by Pierre Pevel
“Good morning, Athos,” said Leprat.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?”
Leprat sat up against the pillows with caution and took stock of his wounds. His arm was carefully bandaged, as was, beneath the sheets covering his naked body, his thigh. He was not in much pain, felt rested, and had a clear mind.
“Surprisingly well,” he replied. “The letter?”
“Don’t worry, it has reached its destination. The duty officer at the Saint-Denis gate, to whom you so prudently entrusted it on your arrival in Paris, made no delay in delivering it to monsieur de Tréville.… Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“That’s an excellent sign.”
Athos picked up a basket which he placed on the bed between them and lifted the red-and-white chequered cloth to reveal sausage, cheese, a pot of pâté, half a round loaf of bread, a knife, two glasses, and three bottles of wine.
“And so,” said Leprat while the other spread a thick layer of pâté on a slice of bread, “I am alive.”
“Indeed. Here, this is for you, eat.”
The patient bit into the slice and found it only stimulated his appetite more.
“And how is it that I am still for this world?”
“Thank the heavens in the first instance. And monsieur de Tréville in the second.… But start by telling me what you remember.”
Leprat searched his memories.
“Yesterday evening, after nightfall … it was yesterday evening, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“So, yesterday evening, after nightfall, I was caught in an ambush at the corner of rue Saint-Denis and rue aux Ours. I beat off most of my attackers, but the last, a gentleman, got the better of me. I remember that he shot me with a pistol ball to the heart, and after that—nothing.”
“Did you know your would-be assassin?”
“No. But from now on, I would recognise him amongst a thousand others.”
Athos nodded, thoughtful. He knew neither the details nor the heart of this mission and, being a discreet man, refused to pose any questions on the subject. He suspected that the chevalier knew little more than he did. He twisted around on his chair, unhooked Leprat’s baldric from its back, and said: “This is why you should thank the heavens in the first instance. They made you left-handed.”
Leprat smiled.
“Because you are left-handed, you carry your sword on your right. The baldric comes over your left shoulder. It protected the left-hand side of your chest and stopped the ball which was meant to pierce your heart. It was the force of impact alone that knocked you down, and senseless.”
“Thank God my assassin did not aim for my head.…”
“Such are the fortunes of war. They are not always against us.”
The wounded man nodded in agreement and accepted the proffered glass of wine. He had sufficient experience to know that those in battle often owed their lives to luck.
“Although I can guess at the reason,” he said as their glasses clinked together, “now tell me why I must thank monsieur de Tréville.”
Athos drained his glass before replying.
“Despite being alerted by the sounds of your fight, the clowns who were guarding the Saint-Denis gate only reached you at the moment when you were shot. Their arrival forced the assassin to flee. Naturally they believed you were dead at first, but then realised that you were not—or not quite. Thanks to the pass you had shown at the gate they knew you were a musketeer; one of them ran to find monsieur de Tréville while the others carried you to a doctor. Monsieur de Tréville rushed to you at once, rescued you from the claws of that quack, brought you back here, and entrusted you to the good care of his own surgeon. And that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“But how does that explain why you now play nursemaid?”
Athos shrugged.
“I was on duty last night,” he explained.
Cutting the discussion short, he rose, picked up his hat, and announced: “And now I must leave you.”
“Are you returning to rue du Vieux-Colombier?”
“Yes.”
“With your permission, I’ll come with you.”
“Really?”
“I believe I’m fit enough and monsieur de Tréville is no doubt waiting to hear my report.… Just give me time to dress.”
“Very well. I shall wait for you in the corridor.”
Antoine Leprat lived on Ile de la Cité.
Dressed in clean clothes but sporting an ugly three-day beard, he was quick to rejoin Athos but begged him to permit a short stop with a barber. The other accepted all the more readily as he would also benefit from the barber’s attentions. Monsieur de Tréville required that his Musketeers be—at the very least—presentable. A barber on rue de la Licorne left their cheeks clean-shaven and furnished them with the opportunity to relax and talk a little more.
“One thing intrigues me,” said Athos.
“What is that?”
“You only remember the cavalier who shot you, is that right? But the archers posted upon the Saint-Denis gate spoke of seeing a second cavalier … a rider dressed in light grey or in white, on a horse with a white caparison, who sat facing the first while you lay sprawled on the ground. To hear them speak, this latecomer was almost ghostly in appearance.… And he lingered no longer than the other to be recognised.”
“I told you everything I can remember, Athos.”
Later, around ten o’clock, they crossed the Petit Pont. Like most of the bridges in Paris, the Petit Pont was built up; on either side of the narrow roadway stood a row of houses which could in no way be distinguished from those on an ordinary street and which made it possible to cross the Seine without ever catching a glimpse of the river. On the Left Bank, they followed rue de la Harpe and then rue des Cordeliers as far as the Saint-Germain gate, where they were slowed by an impatient, agitated crowd. But such delays in passing through the city gates were an unavoidable ordeal for anyone wishing to leave Paris or reach its faubourgs.
