by Pierre Pevel
‘It will soon be three o’clock,’ said La Fargue. ‘You might as well be off to the Palais-Cardinal now.’
‘At your command,’ Leprat replied. ‘Until later, captain.’
The musketeer departed.
At the Palais-Cardinal, he would find La Donna and one of the two guests they expected this evening. Right now the man was meeting Richelieu, incognito. He was ostensibly an envoy from the king of Spain, but in fact he spoke for the Black Claw. Louis XIII’s chief minister receiving a representative of this execrated secret society was less unusual than one might think: the Black Claw was an actor on the European diplomatic and political stage, and as such, most governments had contacts with it. On the other hand, the mission that the old dragons of the Grand Lodge had entrusted to their emissary was without precedent. He was here to deliver a warning to France: that a terrible danger threatened her, and that it was the work of a handful of renegades, not of the society as a whole. Powerless to stop them, the Black Claw was nevertheless disposed to offer tokens of its good faith and wished to agree in advance to a status quo ante bellum in case the worst should come to pass.
The meeting planned this evening was also one of those tokens.
Both houses being located in the faubourg Saint-Germain, it was not far from the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs to the Hôtel de l’Épervier. Nevertheless Laincourt arrived in a sweat and, without taking time to refresh himself, went to find Jules Bertaud who was nervously pacing back and forth in the fencing room, where Guibot had asked him to wait.
‘Arnaud!’ exclaimed the small bookseller. ‘At last!’
‘What’s happened, Bertaud?’ asked Laincourt. ‘I’m very busy today and can’t—’
‘It’s Clotilde!’ Bertaud said, looking very agitated. ‘She’s disappeared!’
‘What?’
‘Disappeared! My daughter has disappeared, Arnaud! She’s been abducted!’
‘Calm down, Jules. Calm down,’ said Laincourt in a soothing voice.
With measured gestures, he sat the bookseller down, poured him a glass of water and obliged him to drink it.
‘There. Slowly … Now, breathe … That’s it … Slowly …’
And when Bertaud was a little more settled, he said:
‘Now, tell me everything. From the beginning.’
So the bookseller told him how Clotilde had failed to return from the market that morning. He had been at the Hôtel de Chevreuse, where he was finishing the inventory of the library in the duchesse’s magic study. He had therefore not been immediately alarmed that his daughter was absent when he returned home. Then, finally wondering if she had taken to bed, oppressed by the heat, he had gone to her room and found a letter, addressed to Laincourt.
‘I opened it,’ said Bertaud, handing him the letter with a trembling hand. ‘Forgive me.’
The cardinal’s former spy took the unsealed letter, observed that it was addressed to him in an unfamiliar hand and carefully unfolded it. It was a blank sheet of thick paper, which held a lock of hair. Hair that could only belong to Clotilde. Laincourt did not have to ask the bookseller if he was sure: one look into the anxious father’s eyes told him all he needed to know.
‘She … She’s been abducted, hasn’t she?’ asked Bertaud.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think she is unharmed?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Is this my fault? If Clotilde has been abducted, is it my fault?’
‘Your fault? Where did you get that idea?’ asked Laincourt.
But he was in fact unsure whose fault it was that the innocent young Clotilde had been kidnapped.
‘I agreed to deliver a note to the duchesse de Chevreuse for you. Perhaps someone found out. Perhaps they want—’
‘No, Jules. No … This is something unrelated and you must not reproach yourself for it. Look. This letter is addressed to me. Therefore I am the one they are trying to send a message to …’
‘But who? Who? And why? … Oh, Arnaud, what sort of calamitous adventure have you dragged us into?’
