The Cardinal's Blades

by Pierre Pevel

  The gentleman nodded, left the salons, and found his way to a small courtyard used by servants and suppliers. A hired sword waited for him there. Booted, gloved, and armed, both his clothes and his hat were of black leather. A patch—also made of leather and covered with silver studs—masked his left eye, but not enough to hide the rash of ranse that spread all around it. He had an olive complexion and angular features. Dark stubble covered his hollow cheeks.

  “Malencontre has not returned,” he said with a strong Spanish accent.

  “We will worry about that later,” Gagnière decreed.

  “So be it. What are your orders?”

  “For the moment, Savelda, I want you to gather some men. We will act tonight. This business has already gone on too long.”

  19

  The riders reached the old water mill as sunset bathed the landscape in flaming golds and purples. There were five of them, armed and booted, all them belonging to the Corbins gang, although they did not wear the distinctive large black cloaks. They had been riding for some distance since leaving the forest camp where most of the gang was currently to be found and they preferred not to be recognised as they made their way here.

  The first body they saw was the lookout’s, lying in front of the miller’s house, stretched out close to the chair he’d been sitting in when Saint-Lucq had surprised and stabbed him.

  One of the riders dismounted and was immediately copied by the others. A stocky man in his fifties, he owed his nickname Belle-Trogne, or “handsome mug,” to his battered, scarred face. He took off his hat, wiped away the sweat beading his completely bald skull with a leather-gloved hand, and said in a rough voice: “Search everywhere.”

  As the men scattered, he entered the house and found two lifeless corpses close to the fireplace, then a third lying a little further away. They were lying in congealed puddles that offered a feast to a swarm of fat black flies. The smell of blood was mixed with that of dust and old wood. Nothing could be heard except for the buzzing of insects. The evening light came through the rear windows at a low angle that cast long sepulchral shadows.

  The Corbins who had gone to inspect the rest of the property soon returned.

  “The prisoner has gone,” said one.

  “Corillard is with the horses in the shed,” announced another.

  “Dead?” Belle-Trogne asked to put his mind at rest.

  “Yes. Strangled while he shat.”

  “God’s blood, Belle-Trogne! Who could have done such a thing?”

  “A man.”

  “Just one? Against five?”

  “There was no fight. They were all murdered in cold blood. First Corillard in the shed, then Traquin in front of the house. After that, Galot and Feuillant in here, while they were eating. And Michel last of all.… One man could have done that.… If he were good …”

  “I don’t want to be the one who tells Soral.…”

  Belle-Trogne didn’t reply, instead going to squat near the last body he had mentioned. The man called Michel was lying in the open doorway to the room where the Corbins had been sleeping—pallets and blankets attested to the fact. Feet bare, shirt outside his breeches, his forehead had obviously been split open by the poker that had fallen close by.

  “It happened early in the morning,” confirmed Belle-Trogne. “Michel had just woken.”

  He stood back up and then something caught his attention. He frowned, counting the pallets.

  “Six beds,” he said. “One of ours is still missing.… Have you looked everywhere?”

  “The kid!” exclaimed one Corbin. “I forgot all about him, but don’t you remember? He insisted on taking part and Soral finally—”

  He didn’t finish.

  Muffled thumps could be heard and the brigands, by reflex, all drew their swords.

  The thumping came again.

  Belle-Trogne in the lead, the brigands went back into the common room, cautiously approaching a cupboard. They opened it suddenly and found the sole survivor of the massacre.

  Gagged, bound, eyes reddened and wet, a boy aged about fourteen looked up at them with an expression that was both imploring and scared.

  20

  Night had fallen, but at madame de Sovange’s house fires and candles provided a warm light that reflected off the gold, the crystal, and the mirrors. The women looked radiant in their elaborate attire and the men were almost equally resplendent. All of them were dressed as if making an appearance at the royal court. Indeed, some of those present had come straight from the court, avid for the distractions and conversation that Louis XIII would not tolerate at the Louvre. But here, at least, away from their dull, timid king who only had a taste for the pleasures of the hunt, one could find amusement in agreeable company. It was possible to converse, laugh, gossip, dine, drink and, of course, gamble.