The capital was indeed fortified in its fashion. Punctuated by turrets topped with conical “pepper pots,” the mediaeval walls measured over four metres in height and overlooked a series of ditches. They were supposed to protect the city in times of war, whether domestic or foreign. However, these defences did not seem at all warlike in this period. One would search in vain for the smallest cannon. The ditches were filled with rubbish. And the ramparts were falling into ruin despite the best efforts of the city authorities to rebuild them. Parisians, who could not be fooled, said that their walls were made of nothing more than potter’s clay and that one shot from a musket could create a breach, while a drum roll would be enough to bring them tumbling to the ground. Nevertheless, it was not possible to enter Paris except through one of these gates. They were large buildings as outmoded as they were dilapidated, but they accommodated the Paris tax collectors, as well as the city’s militia. The first levied taxes on all merchandise entering the city while the second examined foreigners’ passports. Both groups carried out their duties zealously, which did nothing to speed the flow of traffic.
Once they reached the faubourg Saint-Germain, Athos and Leprat passed before the church of Saint-Sulpice and, taking rue du Vieux-Colombier, entered the gates to the Tréville mansion.
Monsieur de Tréville being the captain of the King’s Musketeers, this building was more like a military encampment than a great man’s residence. It was filled with a jostling crowd and one ran a constant risk of bumping shoulders with some proud gentleman of no fortune but with a murderous eye. Although lacking in wealth, all of His Majesty’s Musketeers had hot blue blood. All were ready to draw swords at the first provocation. And all of them, whether they were on duty or not and whether they wore the blue cape with its silver fleur-de-lis cross or not, tended to congregate here in their captain’s house. They gathered in the courtyard, slept in the stables, mounted guard on the stairs, played dice
in the antechambers, and, on occasion, even joyfully crossed blades in the hallways for entertainment, training, or the demonstration of the excellence of a particular series of moves. This picturesque spectacle that visitors found so striking was by no means extraordinary. In these times, most soldiers were recruited only when war loomed and then dispersed, for reasons of economy, once their services were no longer required. As for the few permanent regiments that existed, they were not barracked anywhere … due a lack of barracks. As members of the king’s own prestigious military household, the Musketeers were among these few troops who were always available and not disbanded in peacetime. Nevertheless, no particular arrangements were made for housing them, equipping them, or supplying their daily needs: the pay they received from the king’s Treasury, as paltry and irregular as it was, was supposed to suffice for these provisions.
Within the Hôtel de Tréville, everyone had heard about the ambush into which Leprat had fallen. Rumour had said that he was dead or dying, so his return to the fold was warmly greeted. Without participating in the effusive cries of joy and other virile manifestations of affection, Athos accompanied Leprat as far as the great staircase littered with musketeers, servants, and various seekers of favour. There, he took his leave.
“Remember to conserve your strength, my friend. You’ve received a hard knock.”
“I promise you I will. Thank you, Athos.”
Leprat was announced and did not have to wait long in the antechamber. Captain de Tréville received him almost immediately in his office, rising to greet him when he entered.
“Come in, Leprat, come in. And have a seat. I am delighted to see you, but I did not expect to see you on your feet again so soon. I was even planning to come and visit you at home this evening.”
Leprat thanked him and took a chair, while monsieur de Tréville sat down again at his desk.
“First of all, how are you?”
“Well.”
“Your arm? Your thigh?”
“They both serve me once again.”
“Perfect. Now, your report.”
The musketeer began, recounting how he had initially overcome Malencontre’s henchmen but allowed the leader himself to escape.
“‘Malencontre,’ you say?”
“That’s the name he gave me.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
Then Leprat quickly outlined the ambush on rue Saint-Denis and the mysterious gentleman who had shot him down without a second thought. When he finished his recital the captain rose and, hands behind his back, turned toward the window. It offered a view of the courtyard of his private mansion, a courtyard full of the musketeers he adored, protected, and scolded like a father. As undisciplined and unruly as they were, there was not one of them who was not prepared to risk a thousand dangers and give his life for the king, for the queen, or for France. Most of them were young and, like all young men, they believed they were immortal. But that was not enough to explain either their fearlessness or their extraordinary devotion. Although they might not look like much, they were an elite force equal to the Cardinal’s Guards.
“You should know, Leprat, that the Louvre is well pleased with you. I saw His Majesty the king this morning. He remembers you and sends his compliments.… Your mission has been a success.”
Turning his gaze from the courtyard, Tréville faced Leprat again.
“I have been charged with sending you on leave,” he said in a serious tone.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It is to be an unlimited leave of absence.”
The musketeer stiffened in shock and disbelief.
A few days or weeks of leave were a reward. But unlimited leave signified that, until given new orders, he was to hang up his cape.
Why?
8
Entering Paris through the Richelieu gate, a two-horse coach descended the street of the same name between the Palais-Cardinal gardens and Saint-Roch hill, followed the quays of the Seine, and crossed the river over a recently built wooden toll bridge: the Pont Rouge, so-called because of the red lead paint with which it was daubed. And so the coach reached the faubourg Saint-Germain which was prospering in the shadow of its famous abbey and almost constituted a city in its own right.
