by Pierre Pevel
As Laincourt made no reply, the duchesse continued:
‘This bookseller, monsieur Bertaud, what is he to you, exactly?’
‘A friend.’
‘His hand trembled quite a bit when he handed me this book. And his voiced wavered as well. I doubt that this escaped the notice of madame de Luret, who informs the cardinal when she is not reading books aloud to me. She is also quite friendly with a certain monsieur de Brussand, whose handsome air won her over.’
‘Brussand? He is here?’
‘Do you know him?’ the duchesse asked in surprise. But then memory returned to her. ‘Ah, but it’s true. I forgot that you wore that cursed red cape once yourself … Well, monsieur de Brussand commands the guards that watch over my house and my person. Is he a friend, too?’
‘He was,’ Laincourt replied.
He couldn’t help thinking of the look old Brussand had given him when he, Laincourt, had been accused of spying on and betraying the cardinal. He had worn the red cape of the Cardinal’s Guards at the time, and the false accusations were intended to help unmask the real traitors. But Laincourt had never had the opportunity to establish the complete truth with his friend.
Once again, he found himself needing to collect his wits.
‘What did you do with the note that I slipped into the book?’ he asked.
‘Don’t worry, I burnt it as soon as I read it. Nonetheless, in future, choose your messengers more carefully.’
‘Considering the urgency, I hardly had the liberty of choice. Tomorrow, you are leaving for—’
‘—for Couzières, yes. Thank you so much for reminding me … Have you come to see me about madame de Saint-Avold?’
The question caught Laincourt unprepared.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Aude has returned to Lorraine, did you know?’ said the duchesse in a conversational tone. ‘But I have a means of sending her letters. I would be happy to make sure she received one from you, if you like …’
Laincourt admired the ease with which madame de Chevreuse had just offered him an opportunity to compromise himself.
‘No, madame. I thank you.’
‘Are you no longer in love? No, monsieur. Do not protest, it’s useless. Believe me, I know how to recognise love.’
‘Madame, I am here on a matter of importance.’
The duchesse sighed and turned a page with a weary finger.
‘Very well. I am listening.’
Laincourt explained that the Blades were investigating Charles Mauduit. The so-called Mauduit must have lied to her, at least by omission, as she had not known he was a dragon. Similarly, she was unaware he had perished during the attack on Le Châtelet.
She did, however, sense that something was amiss.
‘What are you hiding from me, monsieur?’
‘Pardon, madame?’
‘You must be hiding something from me since, if this were only about Charles Mauduit, you would not be acting without the knowledge and perhaps even against the will of the cardinal …’
‘By way of circumstances about which I can say nothing, madame, this affair also concerns the Sisters of Saint Georges. The cardinal is not in a position to offend them and so we feared that he would forbid us from pursuing this path.’
‘So it concerns the Chatelaines. Why didn’t you say so sooner?’
Evidently, the duchesse de Chevreuse shared the queen’s notorious loathing for the Chatelaines. Laincourt had not known this and took careful note of it.
‘Madame, you must tell me everything you know about your former master of magic.’
‘What can I say? Of course I did not know he served the Black Claw …’ The duchesse lifted her head and gazed off into the darkness. ‘People had spoken highly of his knowledge. And he appeared to enjoy a certain measure of prestige among his peers. I thought he would be a suitable member of my household …’ For the first time, she turned toward Laincourt. ‘You know, I do not have much liking for magic. A little divination on occasion, but nothing more … It was the queen’s despair, at finding herself unable to conceive, which finally convinced me that perhaps a ritual …’
‘I wager that Mauduit suggested it to you.’
‘Yes, probably.’ Mme de Chevreuse pretended to resume reading. ‘But he was skilful enough to make it seem I thought of it. And later, I served this monster’s plans with all the willingness in the world, persuading the queen to have recourse to sorcery to enable her to become a mother.’
She spoke feelingly. Her friendship for the queen had been real and she sincerely reproached herself for what had happened.
