by Pierre Pevel
“Later,” said Agnès. “On our way back.”
“You’ve no sense of fun, girl.”
“You do remember that I am a baronne?”
“A baronne I knew when she had neither tits nor an arse, who rode on my shoulders, and who I made drink her first glass of eau-de-vie.”
“At eight years old! What a handsome feat.… I remember puking my guts out the whole night after.”
“That helps forge character. I was only six when my father did the same for me as I did for you, madame la baronne de Vaudreuil. Have you some objection about the education that my father saw fit to give me?”
“Come on, you old beast. Move along, now.… On the way back, I tell you.”
“You swear?”
“Yes.”
The traffic of carriages, horses, wagons, and handcarts on the roadway was so dense that one could barely advance, while the sidewalks were crammed solid with gawking pedestrians. Charlatans, traders, tumblers, exhibitors of trained dragonnets, teeth pullers (“No pain! And I replace the one I pull!”), and street minstrels all put themselves on show or touted their wares to the crowd in Italian, Spanish, and even Latin or Greek to appear more learned. There were numerous booksellers, offering wrinkled, dog-eared, and torn volumes at low prices, among which there were sometimes buried treasures to be found. Each of them had their own stand, hut, tent, or stall. Places were dear and bitterly disputed. Those who had no right to a spot on the bridge put up signboards giving their names, addresses, and specialities. Others—flower sellers, secondhand hatters, and eau-de-vie vendors—hawked their goods loudly as they made their way from one end of the bridge to the other, carrying a tray on their bellies or pushing a cart before them. Anything could be bought or sold on the Pont Neuf. A lot was stolen there, too, for thieves like nothing better than an idle crowd.
Agnès was passing in front of a famous bronze horse—which, standing on its marble pedestal, would wait almost two centuries before being finally mounted by Henri IV—when she realised she was walking on her own. Retracing her footsteps, she found Ballardieu halted before a Gypsy woman playing a tambourine and dancing lasciviously with a metallic wriggling of her sequined skirt. Agnès dragged the old man away by his sleeve. He followed her backward at first and tripped on the scabbard of his sword, before pricking up an ear at the call: “Hasard à la blanque! With three tries, you can’t miss! For one sou, you’ll get six! Hasard à la blanque!”
The fellow who was shouting this at the top of his lungs was luring passersby to place bets on the game of blanque, that is to say, the lottery. He was turning a wheel, while the prizes to be won were spread before him: a comb, a mirror, a shoehorn, and other ordinary bric-a-brac which wouldn’t be nearly so attractive if anyone looked them over twice. Ballardieu tried his luck, won, and took away a snuffbox with a lid that was only slightly chipped. He was endeavouring to show this prize to the increasingly impatient young baronne when a fanfare of trumpets resounded.
Intrigued and murmuring, the people in the crowd craned their necks uncertainly, seeking the source of the noise.
On the Left Bank, soldiers belonging to the regiment of French Guards were arriving to clear the bridge. They herded coaches and horse riders from the road across the bridge, pushed the pedestrians back onto the pavements, and formed three rows on the steps, standing to attention with their pikes held straight up or with muskets on their shoulders. A line of drummers beat out a steady rhythm as the regiment’s vanguard marched forward, followed by a group of elegant riders—officers, lords, and courtiers. Pages dressed in royal livery came next on foot, while the famous hundred Swiss mercenaries with their halberds accompanied them on either side. Then came the golden royal coach, drawn by six magnificent horses and surrounded by an escort of gentlemen. Was it really the king whose profile could be glimpsed as it passed? Perhaps. Kept at a distance by the hedgerow of pikes and muskets, the people did not applaud or cheer. They remained respectful and silent, with bared heads. Other coaches went by. One of them lacked any coat of arms, and was pure white, like the team of horses harnessed to it. This coach belonged to the abbess of the Order of the Sisters of Saint Georges—the famous “White Ladies” who for the past two centuries had protected the French royal court from the draconic menace.
Agnès had stopped, like everyone else on the bridge, standing speechless and hatless as the procession went by.
But the royal coach interested her far less than the immaculate white one from which she was unable to tear her eyes the moment she saw it. When it drew level with her, a gloved hand lifted the curtain and a woman’s head appeared. The abbess did not need to search for what she sought. She immediately found Agnès’s eyes and stared straight into them. The moment stretched out, as if the white coach had somehow slowed down, or time itself was reluctant to interrupt the silent exchange going on between these two beings, these two souls.
Then the coach passed on.
Reality reasserted itself and the procession moved away with a clattering of hooves on paving stones. In perfect order, the French Guards relinquished control of the pavements and marched off the bridge. The usual frantic activity resumed on the Pont Neuf.
Only Agnès, looking toward the Louvre, remained still.
“Now that was a pair of eyes I would not like to have staring at me,” said Ballardieu from nearby. “And as for staring right back …”
The young woman gave a fatalistic shrug.
“At least now I don’t have to go to the Louvre.”
“You won’t speak with her?”
