by Pierre Pevel
‘Is such a thing even possible?’
‘I hope so,’ replied the Gentleman as he felt expert fingers slide into his breeches. ‘But even the prospect of an Assembly doesn’t seem to perturb him.’
‘An Assembly? Who called for one?’
‘The Master-at-Arms. But I suspect the Protectress was behind it. I’m convinced she is forming an opposition to the Heresiarch.’
‘Meaning, against us. If the Heresiarch falls, your disgrace will follow and so will mine …’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’
‘Nothing.’
And as the Enchantress’ fingers squeezed him gently but firmly, the Gentleman no longer felt a need to discuss it.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But we will soon have to answer before the Arcana Assembly.’
‘The Alchemist sealed his own fate,’ the Enchantress reminded him.
Drawing him toward her, she made him slip his hips forward. He slumped slightly in the armchair.
‘We will need to take action,’ she said.
‘Take action? What do you mean?’
‘Later,’ she murmured in his ear.
She lifted herself and eased him inside her, before abruptly sinking down upon him and arching her back with a single, great shudder.
Late that night, La Fargue joined Agnès in the stable where, unable to sleep, she was tending to her favourite horse by the lantern light. Seeing the captain enter from the corner of her eye, she continued to brush Courage, and said:
‘Thank God, I did not choose him for the ride to Mont-Saint-Michel! I would have lost him …’
La Fargue sat on a stool.
‘How are you, Agnès?’ he asked gravely
The young woman stopped brushing the horse for a moment …
… and then resumed, with calm, steady strokes.
‘I wasn’t the one who almost lost an eye,’ she said in a tone she had meant to be light.
La Fargue smiled.
He would have liked to reply that he no longer noticed the patch he was wearing, but his left eye still hurt and could not bear bright light.
‘I know you too well, Agnès. There’s something you’re not telling us …’
She made no reply, but continued to brush the animal.
‘If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine,’ he continued. ‘I just want you to know that I’m always ready to listen … But …’ he hesitated. ‘You were well treated, weren’t you?’
‘By the Chatelaines? As well as one can be, locked up in a pitch-dark cell … The most unbearable thing was thinking that Ballardieu was dead. And that it was my fault.’
Understanding, the old gentleman nodded.
‘So what’s bothering you now?’
‘Apart from a dragon destroying Paris?
‘Yes, apart from that.’
Agnès put down the brush and, smoothing Courage’s neck, admitted:
‘I can’t help thinking about what Sœur Béatrice told me. Or rather, what she tried to tell me … I keep trying to remember her exact words, but they were so disjointed and confused …’
And since La Fargue, by remaining silent and attentive, encouraged her to continue, the young baronne said, with a distant look in her eyes:
‘She said something about the arcana … And an heir … And she mentioned the Alchemist of the Shadows.’
‘The Alchemist? Are you quite sure?’
Agnès shrugged.
‘I wouldn’t swear to that, but I have had time to ponder the whole matter. And I believe that Sœur Béatrice’s expedition in Alsace was a mission to eliminate a dragon. She was a White Wolf, after all. And she had a detachment of the Black Guards accompanying her … Furthermore, only combat with a dragon could have caused the terrible state she was in. I think that even the vision she shared with me must have come from her confrontation with a dragon in Alsace …’
‘And this dragon would have been the Alchemist?’
‘Yes.’
‘So that’s why Sœur Béatrice wanted to warn you about him. Since she could not have known that we had captured him, she must have believed the queen was still in danger.’
‘That’s what I thought, yes.’
‘But you no longer think so now?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Agnès, sounding annoyed with herself. ‘I no longer know what to think.’
La Fargue stood up and, placing his hands on the young woman’s shoulders, he waited until she looked him in the eyes before saying:
‘The Alchemist is dead, Agnès.’
Uncertain, she gently freed herself from his grasp.
‘I know, captain … And yet … And yet something tells me we’re still not finished with him.’
