by Pierre Pevel
‘How is that?’
With a vague twitch of his lips, the Gascon searched for words.
‘Something … Something inexplicable …’
Laincourt knew when innocent questions started to sound like an interrogation. He did not persist.
The Grande Galerie to the south and the rue Saint-Honoré to the north marked the boundaries of an old neighbourhood of narrow, miserable streets that were a blot on the landscape surrounding the Louvre. Yet it was here, in rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, that the magnificent Hôtel de Chevreuse stood, the scene of elegant society parties only a few days earlier, before the mistress of the household’s disgrace.
Upon their arrival, Marciac and Laincourt discovered the monumental gate to the mansion’s grounds under siege. In front, a noisy throng of men and women were jostling one another and hindering traffic in the street, which only aggravated the disorder. Standing firm and impassive before them, a unit of the Cardinal’s Guards in their scarlet capes prevented anyone from entering, despite protests and raised fists, while an officer tried in vain to make himself heard. Finally giving up, he ordered his men to clear the space while the great carved doors shuddered, began to open, and then spread wide. Those assembled thought they were finally being granted admittance. The uproar subsided as they retreated before the guards who enlarged their semi-circle, although elbows were out, each member of the crowd trying not to let anyone else get in front of them. But despite their hopes there was still no question of anyone entering the premises.
Slowly, ponderously, a tarasque appeared, harnessed to a train of two wagons loaded with bundles, chests, and furniture. Two handlers armed with pikes were leading the enormous, armoured reptile which, on its six short legs, turned left onto rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, moving towards rue Saint-Honoré. Some lackeys escorted the convoy.
Marciac and Laincourt did not wait to see how the doors would be closed again. Some intrepid individuals were already trying sidle into the courtyard of the Hôtel de Chevreuse, where more guards were standing watch. They knew Parisians and their propensity to revolt. The heat was not helping to soothe tempers and the situation risked turning into a bloody riot if the crowd decided to attack the armed troops.
‘Meeting the duchess is not going to be easy,’ the Gascon observed.
Laincourt had frequented the Hôtel de Chevreuse recently. He was thus familiar with its layout, and said:
‘Behind there is a large garden that stretches to the rue Saint-Nicaise. The garden wall has a small door that—’
‘Do you really believe that it isn’t guarded? Or that we will find it open?’
‘No. You’re right.’
‘Let’s start by finding out what this is all about, shall we?’
They took a table in a tavern close by, near a window that allowed them to watch the street and the approaches to the besieged gate.
‘So what is happening at the Hôtel de Chevreuse?’ asked Marciac.
The tavern was dirty, stank and only served a vile plonk. But the tavern keeper was willing enough to talk to them.
They thus learned that the king had, that very morning during his Council, pronounced the banishment of madame de Chevreuse for once more taking part in a plot against Cardinal Richelieu. Not a very distant banishment, however, since she would be assigned to residence in Touraine, at her Château de Couzières. But the news had alarmed her numerous suppliers, to some of whom the duchesse owed fortunes, and they had come seeking their money. Unhappily, except for those with special authorisations, the king had forbidden all visits to madame de Chevreuse, a measure she was probably thankful for at present.
For Laincourt and Marciac, these were ill tidings.
‘There can be no doubt that the duchesse is under close watch,’ said the Gascon. ‘We won’t be able to climb over the wall and go see her …’
‘And time presses. She will soon be on her way to Couzières.’
‘Perhaps it would be easier to reach her there, away from all the spies swarming around her in Paris.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Laincourt, who turned to look out the window.
It was then that he saw a spectre that had been haunting him more or less frequently, that of the hurdy-gurdy player who had been Laincourt’s contact when he was still a spy for Cardinal Richelieu. Carrying his antique musical instrument on a bandolier, the old man was standing on the corner of the street and, with his finger, he was pointing at Jules Bertaud who was just leaving Hôtel de Chevreuse. Bertaud was the bookseller specialising in esoteric works who had shown a fondness for Laincourt, to the point of treating him like a favourite nephew, if not a son. Dressed in a long sleeveless vest and a crooked cap, the man was walking along, leafing through a notebook, and looking totally absorbed in whatever he was reading.