“Not today.… What would be the point? She knows I’m back. That’s enough.”
And determined to put the matter behind her, Agnès smiled at the old soldier.
“So?” she asked him. “Shall we go?”
“Where?”
“But to listen to Tabarin and Mondor, of course!”
“Are you sure?”
“I made you a promise, didn’t I?”
12
They arrived at the chapel in the middle of the afternoon.
It sat in the middle of the countryside at a spot where a deserted road crossed a pebble-strewn track. A flock of sheep grazed nearby. A windmill whose sails turned slowly in the breeze looked out over a landscape of green hills.
“Here we are,” said Bailleux from the edge of the wood.
He and Saint-Lucq were side by side on horseback, but rather than watch the chapel the half-blood watched their surroundings.
He had just caught sight of a cloud of dust.
“Wait,” he said.
The cloud was approaching.
He could just make out riders trotting up the road. There were four, or perhaps five, of them, all armed with swords. It was not the first time that Saint-Lucq and the notary had spotted them since leaving the inn. Them, or others like them, in any case. But all of them had only one thing in mind: laying their hands on Bailleux and ripping his secret out of him.
“We’ll let them go by,” said the half-blood, very coolly.
“But how could they know … ?” Bailleux worried.
“They don’t. They’re searching, that’s all. Calm yourself.”
The riders halted for a moment at the crossing with the track. Then they split up into two parties, each taking a different direction. A short while later they had all disappeared off into the distance.
“There,” said Saint-Lucq before spurring his mount.
Bailleux caught up with him as they descended a grassy slope at a slow trot.
“I think the baptism was held here. That’s why—”
“Yes, of course,” the half-blood interrupted.
They soon dismounted on a patch of ground in front of the chapel and then entered the building. It was low-ceilinged, cool, bare of decorations, and the air was laden with dust. No one seemed to have visited for quite some time, although perhaps it served occasionally as a refuge for travellers caught in bad weather.
Saint-Lucq took off his spect
acles in the dim light and rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger before surveying their surroundings with a slow circular gaze. Almost at once, the notary pointed to a statue of Saint Christophe standing on a pedestal, in a niche.
“If the testament speaks truly, it’s there.”
They approached and examined the statue.
“We’ll need to tilt it,” said Bailleux. “It won’t be easy.”
The weight of the painted statue would indeed have posed a difficulty if Saint-Lucq had desired to preserve it intact. But he braced himself, pushed, and simply tipped the effigy of Saint Christophe over, to fall heavily onto the flagstones and break into pieces. Bailleux crossed himself at this act of sacrilege.
Someone had slipped a slender document pouch beneath the statue, and the cracked leather now lay exposed on the pedestal. The notary took it, opened it, and carefully unfolded a page torn from an old register of baptisms. The parchment threatened to come apart at the folds.
“This is it!” he exclaimed. “This is really it!”
The half-blood held out his hand.
“Give it to me.”
“But will you tell me, finally, what this is all about? Do you even know?”
Saint-Lucq considered the question, and reached the conclusion that the notary had a right to this information.
“This piece of paper proves a certain person’s legitimate right to an inheritance. One which is accompanied by a ducal coronet.”
“My God!”
Bailleux wished to read the prestigious name which appeared on the page, but the half-blood swiftly snatched it from him. At first taken aback, the other man decided to be reasonable.
“It’s … it’s no doubt for the best this way.… I already know too much, don’t I?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s over now. I won’t be troubled again.”
“It will be over soon.”
Just then, they heard riders arriving.
“Our horses!” gasped Bailleux, but keeping his voice down. “They’re bound to see our horses!”
The riders came to a halt before the chapel but did not seem to dismount. The horses snorted as they settled. Inside the chapel the long seconds flowed by in silence. There was no means of exit other than the front doors.
Panicking, the notary could not understand the half-blood’s absolute state of calm.
“They’re going to come in! They’re going to come in!”
“No.”
With one sharp, precise move, Saint-Lucq stabbed Bailleux in the heart. The man died without comprehension, murdered by the man who had initially saved him. Before he died, his incredulous eyes found the emotionless gaze of his assassin.
The half-blood caught the body and laid it gently on the ground.
Then he wiped his dagger carefully and replaced it in its sheath as he walked toward the door with an even step and emerged into broad daylight. There, he put his red spectacles back on, raised his eyes to the heavens, and took a deep breath. Finally, he looked over at the five armed riders who waited before him in a row.
“It’s done?” one of them asked.
“It’s done.”
“Did he really believe we were chasing you?”
“Yes. You played your part perfectly.”
“And our pay?”
“See Rochefort about it.”
The rider nodded and the troop left at a gallop.
Saint-Lucq followed them with his gaze until they disappeared over the horizon and he found himself alone.
13
It was early afternoon when they came for Laincourt.
