by Pierre Pevel
“Her Spanish origins cannot be detected from her inflexions. But a few of her turns of phrase could be directly translated from Castilian.”
He nodded again, this time with a worried, resigned air.
A silence ensued.
“What exactly is it that you want to know, captain?” the baronne finally asked in a quiet voice. “Or rather, what do you already know … ? I was next to you when Marciac returned with the girl. I saw how you reacted. You went completely white.…”
On her return from the gambling house, Agnès had found the lights still burning at the Hôtel de l’Épervier despite the late hour and the Blades in turmoil following the abduction—at the cardinal’s orders—of Malencontre by the comte de Rochefort. Frustrated and humiliated, Leprat in particular would not calm down and drank more than was reasonable. Then Marciac had arrived with a woman he had managed to rescue after an epic struggle and they were suddenly faced with other matters of concern.
“I am not yet sure of anything,” La Fargue said. “Go rejoin the others, will you? And do not speak to them of our conversation. I will be with you shortly.”
Agnès hesitated, then rose and went downstairs.
Once he was alone, the old captain withdrew a medallion from his doublet, opened the small carved lid, and lost himself in the contemplation of a miniature portrait. If it had not been painted twenty-five years earlier, it might have been that of the new, mysterious guest at the Hôtel de l’Épervier.
After removing her gown and washing her face, Agnès joined the rest of the Blades in the main room, where the torches provided more light than the faint glimmer of day that entered through the small lozenge-shaped window panes.
Sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, Leprat, with his wounded leg propped on a stool before him, was silently drinking from a bottle. To one side, Almades was sharpening his rapier with a whetstone—three strokes along one edge, three strokes along the other, over and over. At the table, Ballardieu and Marciac partook of a light but solid repast that Guibot, hobbling about on his wooden leg, had served at their request. They drank, but the Gascon, still excited by his recent adventure, spoke more than he ate while the veteran nodded vigorously and polished off his meal with an appetite that nothing could discourage.
“I thought I was lost,” Marciac was saying. “But I threw myself to the side, she brandished her pistol with both hands, and—bam!—she fired. And her aim was dead on … ! The assassin who was about to run me through from behind collapsed with a ball right in the middle of his forehead.”
“That was a damned good piece of luck,” Ballardieu commented before washing down a mouthful of pâté en croûte with a swallow of wine.
“It was destiny, my friend. Destiny. ‘Audaces fortuna juvat!’”
His lips greasy and his mouth full, the other man looked at him with wide eyes.
“The saying,” Marciac explained “is more or less borrowed from Virgil: ‘Fortune smiles upon the brave.’”
Ballardieu was about to ask who Virgil was, but held his tongue as the Gascon, seeing Agnès, asked anxiously: “How is she?”
“Well. She sleeps.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“And you? Your shoulder?”
In addition to a girl who was still trembling from fright, Marciac had returned from his eventful evening with the air of a conquering hero, his hair full of plaster, a few bruises, and—not that he paid much notice to it—a nasty wound to the shoulder.
“Oh, it’s just a scratch,” he said, with a vague gesture toward the bandage hidden beneath the sleeve of his clean, unwrinkled shirt. “It scarcely bled at all.”
“You were lucky,” Leprat said from his armchair, with just a hint of bitterness.
“No one succeeds without a bit of luck,” said Agnès as she sat down at the big table.
She took a plate and, after poking around in the dishes, loaded it with cold meats and cheeses, gratefully accepting a glass of wine that Ballardieu poured for her. La Fargue arrived, sat astride a backward-turned chair, and immediately launched a general discussion: “You first, Marciac. Tell us what you know about this girl.”
“Her name is Cécile.”
“And what else?”
“That’s all. I followed Castilla, who Agnès and I spotted leaving madame de Sovange’s gaming salons. Castilla led me to Cécile’s house in rue de la Fontaine. He did not stay long and left on horseback. By chance, I then came upon some men who I overheard preparing to abduct Cécile—although at the time, I didn’t know that was her name. Be that as it may, I told myself that I could not let them succeed in their plan. And there you have it.”