  There were billiard tables upstairs, upon which madam de Sovange’s guests tapped at ivory balls with curved canes. Here and there were chess sets, chequers, and trictrac boards left at the guests’ disposal. Dice were being rolled. But above all, cards were being played. Piquet, hoc, ambigu, impériale, trente et un, triomphe—all of these games involved gambling on an ace of hearts, a nine of clubs, a wyvern of diamonds, or a king of spades. Fortunes were lost and won. Inheritances could disappear with an unlucky hand. Jewels and acknowledgements of debts were snatched up from the felt mat, along with piles of gold coins.

  Abandoned by Marciac at the first opportunity, the so-called madame de Laremont wandered through the salons for a while, and turned away a few presumptuous seducers before allowing one old gentleman to court her. The vicomte de Chauvigny was in his sixties. He still maintained a handsome bearing but he was missing several teeth, which he tried to hide by holding a handkerchief to his mouth when he spoke. He was friendly, amusing, and full of anecdotes. He wooed Agnès without any hope of success for the sole pleasure of gallant conversation, of which he was a master and which no doubt summoned up memories of his many past conquests as a dashing cavalier. The young woman willingly let him continue, as he spared her from having to endure less welcome attentions and was unknowingly providing her with precious pieces of information. She had already learned that the chevalier d’Ireban and Castilla had indeed been made welcome at the Hôtel de Sovange, that Ireban had not made an appearance here for some time, but that Castilla, even if he never remained for long, continued to visit almost every evening.

  Trying in vain to catch a glimpse of Marciac, Agnès saw a dumpy little woman whose austere manner, surly glance, and plain black gown jarred with the setting. She skulked about, pillaging the plates of pastries, and kept a watchful eye on the proceedings as if she were searching for something, or someone. No one seemed to notice her and yet everyone avoided her.

  “And her? Who is she?”

  The vicomte followed the glance of his newfound protégée.

  “Oh! Her … ? That’s La Rabier.”

  “Who is … ?”

  “A formidable moneylender. Permit me, madame, to give you some advice. Sell your last gown and embark for the Indies in your nightshirt rather than borrow money from that ghoul. She will suck your blood down to the very last drop.”

  “She doesn’t look so terrible.…”

  “That is an error in judgment that others have repented from too late.”

  “And she is allowed to carry on?”

  “Who would stop her … ? Everyone owes her a little and she is only cruel to those who owe her a lot.”

  Casting a final wary glance over her shoulder, La Rabier left the room.

  “Would you like something to drink?” asked Chauvigny.

  “Gladly.”

  The vicomte left Agnès but was quick to return with two glasses of wine.

  “Thank you.”

  “To you, madame.”

  They clinked glasses, drank, and the old gentleman said in a conversational tone: “By the way, I just saw that Spanish hidalgo you were asking me about a short while ago.…”

&nb
sp; “Castilla? Where?”

  “There, at the door. I think he’s leaving.”

  “Please excuse me,” said Agnès handing her glass over to Chauvigny, “but I simply must speak with him.…”

  She hurried over to the door and recognised Castilla from the description given by the innkeeper from the rue de la Clef. Slender, handsome, with a thin moustache and very dark eyes, he was descending the front steps, greeting a passing acquaintance in his strong Spanish accent.

  Agnès hesitated to accost him. Under what pretext? And to what end?

  No, it would be better to follow him.

  The problem was that Ballardieu was nowhere to be found and she could not imagine herself trailing Castilla around Paris at night in her slippers and evening gown. If only Marciac deigned to reappear!

  Agnès cursed silently.

  “Is there a problem?” madame de Sovange asked her.

  “No, madame. None at all.… Isn’t that monsieur Castilla who is just leaving?”