Or what had almost happened …
And then Laincourt understood why the duchesse showed no signs of any rancour against the Cardinal’s Blades, or against himself. Because although their intervention had brought about her disgrace, they had saved the queen.
‘Do you remember who recommended Mauduit to you?’
‘Of course, but it will be of no help to you. Because she was burnt alive in the fire that destroyed her home.’
Knowing the Black Claw, this news hardly astonished Laincourt. Nevertheless, to put his mind at rest, he asked:
‘Her name?’
‘The vicomtesse de Malicorne.’
Laincourt fell silent, dumbfounded. Before joining the Blades, his last mission as the cardinal’s spy had been to foil the vicomtesse de Malicorne’s plans.
‘Monsieur?’ enquired madame de Chevreuse nervously.
But someone was coming.
With a simple backward step, Laincourt retreated calmly into the shadows. A lady companion of the duchesse arrived, bearing a shawl and saying the air was growing chilly. It was madame de Luret, whom the duchesse greeted rather harshly. The woman stammered an apology and quickly withdrew.
Laincourt reappeared.
‘No doubt she heard us,’ he said.
‘Yes. This shawl was a poor pretext. You’d better go.’
Madame de Chevreuse stood up.
‘One last question, madame. Were you close to the vicomtesse de Malicorne?’
‘Yes. She was a friend. But she remained aloof from intrigues. If you had been acquainted with her, you would know what a charming person she was … Goodbye, monsieur.’
‘Goodbye, madame.’
Laincourt let the duchesse leave in the direction of the terrace and the mansion, and waited long enough to spy movements in the garden. He saw a red cape passing in one place, and then a second one elsewhere.
The Cardinal’s Guards were already searching for him.
Laincourt knew he was doomed if he remained where he was. So he started to make good his escape, with silent, supple steps, staying within the shadows. He wanted to flee, of course. But above all, he did not want to be seen or heard. Because if he managed to depart undetected, the duchesse could lie with relative ease. No, she had been alone. And she wasn’t talking to anyone, but reading aloud. Isn’t that what one does, with poetry? If he was spotted, however, others would be held accountable. Madame de Chevreuse, first of all. And perhaps Bertaud, too, who seemed to have aroused the suspicions of that cursed madame de Luret.
The Cardinal’s Guards were carrying out an organised search of the garden. They tightened the noose around him, using lanterns to shed light, watching and listening for the slightest movement, the slightest sound, and they had no hesitation in hacking at the undergrowth with their swords. Fortunately, having been a member of the Guards, Laincourt knew them and knew what to expect. It was futile to hope that a simple diversion would attract all of them to the same spot: two or three would go and see, but the others would keep their positions.
He would have to be cleverer than that.
At the end of a garden path, Laincourt took time to observe and think. He estimated he had only two or three minutes before the trap closed around him. He needed to find a solution.
The pond, murmured the hurdy-gurdy player in his ear.
Of course!
Within th
e park, there was a large ornamental pond filled with colourful fish that the duchesse liked to admire and feed on occasion. As far as Laincourt could remember, this pond was fairly deep, deep enough that a man could hide within its dark waters. If he reached it first, he could dive in and evade the red capes coming towards him. After that, climbing the wall and jumping down into rue Saint-Nicaise would be child’s play.
Laincourt hurried, hunched over, gripping his sword’s scabbard in one hand and holding the brim of his hat with the other. At the corner of a well-kept flowerbed, for a moment he thought all was lost, as he held his breath and waited for a guard without a lantern to walk by. He had almost run straight into the man, but was now starting to believe that chance smiled upon him …
… until he arrived at the pond.
Which was empty.
No doubt because the duchesse was leaving, the pond had been drained for cleaning. The young man cursed. But more guards were approaching. He had to turn tail now and find another way out. They would be on him soon, very soon.
‘Don’t move!’
Given in a calm voice, the order had surprised Laincourt just as he was reversing course.
He froze.
‘Turn round, monsieur.’