2
Seated in his coach, which moved along the street at a slow crawl, with cushions wedged beneath his feet and behind his back, Cardinal Richelieu said:
‘I’m hesitant.’
‘I’ll lead the negotiations myself,’ replied Père Joseph. ‘And if nothing comes of them, we will still be able to renounce the whole matter.’
‘At risk of displeasing the Pope.’
‘Indeed,’ the Capuchin monk recognised.
Aged about fifty, he wore a plain grey habit and sandals, with a simple rope serving as a belt. He had long been the cardinal’s closest advisor, his ‘Grey Eminence’, a figure who always operated in the shadows.
‘Are we quite certain, at least, that we have squeezed everything we can out of this man?’ enquired Richelieu. ‘After all, he hasn’t been in our hands for very long …’
‘I believe we have, yes.’
‘Has he been put to the question?’
‘Yes, monseigneur. He’s been tortured several times. By the Chatelaines, and on occasion even in my presence.’
The cardinal lowered his eyes to look at Petit-Ami who was curled up asleep on his knees, seemingly undisturbed by the jolting coach journey. He was fond of this dragonnet, a gift from the king. Its scarlet colour made it a rarity, but the price which His Majesty’s chief minister attached to the little reptile went far beyond that.
‘I would prefer to know why the Pope is so keen that we transfer this man to his custody.’
‘No doubt to learn the same information that he gave us.’
‘And what are we to receive in return for our prisoner?’
‘Very little. But as we are in debt to Rome …’
The two men exchanged a long glance, before Richelieu finally asked:
‘Where is the transfer to take place?’
‘At the Château de Mareuil-sur-Ay.’
‘Understood. You will arrange everything … But make sure that the game is worth the candle. And also see to it that the Sisters of Saint Georges don’t get wind of this too soon. They might want to keep the marquis de Gagnière for themselves.’
That morning Antoine Leprat, chevalier d’Orgueil, paid particular attention to his appearance.
Freshly shaved, his moustache and goatee carefully smoothed, he put on a clean shirt and stockings, followed by a pair of breeches and a doublet still warm from his landlady’s iron. He had polished his boots the previous evening. Nevertheless, he examined them again before putting them on, stamping his heels to make sure they fit snugly. He adjusted his baldric and added his white rapier, verifying that the sword hung at the correct height at his right hip and slid easily in and out of the scabbard. Finally, after a last glance at the handsome blue cape spread across his bed, he went out, shutting the door to his modest room where he had left everything tidy and clean behind him.
Having donned his felt hat while descending the stairs, he found Athos waiting for him below, in rue Cocatrix, at the appointed time. They saluted one another gravely before going to fetch their horses from the nearest stables. It was the start of a fine day, but neither of them was in any mood to take pleasure from it. The thought did occur to Leprat, nevertheless, that he would need to be careful to keep the sun at his back.
A quarter of an hour later, he and Athos left the Ile de la Cité by the Petit Pont.
‘I would like to thank you for being at my side, Athos.’
‘I am your second.’
‘Precisely.’
As Leprat had expected, his violent altercation with Broussière and Sardent had not been the end of the matter. That was hardly surprising. He had broken the first man’s nose and had almost impaled the second without any ado, acting in the heat of the rage Sardent had provoked. The affair was too serious to be settled in any other way but a duel and it had been decided that Leprat would confront Sardent first and then Broussière as soon as possible afterwards. The details of the first encounter were promptly agreed. It would need to take place quickly, as the more time passed the greater the risk news would leak out. Duelling was forbidden by the very royal edicts which the King’s Musketeers, above all, were charged with upholding. To be sure, the king was willing to forgive them many trespasses, especially if they were at the expense of the Cardinal’s Guards. But Captain Tréville could not tolerate his musketeers quarrelling and cutting one another to pieces. He would forbid the duel if he learned of it, which would leave Leprat and Sardent no alternative but to disobey him and bear the consequences. So it was best if they took their chance right away.