“Who were these men?”
“Just some hired swords, like others of their kind. But they took their orders from a Spaniard, a one-eyed man in black leather who was so sure of their success that he did not remain with them.”
“Would you recognise him?” asked Leprat.
“Of course.”
“But you’d never seen him before.”
“No.”
La Fargue mulled over this information and then turned to Agnès.
“Now you.”
The baronne emptied her glass before speaking.
“She says her name is Cécile Grimaux. Last year she was living with her father and mother in Lyon. Both of them are now dead, the father from illness and the mother from grief, shortly after him. With no other resources, Cécile went to join her elder sister, Chantal, a seamstress who was living modestly in Paris but who was glad to take her in—”
“‘Was living’?” Leprat interrupted.
“I’m coming to that.… She occasionally worked for a glove maker and it was through him that Chantal made the acquaintance of two Spanish adventurers, the chevalier d’Ireban and his friend Castilla. She fell in love with the first and became his mistress. They trysted in secret in a little house in the faubourg Saint-Martin, living their perfect love while hidden from the eyes of the world. It lasted for a few weeks until they both disappeared suddenly. Since then, Castilla has been searching for them and Cécile awaits news. It seems that this ordeal has drawn them together.”
“How closely has it drawn them together?” asked Marciac.
Cécile being a very pretty girl, the others immediately guessed the reason for his interest.
“I believe you have a rival for her affections,” indicated Agnès with a quirk of her lips. “But no doubt your chivalrous exploits last night plead in your favour—”
“That’s not at all what I was thinking about!”
“Come, now …”
“That’s enough!” La Fargue ordered with a rare display of temper.
But he recovered his calm quickly, pretending not to notice the wary looks being exchanged by the others.
“Nevertheless,” said Ballardieu, “it’s a strange tale.”
“But it matches pretty well with what Rochefort has told us,” noted Leprat almost regretfully.
Resuming the discussion, the Blades’ captain asked Agnès: “What does Cécile know of Ireban?”
“Almost nothing. According to her, her sister was not very forthcoming on the subject.”
“And of Castilla?”
“We hardly spoke of him. I only know that he has taken up residence at the love nest in the faubourg Saint-Martin, in case Chantal or the chevalier shows up there.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Give Almades the directions: he will accompany me there in the hope of finding Castilla, who may help us get to the bottom of things. You will stay here, Agnès, and learn everything you can from Cécile once she wakes. As for you, Marciac, you’ve earned the right to rest for a bit.”
Since it went without saying that wherever Agnès was, one would also find Ballardieu, it only remained to assign Leprat. For a brief moment, out of respect, La Fargue tried to think of a task for him. But the former musketeer came to his rescue: “Don’t trouble yourself, captain.
I know that I’ll be useless until this blasted leg is healed. Let’s just say that I am holding the fort in your absence.”
Everyone nodded, slightly embarrassed, before heading off on their various errands.
As preparations were being made, La Fargue went to his room and wrote a short letter which he carefully sealed. Agnès saw him a little while later, scratching at the door to Cécile’s room and exchanging a few words with Naïs through the narrow opening, before giving her the missive. The baronne slipped away unnoticed and went to find Ballardieu.
“Get ready,” she said, once she was sure they were out of earshot of the rest of the company.
“For what?”
“Naïs will be going out, no doubt after the captain and the others have left. I want you to follow her.”
“Naïs? Why?”
“You’ll see.”
“Ah … right.”
3
Arriving by way of rue Beauregard, the marquis de Gagnière dismounted in front of Notre-Dame-de-Bonne-Nouvelle church and hitched his horse to a ring. It was still very early in the morning and not many people were up and about. But the elegant gentleman still found it prudent to entrust his mount to the watchful eye of one of the vendors of eau-de-vie who, in the early hours of the day, went around Paris—crying “Vi! Vi! Drink! Drink!”—selling little cups of alcohol which were bought and eagerly drunk on the spot by people of the lower classes before their hard day of labour.