Having recognised the voice that spoke, Laincourt obeyed, but lowered his head so that, in the darkness, his face remained perfectly hidden by his hat. Because the guard who held him at bay, threatening him with a pistol, was Brussand. Brussand who had taken him under his wing when he had first joined the Cardinal’s Guards. Brussand who had been so proud of Laincourt’s promotion to the rank of ensign. Brussand who had felt that he had lost a son when Laincourt had been forced to give up his red cape under troubling circumstances.
‘Come forward into the moonlight, monsieur. And take off your hat. I want to see who I’m arresting.’
Laincourt hesitated.
‘Come forward, monsieur!’
But Laincourt could not allow himself to be taken captive, or unmasked. Either way, the Blades would be compromised and would have to explain what they were doing to the cardinal. It was bad enough for the cardinal’s men to know madame de Chevreuse had met someone at night in her garden, against the express orders of the king.
But what could he do?
Kill a friend? Kill an innocent man?
‘Step forward, or I’ll shoot!’
Brussand. Out of all the guards present, it had to be old Brussand …
Laincourt sighed and took one step forward.
‘Your hat, now, take—’
The guard was unable to finish his command: Saint-Lucq had come up from behind and knocked him out cold.
‘Quickly,’ said the half-blood. ‘This way.’
It was unwise to venture out on Pont Neuf after sunset. Unpleasant encounters were frequent and there was every likelihood of being robbed, or even of winding up in the Seine more dead than alive. That night, however, a man on the Left Bank started over the bridge without a trace of fear. His name was Étienne-Louis de La Fargue, he seemed to be in a hurry, and he had the look of someone it would be foolish to trifle with. An intimidating Pappenheimer sword hung at his side.
The captain was heading for the famous Bronze Wyvern, which stood at the very tip of the Ile de la Cité, facing Place Dauphine. Going round the imposing marble pedestal, he entered the thick darkness beneath the spread wings of the statue, which depicted a wyvern saddled and harnessed for war, but riderless. There he found the person who had requested this last-minute rendezvous, leaning on the railing overlooking the black waters of the Seine.
‘What is it?’ asked La Fargue grumpily. ‘I don’t have much time.’
The other straightened up and turned round.
He was an elegant gentleman, dressed in a grey outfit beneath a black coat and wearing a felt hat with a plume. A handsome man, he seemed to be about thirty years in age but his hair was the colour of slate. His eyes were the same pale grey as his outfit, the irises ringed by a dark border.
He bore a grave expression.
‘The Seven are concerned,’ announced the chevalier de Valombre.
At least, that was how he had introduced himself at their first meeting. La Fargue knew nothing of him, other than the fact that he was a dragon and that he also served the Guardians.
Also known as the Seven.
‘And why are they concerned?
‘Dragons are gathering in Paris.’
‘To what end?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘What do you know of the dragon that attacked Le Châtelet?’
‘We know that it was a primordial.’
‘What’s that?’
‘An ancient, primitive dragon. An archaic representative of what the draconic race was at the dawn of time … They are dangerous and savage creatures with a bestial intelligence ruled entirely by the violence of their instincts.’
‘So, it was a primordial that killed Almades.’
‘You can be sure that the primordial at Le Châtelet has a master who commands it. Or even several masters.’
‘Such as the dragons who are now gathering in Paris?’
‘We believe so.’
La Fargue nodded, and then asked:
‘What do you want from me?’
Laincourt and Saint-Lucq arrived together at the Hôtel de l’Épervier. Ballardieu was sitting on the steps to the kitchen, drinking a glass of wine.
‘Where is the captain?’ Laincourt asked him.
‘Gone out.’
‘Gone out? Since when?’ Saint-Lucq wanted to know.
‘Less than an hour,’ replied Ballardieu.
‘And gone where?’
‘A mystery.’
‘And the others?’
‘Agnès is resting. Marciac is in the fencing room.’
Laincourt and Saint-Lucq joined the Gascon inside. He had been drinking and, dishevelled, his feet crossed on the table, he was still drinking now, joylessly, alone in the dim light. His appearance astonished Laincourt. Saint-Lucq, although he never commented on it, knew of the sudden bouts of melancholy to which Marciac was sometimes victim.