‘Wait for me,’ Laincourt said, abandoning Marciac at the tavern table.
Outside, he recalled his old spy reflexes and first made sure that the man he was about to greet was not being followed. Once he was convinced of that fact, he discreetly quickened his pace and caught up with Bertaud near the church of Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre which, dedicated to Saint Thomas of Canterbury, had given its name to the street. After greeting him, Laincourt drew the bookseller into the smaller rue Doyenné, on the pretext of seeking shade.
‘But whatever are you doing round here?’ asked Bertaud in friendly surprise.
Taking him by the elbow, the other man moved him even further away from prying eyes.
‘I was going to ask you the same question, Jules.’
Bertaud frowned, looking to right and left.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Everything’s fine. No need to worry.’
The bookseller, however, was not so easily fooled.
‘But it’s not by accident if I cross your path near the Hôtel de Chevreuse, is it?’
‘No. What were you doing in there?’
‘Is it important?’
‘Perhaps.’
Bertaud shrugged.
‘Madame de Chevreuse desires to dispose of the books in her magic study. She has charged me with drawing up an inventory and organising the sale. There. No mystery in that.’
Those books had probably been gathered together for the most part by the Alchemist when he was calling himself Charles Mauduit and serving the duchesse de Chevreuse as her magic master. But Laincourt wished to pursue another point, and asked:
‘So you have permission to come and go at the Hôtel de Chevreuse?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you be able to deliver a message to the duchesse?’
Leprat, wearing his cape and with his white rapier at his side, had been waiting in monsieur de Tréville’s small antechamber for more than hour. In his mansion on rue du Vieux-Colombier, the captain of the King’s Musketeers had arranged two antechambers that communicated with his office by means of a different door. The ‘large antechamber’ was for ordinary visitors and petitioners. The ‘small’ was for the others.
Leprat stood at the window and passed the time by observing the preparations being made by the musketeers in the courtyard. Each of them was checking his equipment, polishing his boots, saddling his horse, having his sword sharpened on the whetstone of a passing blade grinder, making provision of victuals, greeting his friends, kissing his mistress, and accepting the gift of a ribbon or perfumed handkerchief from her. The company was making ready to depart. That evening the king would sleep at the Château de Saint-Germain and, as was proper, his Musketeers were to accompany him.
Antoine Leprat did not know where he would be sleeping. On the other hand, he had a very good idea why Tréville had summoned him: it could only be about his quarrel with Sardent.
A secretary, finally, ushered him into the captain’s office. As was often the case when he had a difficult decision to make, the captain had his back to the room and was looking out the window. Old Tréville had fought at Henri IV’s side before serving Louis XIII. He was a man of action who had
trouble remaining seated for very long; it always made him feel he had ants crawling up and down his legs.
Leprat stood to attention and waited in silence, his hat in his hand. Although he knew he was risking dismissal, he was already preparing to refuse to offer his apologies. He would to Broussière, perhaps, because the man had unjustly fallen victim to Leprat’s wrath. But not to Sardent, who had insulted him. Indeed, the affair with Sardent would inevitably be settled by a duel. By arriving first at the botanical gardens that morning, d’Artagnan had only delayed the coming confrontation between the two men, as the rules of honour dictated.
‘A brawl,’ said the captain after a moment. ‘In an inn. Between three of my musketeers …’ He suddenly turned round and looked Leprat in the eye. ‘That’s the behaviour of a common sword-for-hire and not of a gentleman, of a musketeer … And yet … And yet, I know the respect that you bear for your cape …’
Shaking his head with the air of a man saddened but determined to lay down the law, Tréville sat down at his desk.
‘I know that this affair can only be settled by a duel of honour. I know that, but cannot allow it. You understand, don’t you?’