Without a word, two of the gaolers at Le Châtelet took him from his dungeon cell and led him along dank corridors and up a spiral stairway. The prisoner did not ask any questions: he knew it would be futile. Both his ankles and his wrists had been unbound. Overly confident of their strength, the gaolers were only armed with the clubs tucked into their belts. But escape was not on the agenda as far as Laincourt was concerned.
They reached the ground floor and continued upward, which told Laincourt that they would not be leaving Le Châtelet. On the next floor, the gaoler walking ahead stopped before a closed door. He turned to the prisoner and gestured to him to hold out his wrists while his colleague bound them with a leather cord. Then he worked the latch and moved away. The other gaoler tried to push him forward, but Laincourt shoved back with his shoulder the moment he felt the other man touch him and entered of his own accord. The door was shut behind him.
It was a cold, low-ceilinged room, with a flagstone floor and bare walls. Sunshine fell in pale, oblique rays from narrow windows, former embrasures now equipped with frames and dirty panes of glass. There was a fireplace, where a fire had just been lit, and the heat was still struggling to dispel the prevailing damp. Candles were burning in two large candelabras on the table at which Cardinal Richelieu was sitting, wrapped up in a cloak with a fur collar. Wearing boots and dressed as a cavalier, he had kept his gloves on, while the wide hat he used to remain incognito outside the walls of the Palais-Cardinal was resting in front of him.
“Come closer, monsieur.”
Laincourt obeyed and stood before the table, at a distance which offered no threat to Richelieu’s security.
The cardinal had not come alone. Without his cape or anything else that might reveal his identity or his function, Captain Saint-Georges, the commanding officer of the Cardinal’s Guards, was standing to the right of his master and slightly behind him, wearing his sword at the side and a look on his face that expressed a mixture of hatred and scorn. One of Richelieu’s innumerable secretaries was also present. He sat on a stool with a writing tablet on his lap, ready to transcribe the details of this interview.
“So,” said the cardinal, “you’ve been spying on me.…”
The secretary’s goose quill began to scratch across the paper.
“Yes,” replied Laincourt.
“That’s not good. For a long time?”
“Long enough.”
“Since your overextended mission in Spain, I should think.”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
Saint-Georges quivered.
“Traitor,” he hissed between his teeth.
Richelieu immediately lifted a hand to command silence and, seeing that he was obeyed, addressed the prisoner again.
“I would say, by way of reproach, that I have honoured you with my trust but, of course, that is a prerequisite in the exercise of your profession. After all, what good is a spy if one is wary of him … ? However, it does seem to me that you have been well treated. So why?”
“There are some causes that transcend those who serve them, monseigneur.”
“So it was for an ideal, then.… Yes, I can understand that.… Nevertheless, were you well paid?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“Spain.”
“But more than that?”
“The Black Claw.”
“Monseigneur!” Saint-Georges intervened, seething with anger. “This traitor doesn’t deserve your attention … ! Let us hand him over to the torturers. They’ll know how to make him tell us everything he knows.”
“Now, now, captain.… It’s true that, sooner or later, their victims will tell an expert torturer everything. But they will also say anything.… And besides, you can see for yourself that monsieur de Laincourt is not at all indisposed to answering our questions.”
“Then let him be judged, and be hanged!”
“As for that, we shall see.”
Richelieu returned his attention to Laincourt, who, throughout this exchange, had remained unperturbed.
“You do not appear to be afraid of the fate that awaits you, monsieur. Yet I assure you that it is an unenviable one.… Are you are a fanatic?”
“No, monseigneur.”
“Then enlighten me. How is it that you remain so calm?”
“Your Eminence knows the reason, or already guessed it.”
/> The cardinal smiled, while Saint-Georges could no longer contain himself, taking a step forward, hand on his sword.
“Enough of this insolence! Answer!”
Richelieu was once again forced to dampen his captain’s ardour.
“I wager, monsieur de Laincourt, that you have a document that protects you hidden away somewhere safe.”
“Indeed.”
“It’s a letter, isn’t it? Either a letter or a list.”
“Yes.”
“There is always too much being written down.… What would you require in exchange for it?”
“Life. Freedom.”
“That is a lot to ask.”
“Furthermore, there will not be an exchange.”
Saint-Georges was dumbstruck, while the cardinal frowned and, elbows on the table, gathered his fingers to form a steeple in front of his thin lips.
“You won’t exchange,” he resumed. “Will you sell?”
“No, I won’t sell either.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“The letter in question will cease to protect me once it is in your hands, and one does not remove one’s armour when faced by the enemy.”
“The enemy can promise to make peace.…”
“The enemy can promise all it likes.”
This time Richelieu lifted his hand even before his captain reacted. The secretary, on his stool, seemed hesitant to take down this retort. A log shifted in the hearth, and the fire gained new strength.
“I want this letter,” the cardinal declared after a moment. “Given that you are not prepared to divest yourself of it, I could turn you over to the torturer. He will make you reveal where you have hidden it.”
“I have placed it in the care of a reliable person. A person whose rank and birth protects them. Even from you.”
“Such people are rare. Throughout the entire kingdom, they can be counted on the fingers of one hand.”