The church was silent, dark, damp, and empty. As was usual in churches there were no pews, but chairs were stored in a corner ready to be rented out during services by the porter, who was also charged with ensuring the tranquillity of the premises, chasing away any beggars or stray dogs who attempted to enter with equal zeal. Gagnière advanced between the columns and placed himself in front of the high altar, near a thin young man with smooth cheeks and crystalline blue eyes. The young man did not react until they stood almost shoulder to shoulder. He wore an ochre doublet that matched his breeches, boots, and was carrying a sword at his side. If he was not praying then he seemed at least meditative, with his eyes shut and his hat in his hand.
“I am rather surprised to see you here this morning,” said the marquis after a moment.
“Have I ever missed one of our appointments?” Arnaud de Laincourt replied, opening his eyes.
“No, to be sure. But, until now, you had never been arrested.”
For a few seconds, the former ensign of His Eminence’s Guards did not respond.
“So you know,” he said at last.
“Naturally. Did you believe that such news would escape our attention?”
“No, I didn’t. But so quickly—”
“We are everywhere, Laincourt. Even at the Palais-Cardinal. You, better than anyone, should know that.”
“And at Le Châtelet, marquis? Are you present there, too?”
Gagnière pulled a face.
“The walls there are, shall we say … thicker.”
They remained silent for a moment in the sinister refuge of this deserted church where their secret meetings took place, always at dawn.
Notre-Dame-de-Bonne-Nouvelle had begun its life as a chapel, which was destroyed by soldiers of the Catholic League when the king of Navarre—and future Henri IV of France—laid siege to Paris in 1591. The existing church had been built in its place, with the first stone laid by Queen Anne d’Autriche. As the city absorbed its faubourgs, so the church now found itself at the extreme limit of the Saint-Denis district, right by the new city wall; only the narrow width of a newly laid street lined with building sites separated it from the bastions between the Poissonnière and Saint-Denis gates. This was the very edge of Paris.
“I am still a faithful servant of the Black Claw,” announced Laincourt in a calm voice. “My loyalty remains unchanged.”
“Permit me to doubt that. Your liberation scarcely argues in your favour. By all rights, at this moment you should be locked away in Vincennes castle waiting to be put to the question. But here you are, having been found guilty of treason, free to come and go as you please. You must admit that the extraordinary clemency the cardinal has shown you offers ample grounds for suspicion.…”
With a conciliatory shrug, Laincourt indicated that he understood. He explained: “I possess a document which protects me; it contains a secret the cardinal fears will be divulged.”
Perplexed, Gagnière frowned. Then, almost amused, he said: “A document that you have therefore taken pains not to transmit to us. A shining example of loyalty!”
“I am loyal, but also cautious,” Laincourt replied unmoved. “I knew that a day like today would come.”
This time it was the turn of the marquis to accept the other’s argument: he was forced to recognise that a “day like today” had indeed come.
“Very well. What is this document?”
“It’s a list naming France’s secret correspondents in the Spanish royal court. It is in reliable hands and will be released if ever I delay too long in giving signs of life. The cardinal had no choice. He and I agreed that I should remain alive and free as long as this list remained secret.”
“You are very naïve if you imagine Richelieu will be satisfied with such an arrangement for long. He will deceive you at the very first opportunity. He may already be working to do so as we speak. He will find your list and have you murdered.”
“That is precisely why I am turning to you rather than galloping toward the nearest border.”
“Where is this list?”
“In reliable hands, as I told you. And they will remain anonymous.”
Gagnière’s tone became menacing.
“It is a secret which we could tear out of you.”
“Not before the list would be brought to the knowledge of all.”
