The Cardinal's Blades

by Pierre Pevel

  9

  On Sundays and feast days, when the weather was fine, Parisians were happy to travel beyond the capital for their pleasure. Once past the faubourgs the country villages of Vanves, Gentilly, and Belleville, and the market towns of Meudon and Saint-Cloud offered hospitable inns where all could drink, dance, play bowls beneath the trees, or simply partake of the cool shade and fresh air. The atmosphere was joyful and people took liberties or, in the eyes of some, indulged in scandalous licence. And it is true that spontaneous revels of lovemaking at times took place there in the evenings, enlivened by wine and a desire to taste all of life’s pleasures. There being fewer customers during the week, these establishments then became retreats which were visited mainly for their tranquillity and the quality of their table—such as Le Petit Maure, in Vaugirard, renowned for its peas and strawberries.

  Saint-Lucq and Bailleux had temporarily found refuge in one of these inns. Having jumped into the river through a window in the water mill where the notary had been held captive, they successfully escaped the cavaliers who had come to collect their prisoner but were also carried far from their horses by the current. Rather than turn back toward their enemies Saint-Lucq had decided they would continue on foot. They therefore walked for several hours through woods and across fields, scanning the horizon on constant lookout for signs of pursuit, and arrived, exhausted, at a village with a hostelry standing by its entrance.

  For the time being Lucien Bailleux found himself alone in a room on the first floor. Sitting at a table laid for the purpose, he ate with a ferocious appetite born of three days’ captivity, poor treatment, and fasting. He was still in his nightshirt—the same one he had been wearing when he was dragged from his bed in the middle of the night. But at least he was clean, after his forced bath in the river. Thin, his face drawn, and his hair falling across his eyes, he looked exactly what he was: a survivor.

  He gave a sharp, worried glance toward the door when Saint-Lucq entered without knocking. The half-blood brought a package of clothes which he threw onto the bed.

  “For you. They belonged to a guest who left without paying.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I also found us two saddled horses,” continued Saint-Lucq, risking a quick glance out of the window. “Can you ride?”

  “Uh.… Yes. A little.… You think the cavaliers are still after us?”

  “I’m sure of it. They want you and they’ve not given up the fight.… The bodies of the brigands I killed at the mill were still warm when they arrived and as a result, these cavaliers know they only missed us by a tiny margin. And if they found the horses I had planned to use in our flight, they also know there are two of us, and that we are on foot. They are no doubt scouring the countryside for us at this very moment.”

  “But we’ll escape them, won’t we?”

  “We’ll have a chance if we don’t delay. After all, they don’t know where we’re going.”

  “To Paris?”

  “Not before we’ve reclaimed that document. Not before we’ve put it in a safe place. Get dressed.”

  A little later, Bailleux was just finishing dressing when he broke down. He dropped onto the bed, put his face in his hands, and burst into sobs.

  “I … I don’t understand,” was all he managed to say.

  “What?” said the stone-faced half-blood.

  “Why me? Why has all this happened to me … ? I’ve led the most orderly of lives. I studied and worked with my father before inheriting his position. I married the daughter of a colleague. I was a good son and I believe I am a good husband. I’m charitable and I pray. I conduct my business with honour and honesty. And in return, I have asked for nothing but to be allowed to live in peace.… So why?”

  “You opened the wrong testament. And, what is worse, you let that fact be known.”

  “But it was my duty as a notary!”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  To that, Saint-Lucq did not reply.

  From his point of view, there was no fairness in life. There were only strong men and weak ones, the rich and the poor, the wolves and the sheep, the living and the dead. That was how the world was, and how it would always be. Anything else was merely fiction.

  He approached the notary in the hope of encouraging him to get a grip on himself. The notary rose suddenly and hugged him hard. The half-blood braced himself as the other spoke: “Thank you, monsieur. Thank you.… I don’t know who you are, in truth. I don’t know who sent you.… But without you … my God, without you … ! Believe me when I say that you have my eternal regard, monsieur. There is nothing, from now on, that I could refuse you. You saved me. I owe you my life.”