  “Yes, indeed it is. Do you know him?”

  “Would you happen to know where the marquis is?”

  “No.”

  Masking her anxiety, the young woman returned to the salon, ignoring Chauvigny, who smiled at her from afar, searching for Marciac. She passed before a window and caught sight of Castilla, crossing the porch. At least he was on foot.…

  The Gascon, finally, appeared at a door.

  Given the circumstances, Agnès paid no heed to the grave expression on his face.

  She caught him by an elbow.

  “Good grief, Marciac! Where have you been?”

  “Me … ? I—”

  “Castilla was here. He just left!”

  “Castilla?” replied Marciac as if hearing the name for the first time.

  “Yes, Castilla! Damn it, Marciac, pay attention!”

  Eyes closed, the Gascon took a deep breath.

  “All right,” he finally replied. “What do you wish from me?”

  “He left the mansion on foot. If no one is waiting for him in the street with a carriage or a horse, you can still catch him. He was dressed as a cavalier with a red plume on his hat. See where he goes. And don’t let him get away!”

  “Understood.”

  Marciac headed off, watched from behind by Agnès.

  The young baronne remained pensive for a moment. Then, seized by a doubt, she pushed open the door through which the Gascon had just emerged. It led to a windowless antechamber, lit by a few candles.

  Busy nibbling from a plate of almond paste sweets, La Rabier greeted Agnès with a polite, reserved nod of her head.

  21

  The same night, Saint-Lucq saw Rochefort in an antechamber within the Palais-Cardinal. They exchanged a brief nod of the head, each taking note of the other’s presence without further ado. It was a salute between two professionals who knew one another but were otherwise indifferent to each other.

  “He’s waiting for you,” said the cardinal’s henchman. “Don’t bother to knock.”

  He seemed to be in a hurry, no doubt on his way to another errand. The half-blood stepped past him, but waited until he was alone to remove his red spectacles, adjust his attire, and open the door before him.

  He entered.

  The room was high-ceilinged, long, silent, sumptuous, and almost completely plunged into shadow. At the far end of the vast study lined with precious books, beyond the chairs, desks, and other furniture whose shapes and lacquered surfaces could barely be discerned, the candles of two silver candelabras cast an ochre light over the worktable at which Richelieu was sitting, his back to a splendid tapestry.

  “Come closer, monsieur de Saint-Lucq. Come closer.”

  Saint-Lucq obeyed, crossing the hall to reach the light.

  “It has been a while since we last saw one another, has it not?”

  “Yes, monseigneur.”

  “Monsieur Gaget is a very capable intermediary. What do you make of him?”

  “He is both discreet and competent.”

  “Would you say he is loyal?”

  “Most men are loyal for as long as they have no interest in betrayal, ­monseigneur.”

  Richelieu smiled briefly.

  “Inform me, then, of the progress of your mission, monsieur de Saint-Lucq. The comte de Rochefort is concerned that the days are passing by. Days which, according to him, are running short for us.…”

  “Here,” said the half-blood, holding out the page torn long ago from an old register of baptisms.

  The cardinal took it, unfolded it, drew it closer to a candle in order to decipher the faded ink, and then carefully placed it in a leather satchel.

  “Have you read it?”

  “No.”

  “You have succeeded in just three days when I believed the task impossible. Please accept my congratulations.”

  “Thank you, monseigneur.”

  “How did you manage it?”

  “Does Your Eminence wish to know the details?”

  “Just the essentials.”

  “The Grand Coësre told me where and by whom the notary Bailleux was being held captive. I freed him and led him to believe we were being hunted by those who had ordered his abduction.”

  “Which was, strictly speaking, only the truth.…”

  “Yes. But the riders who were searching the countryside in our vicinity and who constantly seemed to be on the verge of catching us, those riders were solely intended to intimidate Bailleux to the point of losing his better judgment.”

  “So that was the purpose of the men you requested from Rochefort.”

  “Indeed, monseigneur.”

  “And the notary?”