‘Who? I don’t know … As to why, whoever has taken Clotilde means to frighten us and to cloud our judgment. No doubt they wish to draw me into a trap. Soon they will send you another message. It will be this evening, or tomorrow at the latest …’
Laincourt remained absolutely unflappable as he said this. Inside, the spy had taken over and was coolly analysing the situation. Clotilde had been abducted. But in broad daylight and in the neighbourhood of Place Maubert she could not have been taken by force. Not without causing a commotion. So she must have gone quietly, probably following someone she knew and had no reason to suspect.
‘Someone has almost certainly abused Clotilde’s trust,’ said Laincourt. ‘So you need to listen to me and think hard. Has Clotilde met anyone new lately? Do you know if she has made a new friend?’
‘No,’ replied the bookseller, shaking his head. ‘No.’
‘Think. It could be a beau …’
‘A beau? No!’
‘Girls don’t tell their fathers everything. But you might have sensed that—’
‘No! There was nothing like that …’ The bookseller’s gaze grew distant for a brief moment, and then his face took on a glimmer of a suspicion. ‘Unless …’
‘What, Bertaud?’
‘There was a woman, a new client of mine, but …’
‘Who is she?’
‘A young widow who recently moved into the neighbourhood. An excellent new customer who showed a deep love of books and who seemed fond of Clotilde. Clotilde delivered books to her at home several times.’
‘Her name?’
‘Madame Chantegrelle. But really, Arnaud, I think you’re mistaken if you think—’
‘Describe her to me.’
Bertaud gathered his recollections.
‘Young. Ravishing. Blonde. With sparkling blue eyes and an angelic expression. A sweet voice. An air of innocence … But why these questions?’
Laincourt did not reply. He wasn’t even listening anymore, and had gone quite pale.
The bookseller had just described the vicomtesse de Malicorne.
Wearing a veil and dressed in the white robe of the Sisters of Saint Georges, Agnès was praying beneath the octagonal cupola of the Sainte-Marie-du-Temple church when a young sister approached her, timidly murmured a few words in her ear, and then left with soft footsteps. Sœur Marie-Agnès – she had pronounced her perpetual vows the previous day – finished her prayer. She crossed herself, stood up, and walked to the large cloister of the Enclos.
Mère Béatrice d’Aussaint was waiting for her there.
She, too, was wearing the Chatelaines’ immaculate white robe. But she had a sword at her side and boots on her feet. And her robe had a tough inner lining and was slit on either side to allow riding. It revealed the cavalier’s breeches she wore beneath. She also had a Latin cross and an heraldic dragon embroidered over her heart. She was dressed as a louve, a member of the Order’s White Wolves, and had recently become their leader; mother superior of the Saint-Loup abbey.
Tall, beautiful, and dignified, Mère Béatrice was barely older than Agnès. The two young women exchanged a warm accolade.
‘So you are one of us now, Agnès. Welcome.’
‘Henceforth, it’s Sœur Marie-Agnès, mother.’
‘Quite right,’ said Béatrice with a smile. ‘Let’s take a few steps together, my daughter.’
She took Agnès’ arm and they walked for a moment in silence, beneath the shade of the cloister’s gallery.
‘I particularly wanted to greet you, Agnès. And to assure myself that you are ready.’
‘It’s a little late to worry about that, since that I’ve already taken my vows.’
‘That makes you a Chatelaine. But you are not a louve. Not yet, even if you promise to become the very best of us …’
‘Only the future will tell if that is true.’
‘No. There can be no doubt about this …’
Agnès glanced at Mère Béatrice out of the corner of her eye and decided not to argue the point. They continued to walk with slow, even steps until the mother superior said:
‘We’re going to have to hasten your initiation, Agnès. You will undergo the Ordeal tonight. I have brought the Sphère d’me that is destined for you.’
Taken aback, the newly ordained Chatelaine halted.
‘Tonight? Why so soon?’
‘The truth is we have no choice in the matter. We have just learned that the Arcana have started to waken the Primordial. And you and I both know how they intend to use it. Tonight they will—’
‘I’m not ready!’
‘You are not as ready as you should be, but better prepared than you believe.’