  Slowly but firmly, Saint-Lucq moved away from him.

  Then, his hands resting on Bailleux’s shoulders, he gave him a shake and ordered: “Look at me, monsieur.”

  The notary obeyed and the crimson spectacles returned his gaze.

  “Do not thank me,” continued Saint-Lucq. “And do not trouble yourself any further with the question of who employs me, or why. I do what I do because I’m paid to. If I had been required to kill you, you would be dead. So never thank me again. My place is neither in sensational novels, nor in the chronicles of our times. I’m not a hero. I’m only a swordsman. Contrary to your opinion, I do not deserve anyone’s esteem.”

  Initially incredulous, Bailleux was visibly hurt by this declaration.

  Finally, still looking dazed, he nodded and pulled on the beret the half-blood had brought him.

  “We should hurry,” concluded Saint-Lucq. “Each minute that passes is a minute lost.”

  The notary left the room first and while he climbed gracelessly into the saddle in the courtyard the half-blood paused inside for a moment to pay the landlord and slip a few words into his ear. The man listened to his instructions attentively, then nodded and pocketed an additional piece of gold.

  Less than half an hour after Saint-Lucq and Bailleux left, armed riders arrived. The landlord was waiting for them on the doorstep.

  10

  In the dining room of the Hôtel de l’Épervier, the Cardinal’s Blades finished their lunch.

  Seated at the head of the rough oak table, La Fargue spoke very seriously with Leprat and Agnès. Marciac listened, close by, and occasionally made an interjection but otherwise contented himself with rocking back and forth on his chair and shuffling a deck of cards which, inevitably, then turned out to have all four aces on top. Almades, silent, waited. As for Ballardieu, he digested his lunch while smoking a pipe and sipping the last of the wine, not without casting longing glances at Naïs’s backside as she cleared the table.

  “Pretty girl, isn’t she?” Marciac said to him, seeing the old soldier ogling the comely young woman.

  “Yes. Very.”

  “But not very talkative. Almost mute.”

  “I see an advantage there.”

  “Really? What a strange idea.…”

  They had all been somewhat apprehensive of this meal, which, following the immediate and genuine rejoicing of their initial reunion, would force them to take the true measure of their friendship. What remained of the people they had been? One never knows what friends lost from sight for a long time may have become and the circumstances which led to the disbanding of the Blades during the siege of La Rochelle had laid a mournful veil over the memories of its members. This veil, however, soon lifted and the previous ties between them were quickly reestablished.

  As was entirely natural, the distribution of the Blades around the table indicated their affinities as well as the resumption of old habits. Thus the captain presided over the table, in close council with Agnès and Leprat, whom he consulted with ease, the musketeer even acting as a lieutenant within the very informal organisation of the Blades. Marciac, remaining somewhat aloof, was one of those who knew their own value and abilities but preferred to stay on the margins, never showing himself to be unworthy and who would consider it an insult if he were
ordered about. Serious and reserved, Almades waited to be called upon. And Ballardieu, accustomed to long preludes before battle, took advantage of any moment of peace.

  Only three Blades, out of the original band, were missing. One of them had vanished as if the twisted shadows from which he had emerged had engulfed him once again after La Rochelle. The other had been a traitor and no one, yet, had dared to speak his name. And the last one, finally, had perished and his loss was a wound which continued to bleed in the memories of all present.

  As Naïs left the room with the last plates, Agnès glanced with a question in her eye at La Fargue, who understood and nodded. The young woman rose and said with deep feeling: “I believe, messieurs, that the time has come to raise our glasses in honour of he whom only death could keep from being here.”

  They all stood, glasses in hand.

  “To Bretteville!” said La Fargue.

  “To Bretteville!” cried the others in chorus.

  “To Bretteville,” Agnès repeated in a strangled voice, as if to herself.

  The Blades reseated themselves, divided between the joy of having known Bretteville, the pride of having loved this man, and the sorrow of having lost him at the last.