On the Left Bank, Leprat and Athos soon turned onto rue Galande. They crossed Place Maubert and then took rue Saint-Victor as far as the city gate of the same name. Out in the faubourg, they rode alongside the walls of Saint-Victor abbey, then those of the Royal Garden of Medicinal Plants, a vast domain which was just starting to emerge from the ground and behind which the duellists had agreed to face one another.
‘There they are,’ said Athos.
Indeed, Sardent, accompanied by Broussière, who would act as his second and whose nose was decorated with a large bandage, was just arriving from the faubourg Saint-Jacques by way of rue d’Orléans. They were also on horseback. Athos and Broussière saluted one another, but the other two men exchanged neither a word nor even a glance. While Sardent seemed furious, Leprat did not let his feelings show. Detouring around the site of what would one day become the famous Jardin des Plantes, the four horsemen approached the appointed place. It seemed ideal: flat, unobstructed, and sheltered from indiscreet gazes …
If it were not for the fact that there was already someone there.
Seated on a large rock, the man had placed his hat upon his knee. He was wearing the King’s Musketeers’ blue cape with silver braiding, and was whistling as he fiddled with his horse’s bridle.
His horse, tethered and placid, waited nearby.
‘So?’ asked d’Artagnan without raising his eyes from his task. ‘Out for a ride? I like this spot very much, myself. It’s peaceful here. Just right for thinking matters through …’
Completing his repair of the bridle, he donned his felt hat, stood up, and with an innocent smile but eyes full of gravity, he added in a casual tone:
‘Unfortunately, it seems that we all had the same idea of retiring here this morning. Since I arrived first, I could insist that I stay and so oblige you to go elsewhere. But that might give you the idea that I was pulling rank, when I do like to be an amenable fellow. So, what do you say: shall we all agree to give up our present plans?’
La Fargue found Saint-Lucq helping Agnès practise her fencing skills in the main hall, watched closely by Ballardieu. Laincourt and Marciac were also present. The Gascon, who had spent most of the previous night drinking and gambling, was asleep on a chair tilted dangerously backward, his feet crossed on a window ledge. Laincourt was reading the latest issue of the Gazette, which was entirely devoted to an account of the dragon’s attack on Le Châtelet.
Drenched in sweat, the baronne de Vaudreuil did not spare her efforts. Although she felt a need to spend her energy, she also needed to become accustomed to wielding her new sword. It was a little longer and heavier than the one she had been carrying for years, which the Sisters of Saint Georges had taken from her. And while this new one was excellently made, it was nonetheless a heavier rapier that soon tired her arm.
At the end of an exchange, Agnès suddenly lunged. Saint-Lucq parried, started a riposte but feinted and delivered a particularly treacherous thrust. Taught by the best masters, the baronne de Vaudreuil did not fall into his trap. Her counterattack was immediate and Saint-Lucq would have lost an eye had it not been for his reflexes and composure. The two fencers backed away from one another and saluted.
‘Bravo!’ exclaimed La Fargue.
Ballardieu wanted to applaud, a feat somewhat complicated by the paper cone filled with small cream pastries that he held in one hand, while eating with the other.
‘Thank you,’ said Agnès.
Putting down her sword, she reached for a towel to wipe her face, neck, and throat. She was breathless but satisfied, as if she had just had a good meal. The exercise had done wonders for her.
Saint-Lucq re-sheathed his weapon in silence.
‘I have decided to trust your intuition, Agnès,’ La Fargue announced. And for the others’ benefit, he explained, ‘Agnès thinks that we’re not finished with the Alchemist yet.’
His mouth full, Ballardieu opened his eyes wide and raised an index finger to make an objection. The young woman cut him short:
‘Yes, Ballardieu, I know the Alchemist is dead.’
Interested by the discussion, Laincourt closed his copy of the Gazette. Marciac was still asleep on his precariously balanced chair, a slight smile playing on his lips in the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the window panes. Ballardieu lowered his finger.
‘But I have reasons to believe he remains one of the keys to the mystery before us,’ continued Agnès.