‘No! It’s impossible! I’ll never be able to—’
‘There are things I know about you, Agnès, that not even you know. Trust me. You can do this.’
‘It’s too soon!’
‘We’re short of time, to be sure. But at least we know what to expect … Tonight, the Chatelaines will face the threat head-on. But they will all perish trying to vanquish the Primordial. They will die without you. We are still missing one louve, and that louve is you.’
Laincourt accompanied Bertaud back to his home and then went on to rue des Bernardins, where this madame Chantegrelle who so closely resembled the vicomtesse de Malicorne had acquired a house. Cautious by nature, he started by doing a little reconnaissance of the immediate area. The rue des Bernardins was close to the Place Maubert and to Bertaud’s small bookshop. It was also located near the city gates of Saint-Victor and La Tournelle.
Practical if one wishes to leave Paris quickly, said the hurdy-gurdy player over Laincourt’s shoulder.
The young man did not turn round and continued observing the street from the recess of a carriage gate.
You should have been on your guard from the instant Marciac discovered La Malicorne had returned. You should have known that she was planning to wreak revenge on you … After all, you’re the one who unmasked her, just when she was about to create a Black Claw lodge in France.
A brave feat of mine that cost you your life.
Bah! You know what they say about making omelettes …
There’s no guarantee this Chantegrelle widow is La Malicorne. There are other pretty blondes in the world. I could be mistaken.
You know very well that you’re not … By the way, where is Maréchal?
Maréchal was the old man’s dragonnet. One-eyed and utterly emaciated, it was a woeful creature to behold but the hurdy-gurdy player was very attached to it. When he died, Laincourt had inherited the reptile.
He’s safe at the Hôtel de l’Épervier. I’ve entrusted him to master Guibot’s tender care.
The young man focused his attention on the façade of the house that Bertaud had indicated to him. A ground floor and two upper storeys, with a sign representing a sleeping dragon hanging over the door. The dragon motif was very common in Paris. But knowing who was living there …
Laincourt wondered if La Malicorne had appreciated the irony.
The nearby Bernardins convent had given its name to the street. The chapel bell rang five times.
‘God’s blood!’ Laincourt muttered. ‘Five o’clock already.’
You’re getting careless, Arnaud.
The hurdy-gurdy player’s tone of voice was serious.
Retreating further into shadow, Laincourt turned towards the spectre and saw that the old beggar looked bruised and bloodied again, as he had been at the moment of his death. Lately, he had appeared to him with a dirty face, to be sure, but one that was intact.
Careless?
No one knows you’re here.
Bertaud knows.
And will he go to the Blades if you’re late returning?
As Laincourt did not say anything, the hurdy-gurdy player continued:
Anyway, what are you planning to do?
La Malicorne and her henchmen think they’re at least one move ahead of me. According to their plans, I should be worrying myself sick while waiting for them to manifest their intentions. They don’t know that I’ve already started to track them down. They may even still be in that house …
I doubt that very much.
Let’s go and see.
No, boy! You—
But Laincourt was already leaving his hiding-place.
He soon found a way to gain access to the so-called madame Chantegrelle’s house, from the rear, and after making sure that no one was watching him, he nimbly climbed over a wall and landed in the overgrown garden. There, he drew his sword before peeping through a half-closed window, which he then opened wide.
Silent and tidy, with modest furnishings, the house seemed to be empty.
Laincourt crept in noiselessly and listened. Then he explored the ground floor on tip-toe, all of his senses on alert. A flight of stairs led to the upper storeys. He climbed it and, on the first floor, a door left ajar attracted his attention. He approached and thought he heard a muffled whimper behind it. Fearing the worst, he cautiously pushed the door all the way open.