  “We have a mission,” La Fargue said after a moment.

  They listened.

  “It is a matter of finding a certain chevalier d’Ireban.”

  “What has he done?” Agnès inquired.

  “Nothing. He has disappeared and there is concern for his life.”

  “People who have not done anything do not disappear,” Almades declared in a neutral voice.

  “A Spaniard?” Marciac was surprised.

  “Yes,” said the captain.

  “So Spain will be busy trying to find him!”

  “That is precisely what the cardinal wishes to avoid.”

  La Fargue rose, walked around his chair, and leaned against the back, his hands folded.

  “The chevalier d’Ireban,” he repeated, “is the heir to a Spanish grandee. A secret and unworthy heir to the title. A corrupt young man who, under an assumed name, has come to Paris to spend his coming fortune.”

  “What is his real name?” asked Almades.

  “I don’t know. It seems Spain would like to keep it a secret.”

  “No doubt for fear of a scandal,” Ballardieu guessed. “If his father is a grandee—”

  “‘If’!” Marciac interrupted. “Should we take everything Spain says at face value?”

  La Fargue silenced the Gascon with a glance and continued: “His father is not well. He will soon be dead. And Spain has been seeking the safe return of the son since she first realised he had disappeared. Ireban seems to have vanished suddenly and it is feared he has met with some mishap in Paris.”

  “If he was leading a life of debauchery,” noted Agnès, “that’s probable. And if he was keeping bad company, and they realised who he really is—”

  “Once again, ‘ifs,’” Marciac emphasised in a low voice.

  “Via a special emissary,” La Fargue went on, “Spain has explained the situation, her concerns, and her intentions to our king.”

  “Her ‘intentions’?” queried Ballardieu.

  “Spain wants Ireban returned and to this end, not to mince words, she is threatening to send her agents into our kingdom if France is not prepared to do what is necessary. That is where we become involved.”

  Leprat’s self-restraint finally wore away.

  Unable to hear any more he rose and paced a hundred steps in livid silence, his expression hard and a fire in his eyes. Firstly, he was displeased that Spain was imposing conditions upon France. But secondly, and more importantly, he had not intended to hang up his musketeer’s cape only to discover, on the very same day, that he had done so in order to serve another country.

  An enemy country.

  La Fargue had been expecting this reaction from his Blades.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Leprat.”

  The other stopped his pacing.

  “Really, captain?”

  “I know because I think just like you. But I also know that Richelieu is seeking a rapprochement with Spain right now. France will soon be at war in Lorraine and possibly in the Holy Roman Empire. She cannot allow herself to come under threat from the Pyrenees border at the same time. The cardinal needs to please Spain and so he’s offering her tokens of friendship.”

  Leprat sighed.

  “Very well. But why us? Why recall the Blades? The cardinal does not lack for spies, as far as I know.”

  The captain didn’t respond.

  “The mission is delicate,” Agnès began.

  “… and we are the best,” added Marciac.

  But as agreeable as this was to say and to hear, these explanations did not satisfy anyone.

  It was a mystery which filled each of their minds.

  The silence stretched out, until at last the Gascon said: “We don’t even know this chevalier d’Ireban’s real name and Spain is unlikely to tell us anything more about him. Suppose he lives. Suppose he is in hiding or being held prisoner. The fact remains that there are some five hundred thousand souls in Paris. Finding one, even a Spaniard, will not be easy.”

  “We have a trail to follow,” announced La Fargue. “It is thin and no doubt cold, but it has the merit of existing.”

  “What is it?” Agnès asked.

  “Ireban did not come to Paris alone. He has a companion in vice. A gentleman of means, also a Spaniard. An adventurous duellist when it suits him and a great connoisseur of Paris at night. The man goes by the name Castilla. We shall begin with him. Almades, Leprat, you’ll come with me.”

  Those he’d named nodded.

  “Marciac, stay here with Guibot and make an inventory of everything we’re missing. Then this evening you will make the rounds of all the cabarets and gambling houses that Ireban and Castilla are likely to frequent.”