  “He won’t talk.”

  On that point, the cardinal demanded no further explanation.

  For a moment, he looked at his little dragonnet, which, inside its large wrought-iron cage, was gnawing at a thick bone.

  Then he sighed and said: “I shall miss you, monsieur de Saint-Lucq.”

  “I beg your pardon, monseigneur?”

  “I made a promise that I must keep. To my great regret, believe me …”

  Entering discreetly, a secretary interrupted them to whisper a few words into the ear of his master.

  Richelieu listened, nodded, and said: “Monsieur de Saint-Lucq, if you would wait next door for a few moments, please.”

  The half-blood bowed, and by means of a concealed door, departed in the wake of the secretary. Shortly after, La Fargue appeared, in a manner suggesting that he was responding to an urgent summons. Left hand on the pommel of his sword, he saluted by removing his hat.

  “Monseigneur.”

  “Good evening, monsieur de La Fargue. How does your mission fare?

  “It is too soon to say, monseigneur. But we are following a trail. We have learned that the chevalier d’Ireban and one of his close friends frequented madame de Sovange’s establishment. At this very moment, two of my Blades are there incognito, gathering information.”

  “Very good.… And what can you tell me about your prisoner?”

  La Fargue twitched.

  “My prisoner?”

  “Today you captured a certain Malencontre with whom monsieur Leprat had a dispute recently. I want this man to be released to my custody.”

  “Monseigneur! Malencontre has still not even regained his senses! He has not spoken a word and—”

  “Anything this man could tell you would be of no consequence to your business.”

  “But how can we be sure? The coincidence would be enormous if—”

  The cardinal imposed silence by lifting his hand.

  His sentence allowed no appeal, as the ageing captain, with clenched teeth and a furious look in his eye, was finally forced to admit.

  “At your command, monseigneur.”

  “You are about to discover, however, that I am not a man who takes without giving in return,” Richelieu murmured.

  And in a voice loud enough to be heard in the adjoining room, he ordered:
“Ask monsieur de Saint-Lucq to come in.”

  22

  Castilla led Marciac through dark deserted streets to the nearby faubourg Saint-Victor. They crossed rue Mouffetard and proceeded up rue d’Orléans, passing the rue de la Clef where the Spaniard had so recently been a lodger, before finally turning into the small rue de la Fontaine. There, after glancing around without spotting the Gascon, Castilla knocked three times on the door of a particular house. It opened almost at once, and as the man entered, Marciac caught a glimpse of a female silhouette.

  The Gascon waited for a moment, and then crept forward. He approached the windows, but with the curtains closed all he could see was that there were lights burning within. He went up the alley to one side of the house and noticed a small window too high and too narrow to warrant such protection. He jumped up, gripped the sill, and lifted himself by his arms until he could rest his chin on the stone. While he was unable to hear what they were saying, he could see Castilla and a young woman speaking in a clean and tidy room. The unknown woman was a slender, pretty brunette, wearing her hair in a simple chignon, with soft curls gracing her temples. She wore a rather ordinary dress, of the kind the daughter of a modest craftsman might own.

  Castilla and the young woman embraced in such a way that Marciac was unable to decide if they were friends, lovers, or brother and sister. His arms torturing him, he had to finally let go and landed nimbly. He heard a door open on the garden side of the house and then other hinges squeaked. A horse snorted and, moments later, the Spaniard came riding down the alley at a slow trot. Marciac was obliged to flatten himself in a recess to avoid being seen or run over. He then dashed out after Castilla, but his quarry was already disappearing around the corner of rue de la Fontaine.

  The Gascon bit back on an oath. He knew that it would be futile to try and follow a man on horseback.

  So now, what should he do? he asked himself.

  Standing guard here all night would probably serve no useful purpose and, besides, sooner or later he would need to report back to the Hôtel de l’Épervier. It would be better to find the other Blades now in order to organise a continual watch on the house and its charming occupant. In any case, La Fargue would decide.