‘Do you know where the captain went?’ the half-blood asked.
The Gascon displayed a dull-witted surprise.
‘He’s not here?’
Saint-Lucq cursed and walked away. Laincourt remained behind, feeling the need for a drink himself.
‘So, your rendezvous with madame de Chevreuse?’ Marciac enquired.
‘It almost went horribly wrong,’ the young man confessed. ‘The alarm was raised. I could have been caught.’
‘But Saint-Lucq intervened, as if out of nowhere. And he saved your neck.’
‘Yes.’
‘He loves doing that.’
Marciac finally noticed how shaken Laincourt looked.
‘Come on, pull yourself together … Here, have a drink.’ He filled two glasses to the brim. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘There will be an investigation at the Hôtel de Chevreuse.’
‘No doubt. But I don’t suppose it will be the first time for the duchesse …’
‘It’s not her that I’m worried about.’
‘Bertaud?’ the Gascon guessed.
‘Yes. If they discover his part in this affair …’
Marciac sighed. He reckoned that he had drunk enough, put down his glass, took his feet off the table, and leaned towards Laincourt, his elbows resting on his thighs.
‘Listen, my friend. Believe me, I understand you. But you’re seriously mistaken if you think you can arrange a sanctuary for yourself. We all bear the burden of the intrigues we get mixed up in, and there is no way to spare those who are near and dear to us from the consequences, either. Worse, sometimes we have a duty to make use of those we love to further our aims. That can be done without their knowledge. It can be done with their willingness or not. And yes, it can lead to them being harmed. But nothing, nothing must ever prevent us from doing it … If that idea is unbearable
to you, distance yourself from those you love once and for all. Isolate yourself. Be like Saint-Lucq … Or follow Leprat and leave the Blades.’
‘And you? You’re not Saint-Lucq, nor Leprat, as far as I know …’
The Gascon’s face grew cloudy.
‘Me? I am Marciac. I distract myself with wine, gaming, and women to forget the harm I do to those I lack the courage to leave. Choose one or another of my vices. It doesn’t matter which because you will end up with all three if you follow me down the path of weakness …’
Just as he was delivering those words, Saint-Lucq returned, looking worried.
‘La Fargue is nowhere to be found. I spoke to André: all the horses are in the stable, so he left on foot. And Guibot swears he received no letter or visit … It’s as if he left the house suddenly, for no reason at all …’
‘The captain is not a choirboy,’ remarked Marciac as he rose to stretch. ‘And he’s quite capable of defending himself in Paris, even at night. Why are you getting so worked up?’
The half-blood did not answer him.
He could not find an explanation for La Fargue’s absence. The captain should have been there on Laincourt’s return, waiting for the result of the secret interview with madame de Chevreuse. His absence could mean only one of two things: either La Fargue was guilty of neglecting his duties by absenting himself on some frivolous errand, or he had been obliged to go out because a serious matter had arisen. Saint-Lucq could not believe the first hypothesis was true. So there was good reason to be alarmed, which Marciac would have understood if he wasn’t Marciac.
Laincourt, in contrast, was also starting to wonder what was going on.
‘Perhaps Agnès knows,’ he suggested.
‘Knows what?’ asked La Fargue as he came bustling in, Ballardieu at his heels.
His arrival provoked an awkward silence, which the captain did not seem to notice. But he carefully avoided Saint-Lucq’s gaze as he straddled a chair and immediately asked Laincourt for his report.
The young man complied and when his account was finished, the captain of the Blades concluded:
‘So, it was thanks to the vicomtesse de Malicorne that the Alchemist became the magic master of the duchesse de Chevreuse …’
‘Yes,’ said Laincourt.
‘And she was the one who wanted to create a Black Claw lodge in France, wasn’t she? And whose flight was assisted by the chevalier de Gagnière, on that famous night when we defeated her?’