Leprat nodded, still silent. He frowned, however. Was Tréville unaware that Sardent and he had been ready to fight a few hours earlier, in faubourg Saint-Victor?
‘Moreover, if you fight this duel and win,’ the old man continued, ‘a friend of Sardent will pick a quarrel with you for vengeance’s sake. And if you win that duel … Well, in short, you will wind up dead, and before you do, you will have killed or maimed half my company … That, too, I cannot allow.’
Once again, Leprat nodded without saying a word.
It was certain: Tréville knew nothing of his aborted duel. D’Artagnan had kept the matter secret, which was just like him. By preventing the duel from taking place through his presence, and by pretending not to be aware of anything, the clever lieutenant had acted in accordance with his rank without having to assert his authority. His ruse, moreover, relieved him of having to make a report: a way of protecting his brothers-in-arms from repercussions.
‘Because it so happens,’ Tréville continued, ‘that I hold half my company as dear to me as I hold the entirety of your person …’
At this, Leprat cocked an eyebrow. Could Tréville know more than he let on? Had he chosen to save appearances in order to avoid having to take radical disciplinary measures?
Leprat hesitated, and then ventured:
‘Th … Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. So, to preserve both your person and my company, I am separating the one from the other. Monsieur le chevalier d’Orgueil, you will depart this evening on a special escort mission.’
The Illuminator arrived in Paris by the Saint-Antoine gate, beneath a blazing sun that obliged him to keep his eyes squinted.
Tall and massively built, with a large belly, he was riding a bay horse and leading a mule loaded with his baggage. He had a beret decorated with a pheasant feather on his head and a pair of worn-out, shapeless boots on his feet. His body was clothed in a dusty blue outfit. His shirt was sweat-stained beneath his open doublet, and an abundance of hair as thick and black as that of his beard emerged from his gaping collar. He was perspiring profusely. A powerful musky smell emanated from him and his breath came in muffled rasps. A schiavone hung at his side, a sturdy sword with a straight blade whose guard enveloped the entire hand and joined with the pommel. This Italian weapon was traditionally employed by the Dalmatian Guards of the Venetian Republic.
Leaving the crowded rue Saint-Antoine, the Illuminator took rue Saint-Paul as far as the Seine, which he followed downstream to Les Écailles.
The Scales.
Having been left in a wild state for years, the island had been adopted by the dracs who made it into their home: a damp and rotting maze of huts on stilts, rickety walkways, and dark lanes. By day, Notre-Dame-des-Écailles was a miserable village from whose depths rose a foul, marshy stink. But once night fell, Les Écailles became the beating heart of a violent, primitive culture which expressed itself by torchlight, in a moist air rich with spicy scents, and to the rhythm of sinister drums celebrating ancient rituals or punctuating warrior chants, lascivious dances, and blood-curdling tales. Here, only tribal laws and traditions held sway.
Except in the presence of a dragon.
After passing over the wooden bridge that linked Paris to Les Écailles, the Illuminator sold his mule and hired two drac slaves to carry his baggage. The trader did not negotiate with him. Usually one to drive a hard bargain, the old drac did not even dare look the Illuminator in the eye: he knew a dragon when he saw one, particularly when the dragon in question was projecting its aura of power, as the Illuminator never failed to do when in the presence of inferiors. This aura was sometimes strong enough to provoke uneasiness in humans; to a drac it was like a painful wave that resonated in the very depths of their being and woke fearful and servile instincts in them, the instincts of a race that had now been freed, but nonetheless one that had been created by the Ancestral Dragons and had been mercilessly oppressed by them.
Followed by his slaves for the day, the Illuminator rode through Les Écailles, conscious of the wary and sometimes hateful looks he attracted. He felt scorn for such reactions and pretended not to see them, but relished provoking them all the same. Proceeding at a walk and looking contemptuously down at the drac settlement, he soon crossed over a narrow canal that isolated one end of Ile Notre-Dame and delineated a closed paved quarter where a decadent community of last-born dragons had established itself. There were lurid rumours about the goings-on in this ghetto, whose mysterious dwellings were defended by sinister-looking walls and massive black doors.