‘Reasons?’ Saint-Lucq enquired.
‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘It’s more a feeling, an intuition.’
‘That might be enough,’ conceded the half-blood with an ease that astonished Laincourt.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Ballardieu after swallowing, ‘the Alchemist is dead so it will be difficult to ask him … If only we still had La Donna in our hands!’
La Donna was an Italian adventuress who rented out her services, always excellent, as a conspirator, a spy, and a seductress. The Blades had crossed paths with her recently, when she had offered to sell to France valuable information about a plot threatening the Crown. Indirectly, this information had led to the capture of the Alchemist. But La Donna never lost sight of her own interests. Faithful to her reputation for duplicity, she had used the Blades to her own advantage before reclaiming her freedom with complete impunity thanks to the intervention of a powerful protector: Pope Urban VIII.
‘Forget La Donna,’ said La Fargue. ‘When we arrested him, the Alchemist was serving madame de Chevreuse as her master of magic. So we know he had gained her trust, as well as the queen’s. He was passing himself off as …’
He searched for the name.
‘Charles Mauduit,’ supplied Laincourt. ‘Who actually exists, as it happens. Or at least, he used to.’
‘Who was he?’ asked Agnès.
‘An itinerant philosopher and mage. The books he occasionally published were well regarded in certain expert circles. But he was known mostly through his writings, and only to the few.’
‘In short,’ said Saint-Lucq, ‘this master of magic had a name, but no face. That made him the ideal victim, considering the Alchemist’s projects. You can rest assured that the real Mauduit is dead.’
‘Let us return to the Alchemist and La Chevreuse,’ said La Fargue. ‘Willingly or not, the duchesse was an accomplice of the man she took to be Mauduit. No doubt she knows something about him that could be of interest to us. Moreover, he could not have emerged out of the blue and, overnight, become the master of magic in one of France’s greatest households. How did he introduce himself into her entourage? More to the point, who introduced him?’
The question hung in the air without a response and, excepting Marciac, all present
agreed that it deserved an answer.
‘Do you think the duchesse would receive you?’ the captain of the Blades asked, turning to Laincourt.
The cardinal’s former spy pondered the matter briefly.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
‘Perfect. Pay her a visit and question her closely. Be skilful about it, because there is nothing we can offer her to encourage her good will. Marciac will go with you.’
The Gascon opened an eye on hearing his name spoken.
Marciac and Laincourt waited until early afternoon before going to see the duchesse de Chevreuse, as a lady of her station never received anyone before midday. They reached the faubourg Saint-Germain via the Pont Rouge, which involved paying a toll but saved them from making a long detour across the Pont Neuf and its crowds. On the Right Bank, they followed the Seine upstream before taking one of the large archways through the Grande Galerie, a long building running parallel to the river and linking the Louvre to the Tuileries palace. They travelled on foot, without fear for their boots and breeches as the scorching sun that turned Paris into a stinking oven had at least turned the perpetual muck in the streets into a hard, dry crust.
Along the way, Laincourt asked his companion in a conversational tone:
‘This morning, when Agnès admitted she merely had an intuition that we should look more closely at the Alchemist, it seemed enough to convince you all …’
Marciac smiled.
‘That’s because we’ve learned to trust Agnès’ intuitions. You will too, you’ll see.’
‘Really?’
‘Agnès … You know she almost joined the Chatelaines? She would have become one of their White Wolves if she had taken the veil. That was not by chance, and … and well, it left her with a trace of something.’
‘How is that?’
With a vague twitch of his lips, the Gascon searched for words.
‘Something … Something inexplicable …’
Laincourt knew when innocent questions started to sound like an interrogation. He did not persist.
The Grande Galerie to the south and the rue Saint-Honoré to the north marked the boundaries of an old neighbourhood of narrow, miserable streets that were a blot on the landscape surrounding the Louvre. Yet it was here, in rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, that the magnificent Hôtel de Chevreuse stood, the scene of elegant society parties only a few days earlier, before the mistress of the household’s disgrace.