Clotilde and the Demoiselle were sitting opposite one another at a prettily set table. The tablecloth was embroidered and the crockery was delicate. The pastries sitting on the plates looked delicious. A golden syrupy-looking wine shimmered in a decanter and in two small crystal glasses. Perfectly at her ease, the Demoiselle was nibbling on candied fruits which she plucked from the crust of a piece of cake with her fingertips. But Clotilde’s cheeks were stained with dried tears. Her gaze full of distress, she was fighting back sobs and sat petrified on her chair, not daring to move. Shielded by the back of her seat, a drac mercenary stood behind her with a dagger blade against her throat.
‘Congratulations,’ said the woman who, in Laincourt’s eyes, remained the vicomtesse de Malicorne. ‘You came just as quickly as I hoped you would.’
Somewhere in secret, cavernous depths, a rudimentary consciousness awoke and a reptilian eye opened slightly. The Primordial slowly came to life and eventually heard the call which had awoken it from a distance of many leagues. The jewel on its scaly brow released a burst of light when the Heresiarch projected his mind into that of the archaic dragon. The Primordial bellowed in response to the other’s presence. Then, its feet clawing over stone, it slipped into the waters of an underground tunnel leading to a black lake from which it would emerge into the evening air, before flying towards Paris.
‘Any news of Laincourt?’ asked La Fargue.
‘No,’ replied Marciac.
Daylight was already fading.
On the front steps of the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, the two men were waiting for Leprat to return from the Palais-Cardinal with La Donna and the representative of the Black Claw. It had been less than an hour since the latter’s interview with Richelieu had come to a close. His arrival under close escort was imminent and torches had been lit in the courtyard of honour in front of the mansion. Everything was ready to receive both him and the person he would be meeting here in secret.
The sound of hooves striking the dried muck approached from rue de Tournon.
‘Here they are,’ said the captain of the Blades.
Mounted on a black horse, Leprat was the first to enter the courtyard. Three armed horsemen followed him, then a coach without coats-of-arms and six more riders. La Fargue did not know the identity of the Black Claw’s envoy, but he had no trouble recognising the one-eyed man riding just behind Leprat and commanding the escort. Armed with a solid rapier, both his clothes and his hat were made of black leather. A patch – also made of black leather and decorated with small silver studs – masked his left eye, but failed to conceal a ranse stain that spread over his cheekbone and temple. His name was Savelda, one of those who carried out various sordid and violent tasks on behalf of the masters of the Grand Lodge.
La Fargue and the Gascon exchanged a glance.
The Blades had crossed paths with Savelda on several oc
casions recently. In fact, the last time he had narrowly escaped capture by them in the gardens of the Château de Dampierre after he threatened the queen’s life.
First to dismount, Leprat hastened to join La Fargue and Marciac on the front steps. His expression was grave.
‘That’s not the worst of it,’ he announced.
And the Blades’ captain understood what the musketeer meant when he saw who climbed from the coach and gallantly lent his arm to La Donna.
It was the comte de Pontevedra.
La Fargue turned pale and absently took the note that Leprat was holding out to him.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘It’s from His Eminence, captain.’
La Fargue broke the seal, ran his eyes over the letter and returned it open to the musketeer so he could read it before passing it to Marciac.
Monsieur le capitaine,
Please do me the favour of forgetting the promise you made the comte de Pontevedra during your last conversation with him.
Richelieu
‘What promise?’ asked the Gascon.
‘I promised I would kill him.’
With a face made of marble, La Fargue watched as Pontevedra climbed the steps and entered the brightly lit mansion, exchanging smiles and polite courtesies with Alessandra. Savelda followed three paces behind him.
If they were capable of vanquishing the dragons they hunted down and fought for the salvation of the kingdom of France, the White Wolves of Saint Georges did not owe their success solely to their courage and their piety, or even to the supernatural virtues of the draconite blades they wielded so boldly. They owed their success, above all, to the protection offered them by powerful entities. By departed dragons, in fact. Or rather, forgotten dragons who no longer had any physical existence but continued – sometimes for centuries – to haunt the spectral world.