At the end of a hemmed-in lane, the Illuminator arrived before one of these doors. Beneath a stone arch overhung with scarlet ivy, it presented two thick rectangular panels whose dark wood, large square-headed nails and solid iron fittings indicated their great age. The door opened slowly at his approach, revealing the courtyard of an elegant house.
The Hôtel des Arcanes, headquarters of the Arcana lodge.
There, on the bottom steps of the porch, the Gentleman awaited with a smile.
‘Welcome,’ he called.
Without answering, the Illuminator dismounted and exchanged a greeting with the master of the household which was far from enthusiastic. Ignoring this, the Gentleman said:
‘I cannot disguise my pleasure at seeing you again, my brother.’
‘It was lucky that I was in Lorraine,’ replied the other dragon. ‘When will the Assembly take place?’
‘Soon.’ And seeing the drac slaves waiting, the Gentleman asked: ‘What’s all this?’
‘My baggage. The slaves are hired. Someone will come fetch them tomorrow.’
‘Ah!’ said the Gentleman in a slightly disconcerted tone. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Not much.’
‘Then come, I have a light meal prepared.’
On entering, the dragons passed three household servants who, pale-faced and glassy-eyed, were on their way to tend to the Illuminator’s baggage, slaves, and horse.
While the Illuminator ate heartily but without showing either satisfaction or displeasure, the Gentleman kept him company, sipping a glass of golden henbane. They were alone in the luxuriously furnished salon of the Hôtel des Arcanes and spoke little: the Illuminator, when eating, obviously wanted to do just that. Once he felt full, he dismissed the lackey serving him, drank a last swallow of wine, wiped his fingers on the tablecloth, and smoothed his slightly greasy beard.
‘Now it’s my turn to ask,’ he said, pointing a finger at the departing lackey.
This servant, too, was mute, pale-faced, with an absent look and slow gestures.
‘The Enchantress’ latest whim,’ explained the Gentleman. ‘She finds it more elegant to have human domestics. But don’t ask me the secret of the potion she has them drink …’
‘Is she here?’
�
�The Enchantress? Of course … She will be joining us for supper.’
A silence ensued between the two dragons. Their gazes crossed and locked on one another.
‘The Heresiarch sent me,’ the Illuminator finally said.
‘Good.’
‘He has charged me with a mission.’
‘And that is?’
‘If the Heresiarch wants you to know—’
‘—the Heresiarch will tell me. Very well.’
The Gentleman did not insist.
With regard to the Heresiarch, the Illuminator displayed the loyalty of a guard dog. Whatever the Heresiarch wanted, the Illuminator would do. Without discussion, or even much thought.
‘Is there anything you need?’ the Gentleman asked coldly.
‘Gold.’
‘You shall have it. Besides that?’
‘Nothing else for the moment.’
‘In that case …’
He rose and was about to withdraw, when the Illuminator said, in a slightly raised voice, as if concluding a discussion with a final argument:
‘What the Heresiarch has done, he has done for the good of the Arcana. The Alchemist’s death was necessary. He had failed and was about to fall into the Chatelaines’ hands. As if it were not enough that he had already allowed himself to be duped by that … by that Italian woman!’ The dragon sounded aggrieved at the memory but quickly recovered his calm. ‘No matter. But regarding the Alchemist, time was short and the Heresiarch had to act urgently. Necessity knows no law.’
And as the Gentleman continued to gaze at him without speaking, he finally asked:
‘Will you support the Heresiarch at the next Arcana Assembly?’
‘Does the Heresiarch doubt it?’
‘If our adversaries carry the day, it may bring the Burning Sword down upon us …’
‘Have I ever wavered?’ replied the Gentleman with confidence as he turned on his heel and walked away.
But once the Illuminator could no longer see it, his expression became one of concern.
Upon their return to the Hôtel de l’Épervier, Marciac and Laincourt reported their findings to La Fargue and Saint-Lucq.