“So? We do not share the cardinal’s fears. On the contrary, we would be delighted to see relations between France and Spain deteriorate even further.”
“To be sure,” allowed Laincourt. “However, information concerning the Black Claw itself would be revealed at the same time. And believe me, this information could be most damaging.”
Gagnière greeted this news calmly, measuring what Laincourt knew about the Black Claw and the danger it might pose.
“Another list?” he suggested.
“Another list.”
“You are playing a very dangerous game, monsieur de Laincourt.…”
“I have been employed as a professional spy for some time now, Gagnière. Long enough to know that servants of my type are sacrificed just as easily as the foot soldiers on a field of battle.”
The marquis sighed, no doubt annoyed not to have the upper hand.
“Let us cut to the chase. You would not be here if you had nothing to offer me. Speak.”
“I offer to deliver both lists to you as a token of my loyalty. You will destroy the one and do as you see fit with the other.”
“These papers protect you and yet you would separate yourself from them? Doesn’t that run contrary to your interests?”
“I will separate myself from them, even though I’ll risk incurring the cardinal’s wrath. But, in return, I want to be assured of the Black Claw’s protection.”
Gagnière was beginning to understand where this was leading, but nevertheless asked: “How?”
“I want to join the circle of initiates to which you belong. Besides, I believe I have already earned that right on merit alone.”
“It is not up to you to be the judge of that.”
“I know. So take this proposal to the person who is.”
4
Barely distracted this time by the noisy, colourful crowd that milled about on the Pont Neuf, Ballardieu followed Naïs discreetly. He was in a foul mood and, with an angry look in his eye, talked to himself as he pushed through the throng.
“Ballardieu, you’re not a complicated man,” he grumbled. “You’re not a complicated man because you don’t have very much in the way of wits and you k
now it. You have loyalty and courage but not much wit, and that’s simply the way of things. And you do as you’re told, usually without protest. Or without protesting too much, which is the same thing. You are a soldier, even a good soldier. You obey orders. But I know you would greatly appreciate it if someone did you the honour of explaining, just once in a while, for the sole pleasure of breaking with old habit, the orders they gave you.…”
At this point in his monologue, keeping an eye on Naïs’s white bonnet, Ballardieu repeated Agnès’s words and his own, hastily exchanged at the Hôtel de l’Épervier.
“‘I want you to follow her.’ ‘Naïs? Why?’ ‘You’ll see.’ ‘Ah … right.’ A fine explanation! And what did you reply to it? ‘Ah … right.’ Nothing else … ! Ballardieu, you might have even less wit than you imagine. Because, in the end, there’s nothing preventing you from demanding an explanation, is there? Well, granted, the girl had that look in her eye and you know very well that she wouldn’t have explained anything at all. But at least you’d have tried instead of meekly following orders.…”
Now getting himself worked up, Ballardieu shook his head.
“Good soldier! Good faithful dog, more like it … ! And where will the first blows land when things go wrong? On the dog, not on the mistress, by God! Because have no doubt about it, Ballardieu, this business will go wrong and it’ll do so at the expense of yours truly. No one acts behind the captain’s back and gets away with it. Sooner or later, you—”
Lost in his thoughts, he had bumped into a lampoonist who fell backward in an explosion of printed papers.
“What?” flared Ballardieu angrily and in perfectly bad faith. “Can’t you watch where you’re going? Is this the new fashion in Paris?”
The other man, bowled over in both the literal and figurative senses, took some time to recover himself. He was still wondering what had happened to him, and gaped with amazement and fear at this bull of a man who had come out of nowhere and charged into him as he was haranguing the crowd and brandishing his sheets which—as he was unable to blame the king directly—accused Richelieu of crushing the people beneath the weight of taxes. The individual who had so abruptly entered the life of the lampoonist was not someone with whom he would wish to seek a dispute. Without being particularly tall, he was wide, heavy, and massive, and in addition to being red in the face and fuming, he was armed with a good-sized rapier.