking him by the shoulder and saying:
‘Your ranse is still new, I believe.’
‘Two years.’
‘Then you should know that my doctor, to whom I made enquiries concerning you, thinks that your … that your weakness the other day, there, at the foot of the stairs, resulted not so much from the disease as from the combined effects of fatigue and the heat … So it may in fact be less serious than it seems …’
‘Thank you, captain.’
As he descended the grand stairway, Leprat smiled as he thought of the kindness monsieur de Tréville had shown him. But he also knew that he should not have succumbed to the first serious fit of this kind for several more years, and that it had nothing to do with either fatigue or the heat. Several days before this sudden fit had struck he had visited a particularly powerful ritual chamber, where he had suffered an initial malaise. He did not know how or why it had occurred, but he was firmly convinced that the draconic magic which had impregnated that forbidding place had aggravated his disease.
He could lead a normal life, yes. And perhaps even the life of a musketeer.
But only for a few months.
After that, death would come. Leprat very much doubted he would see the next snowfall.
One of the rare amenities offered by the sombre and austere Hôtel de l’Épervier was a garden that had been left in a wild state, with weeds grown tall and brush climbing the walls. A chestnut tree stood in the grounds, providing shade for an old oak table. It was never brought inside, so it looked like driftwood, with bindweed entwined around its cabled legs.
When the weather permitted the Blades liked to assemble around this table, so it was here that La Fargue and Saint-Lucq found Marciac and Laincourt chatting over a jug of cool wine. The captain dropped into a chair with a weary expression, and it creaked ominously beneath him. Without saying a word, Saint-Lucq poured two more glasses and handed one to La Fargue. The latter gave him a glance of thanks, and then sipped gravely.
As Marciac and Laincourt waited expectantly, the half-blood explained:
‘We have just returned from the Palais-Cardinal.’
‘And?’
‘And the cardinal granted my request for an audience with the head of the Chatelaines,’ La Fargue announced. ‘But he was half-hearted about it, to say the least. Plainly put, he forbids us nothing, but he does not support us in making this enquiry.’
‘In spite of your worries concerning Agnès and Ballardieu?
‘In spite of them.’
‘Perhaps,’ ventured Laincourt, ‘the cardinal preferred to entrust you with another mission—’
‘There was no question of that,’ the Blades’ captain interrupted bluntly.
A silence fell beneath the chestnut tree, where the shade was dappled with sunlight filtering through the branches. It was again Cardinal Richelieu’s former spy who attempted to reopen the discussion. He did it p
rudently, however. For although he, like the other Blades, had been given a steel signet ring stamped with a Greek cross whose arms were capped by fleurs-de-lys, he had not worn it for very long.
‘Captain,’ he said, ‘it has only been a few days without news of Agnès and Ballardieu …’
‘And that’s a few days too many,’ interjected Marciac in a tone that made it clear that Laincourt was treading on dangerous ground.
‘Certainly. But it’s also less time than it would take to travel to Lyon and back. Perhaps the cardinal judged that it was too soon to become alarmed. And perhaps we should do the same …’
La Fargue directed a calm yet chilling glance at the young man, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. Unperturbed by the growing tension, Saint-Lucq, impassive behind his red spectacles, waited for the conversation to unfold with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Marciac dreaded the worst, however, and attempted to smooth things over.
‘Arnaud,’ he said to Laincourt, watching his captain from the corner of his eye, ‘you’ve not known Agnès and Ballardieu as long as we have. Therefore you’re not as attached to them as we are. Perhaps if you loved them as we do, you would share our worries.’
To which the young man replied in a steady tone:
‘No doubt. But would I be right to be so worried?’
Silence fell once again, until Saint-Lucq finally made a suggestion:
‘And what if the cardinal knows what lies behind all this? And what if he does not wish to give us an opportunity to discover it ourselves? Let’s not forget that Mère Thérèse de Vaussambre is a relative of his, and that he helped her become the Mother Superior General.’
‘No,’ replied La Fargue. ‘When I laid out the facts for him I mentioned the chevalier d’Ombreuse. From his reaction, I saw that His Eminence had not known that Reynault d’Ombreuse served with the Black Guards. And that is something that the cardinal would have been aware of, had he already been familiar with the affair.’
‘What the cardinal knows,’ confirmed Laincourt, ‘he knows down to the smallest detail …’