A new neighbourhood had sprung up, just at the far end of the Pont Rouge. Before Queen Marguerite de Navarre decided, at the beginning of the century, to make the Pré-aux-Clercs her domain the area had been nothing but a muddy riverbank and a vast empty ground. Now it comprised a new quay, a luxurious mansion, a large park, and the convent of Les Augustins Réformés. The queen, who was Henri IV’s first wife, had borrowed money to finance her projects and had even gone as far as to misappropriate funds—from which, it was said, came the name of Malaquais quay, meaning “badly acquired.” Upon her death in 1615 she left behind a magnificent property, but also 1,300,000 livres in debts and a host of creditors who were still anxious to collect. To satisfy them, the domain was put up for auction and sold off in lots to various entrepreneurs who laid out new streets and started building.
Guided by the sure hand of a solidly built grey-haired coachman who chewed at the stem of a small clay pipe, the coach followed the Malaquais quay and then took rue des Saints-Pères. At Hôpital de la Charité he turned the coach onto rue Saint-Guillaume and soon came to a halt before a large and sombre looking nail-studded door.
Within the coat of arms, worn away over time, a bird of prey carved from dark stone presided on the pediment above the gate.
Sitting at the bottom of the steps to the Hôtel de l’Épervier, Marciac was bored and playing dice against himself when he heard the heavy thud at the coach door. He lifted his head to see monsieur Guibot hobbling on his wooden leg across the courtyard to see who was knocking. At the same time, Almades leaned out of an open window.
A moment later a woman entered through the pedestrian gate. Very tall, slender, dressed in grey and red, she wore a dress whose skirt was hitched up on her right side to reveal male hose and the boots of a cavalier beneath it. Her wide-brimmed hat was decorated with two large ostrich feathers—one white and the other scarlet—and a veil which hid her face while protecting it from the dust to which anyone undertaking a long coach journey on the terrible roads was exposed. But the shape of her mouth could be discerned: pretty, with full, dark lips.
Without taking any interest in Marciac, who approached her, she looked up at the private mansion as if she were considering buying it.
“Good day, madame.”
She turned toward him, looking at him haughtily without replying.
But her mouth smiled.
“How may I help you?” the Gascon tried.
From the window, Almades chose that moment to intervene.
“You have a very poor memory, Marciac. You don’t even recognise your friends.”
Disconcerted, Marciac shrugged and wrinkled his brow, then went from puzzlement to sudden joy when the baronne de Vaudreuil lifted her veil.
“Agnès!”
“Hello, Marciac.”
“Agnès! Will you permit me to embrace you?”
“I will allow that.”
They hugged in a friendly fashion, although the young woman had to restrain a hand that had gone wandering down the small of her back before they separated. But the happiness which the Gascon displayed on seeing her again seemed sincere and she did not want to spoil it.
“What a delight, Agnès! What a delight … ! So, you too, you’re back in the game?”
Agnès indicated the steel signet ring she wore over her grey leather glove.
“By my word,” she said. “Once in …”
“… always in!” Marciac completed for her. “Do you know how many times I have thought of you over the past five years?”
“Really? Was I dressed?”
“Sometimes!” he exclaimed. “Sometimes!”
“Knowing you, that’s a very pretty compliment.”
Almades, who had left the window, eme
rged from the front door of the main building.
“Welcome, Agnès.”
“Thank you. I’m very pleased to see you. I’ve missed your fencing lessons.”
“We can continue them at your pleasure.”
During these effusions, Guibot had toiled to open the two great doors of the carriage gate. This done, the coach entered, driven by Ballardieu, who jumped down from the seat and, pipe between his teeth, smiled broadly. Once again, the greetings were jubilant and noisy, in particular between the old soldier and the Gascon: these two shared quite a few memories of bottles emptied and petticoats lifted.
They had to unhitch the coach, tow it into the stables, unload the luggage, and settle the horses in their stalls. This time everyone lent the porter a hand, all the while forbidding Agnès from lifting a finger to help. She wasn’t listening, but happily made acquaintance with the charmingly shy Naïs who had been drawn from her kitchen by the sound of raised voices.
La Fargue, in his turn, arrived.
Without entirely putting a damper on their joyful mood, his presence did cause them to lower their tone slightly.
“Did you have a good journey, Agnès?”
“Yes, captain. We hitched up the horses upon receiving your letter and we have burned our way through the staging posts getting here.”
“Hello, Ballardieu.”
“Captain.”
“It’s still a sad place,” said the young woman, indicating the sinister grey stones of the Hôtel de l’Épervier.
“A little less now,” said Marciac.
“Is that everyone, captain?”
Looking stern and proud, girded in his slate grey doublet, and with his hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword, La Fargue blinked slowly and paused before replying, his gaze drifting toward the carriage gate.
“Almost, now.”
The others turned and immediately recognised the man standing there, with a white rapier at his side, smiling at them in a way which might have been melancholic or simply sentimental.
Leprat.