  “Understood. But there are a lot of them in Paris.”

  “You will do your best.”

  “And me?” asked the baronne de Vaudreuil.

  La Fargue paused for a moment.

  “You, Agnès, must pay a visit. See to it.”

  She already knew what he meant and exchanged a glance with ­Ballardieu.

  Later, La Fargue went to see Leprat, who was saddling horses in the stable.

  “I know what this costs you, Leprat. For the rest of us, a return to service with the Blades is a benefit. But for you …”

  “For me?”

  “Your career with the Musketeers is well established. Nothing forces you to give it up and if you want my advice …”

  The captain didn’t finish.

  The other man smiled warmly, obviously touched, and recalled what monsieur de Tréville had said on relaying the orders for his new mission: “You are one of my best musketeers. I don’t want to lose you, especially not if you wish to keep your cape. I will take your side. I will tell the king and the cardinal that you are indispensable to me, which is the simple truth. You could stay. You have only to say the word.”

  But Leprat had not said the word.

  “This mission does not inspire confidence in me,” La Fargue continued. “Spain is not being frank with us in this business. I fear that she intends to use us for her benefit alone, and perhaps even at the expense of France.… At best, we shall gain nothing. But you, you have a great deal to lose.”

  The former musketeer finished tightening a strap, and then patted his new mount on the rump. The animal was a beautiful chestnut, a gift from monsieur de Tréville.

  “May I speak freely, Etienne?” he demanded of La Fargue.

  He only spoke to the captain so personally in private.

  “Of course.”

  “I am a soldier: I serve where I’m told to serve. And, if that is not enough, I am a Blade.”

  11

  For Ballardieu, the moment of his true reunion with Paris took place on the Pont Neuf. For if the market at Les Halles was t
he city’s belly and the Louvre was its head, then the Pont Neuf was the heart of the capital. A heart that pumped blood, giving the city life and movement, animating the great populous flow that ran through its streets. Everyone, after all, used the Pont Neuf. For convenience, primarily, since it permitted people to travel directly from one bank to the other without passing through Ile de la Cité and its maze of mediaeval alleyways. But also for the sake of entertainment.

  The bridge was originally intended to support houses, as was only to be expected in a city where the tiniest building space was already utilised. But this plan was abandoned to avoid spoiling the royal family’s view of the Cité from the windows of the Louvre. Of this original plan only two wide platforms survived, both six steps high and running the entire length of the bridge, on either side of the paved roadway. These platforms became pavements, the first in Paris, from which it was possible to admire the Seine and enjoy the fresh air without fear of being run over by a coach or a horse rider. Parisians soon grew to like going for a stroll there. Street artists and traders set up shop along the parapets and in the half-moon-shaped lookout points, and the Pont Neuf soon became a permanent fair, filled with jostling crowds.

  “God’s blood!” Ballardieu exclaimed, taking a deep breath. “I feel like my old self again!”

  More reserved, Agnès smiled.

  They had come through the Nesle gate on foot and passed in front of the Hôtel de Nevers before arriving at Pont Neuf. It was the shortest route to the Louvre, their destination.

  “It is good to be here!” added the delighted old soldier. “Don’t you think?”

  “Yes.”

  “And nothing has changed! Look at that buffoon, I remember him!”

  He pointed to a tall thin fellow in a moth-eaten cloak, mounted on the back of a poor old nag who was as gaunt as he was, boasting of a miraculous powder which he claimed would preserve your teeth. The fact that he had only one remaining tooth in his own mouth did not seem to weaken his conviction or bother his audience.

  “And over there! Tabarin and Mondor … ! Come on, let’s go hear them.”

  Tabarin and Mondor were famous street entertainers who each had their own stage at the entrance to Place Dauphine. At that moment one of them was singing a bawdy song while the other, armed with an enormous enema bag, was playing at being a quack and offering all comers the chance to have “their arseholes washed all clean and pink!” Their spectators were bursting with laughter.