by Pierre Pevel
‘It was only a matter of time before the king ordered madame de Chevreuse’s banishment,’ commented the Blades’ captain. ‘But when one knows how close she came to delivering the queen to the Black Claw, one can’t help but think that a retreat to her château at Couzières is not such a cruel punishment … Nevertheless, it does not make our business any easier.’
‘When must the duchesse leave Paris?’ enquired Saint-Lucq.
‘Very soon,’ Marciac informed him.
‘And for the moment, the Cardinal’s Guards are keeping a close watch on her mansion, from which she is forbidden to leave …’
‘Yes. And it’s impossible to enter without the proper authorisation.’
‘No visits?’
‘None.’
‘Letters?’
‘All subject to censorship by the cardinal.’
La Fargue grimaced in annoyance.
Agnès made an entrance, returning from a long ride, while Ballardieu remained in the stable helping André with the horses.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
Marciac brought her up to date.
‘Argh!’ she said in frustration when she knew as much as others.
‘But Arnaud may have a solution,’ the Gascon added.
‘I know someone who is free to come and go as he pleases at the Hôtel de Chevreuse,’ explained Laincourt. ‘His name is Jules Bertaud, a bookseller and a friend of mine.’
‘And what is this bookseller doing at the duchesse’s home?’ asked La Fargue.
‘He is arranging for the disposal of the library in her magic study.’
‘Would he agree to be our messenger?’
‘I asked him and he said yes.’
‘Is the man trustworthy?’ Agnès wanted to know.
‘I believe so.’
La Fargue scratched at his beard while he thought.
‘I would prefer you to be certain,’ he said.
‘Bertaud is a bookseller,’ retorted Laincourt. ‘He is not a spy. I’ve known him for a long time, but I cannot answer for him absolutely.’
The old captain shrugged: the only other solution was to ask Cardinal Richelieu for a safe-conduct.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers …’ he conceded finally.
‘Even so, there is still a problem,’ Agnès pointed out. And seeing the others looking at her blankly, she hastened to explain: ‘I may be wrong, but I doubt that the duchesse de Chevreuse is able to say a word or take a step in her home without the cardinal learning of it immediately. She is most certainly being watched, discreetly but efficiently, day and night. And I would not be the least bit surprised to discover this Bertaud fellow is also being spied on.’
‘You’re right,’ said La Fargue. Then, addressing everyone, he declared: ‘We can’t simply entrust this bookseller with a letter. We need to find a way he can deliver a message to the duchesse without compromising ourselves or alerting the Palais-Cardinal.’
Laincourt nodded:
‘I’ll think of something,’ he promised.
The Bastille was built during the second half of the fourteenth century to reinforce the eastern defences of Paris. Standing by the Saint-Antoine gate, this massive fortress overlooked a bastion extending into the neighbouring faubourg. Surrounded by a large moat filled by waters drawn from the Seine, it comprised eight round towers which each had a name, such as the Tour de la Chapelle or the Tour du Puits. The towers were connected by walls as tall as they were, protecting a courtyard which was only accessible via a drawbridge which was lowered to connect with a fixed bridge across the moat. And reaching this bridge entailed traversing two outer courtyards. The first was the Cour de l’Avancée, which could be entered freely from rue Saint-Antoine and the Arsenal gardens, and contained the garrison’s barracks and stables. The second outer courtyard was smaller and guarded by a gate. The Bastille governor’s house was located here.
The Bastille had lost its military role during Henri IV’s reign. The royal treasury was guarded there for a time. Then Richelieu rebuilt its cellars and the floors of all eight towers for use as a prison. It was a State prison, however, which meant that one could only be sent there by an order of the king, signed and sealed, known as a lettre de cachet. The prisoners locked away there were divided into two categories: illustrious and influential figures; and the secret enemies of France. Provided they had means, the members of the first group enjoyed fairly comfortable conditions of incarceration. The second group, in contrast, were condemned to long and anonymous solitude, without hope of a trial or a pardon.
The Masque de Fer, or the Man in the Iron Mask, was one of them.
But others preceded him.
In the courtyard of the Bastille, Leprat and the fifteen horsemen under his command waited patiently. Leprat was the only one to dismount, by the wagon that would convey the prisoner they were escorting. All of them were drawn from the King’s Musketeers and wore the blue cape with silver braiding. They did not speak and remained in line in their saddles, grim and watchful, the butt of their muskets resting on their thighs.
Occasionally a horse became restless, but was quickly reined in.
Although it was still early evening, night had already settled within the high walls. The courtyard was silent and deserted, plunged into darkness as if crushed by the mass of grey stones surrounding it. Keys had been turned in all the locks until the following morning. All the bolts had been shot, the chains secured, and the doors shut tight. Sent back to their solitude, the prisoners knew that the gaolers would not answer their calls. The sentries who weren’t patrolling the walls and towers fought with boredom in their guard-rooms, sitting around tables rolling dice. A strange tranquillity, an anxious calm, had invaded the sinister fortress. Time seemed to be standing still, which was only too true for some of the poor wretches shut away there.
Leprat did not know the identity of the prisoner he was waiting for.
He only knew that he was to accompany him to the Château de Mareuil-sur-Ay, not far from Épernay and the border with Lorraine. There, after some diplomatic negotiations, the man would be discreetly placed in the custody of a representative of Pope Urban VIII. Perhaps he was a Church spy that His Holiness was determined to reclaim. Perhaps he was a traitor or a fugitive criminal. Perhaps he was even an agent of a foreign power, for whom Rome was acting as an intermediary. Be that as it may, the prisoner was the object of an obscure transaction taking place at the highest level. And what would France receive in return? Another prisoner? Documents? Information? Unless the king was merely seeking the good graces of the Pope on the eve of a war with Lorraine – another Catholic power.
Such exchanges were not uncommon.
Indeed, based on his experience in the Cardinal’s Blades, Leprat had not been overly surprised when Captain Tréville had given him his orders. And, immediately understanding what was likely to be involved, he had refrained from asking too many questions. All that he needed was information pertinent to the success of his mission. As for the rest, he preferred not to know. He had no desire to be mixed up in intrigue and politics. A musketeer again, he only wanted to serve the king with honour, fulfilling his vocation as a soldier.
Behind an officer, a unit of arquebusiers filed out from the Tour du Puits in an orderly manner. They surrounded a man dressed in boots, breeches, and a shirt, whose wrists were shackled and whose face was hidden by a mask made of leather and riveted iron, with three rectangular holes, a large one for the mouth and two smaller ones for the eyes. He seemed to be young, and was of medium height with a slender, graceful build. His blond hair fell to his shoulders. He had the bearing of proud, refined man who had no weapons left to oppose his captors with but his pride and his scorn. He halted at the same time as his guards and waited, his head held high and his back straight.
The officer stepped forward, saluted Leprat, and took a sheaf of papers from the musketeer which he studied closely. As he did, Leprat observed and considered the prisoner. His silhouette seemed vag
uely familiar, but it was the mask that intrigued him most. It was an exceptional precaution and Leprat was curious why it was necessary. Of course, it was meant to prevent the prisoner from being recognised. But why?
After declaring himself satisfied, the officer refolded the documents and returned them to Leprat. Then he ordered the prisoner to be placed in the wagon.
No doubt because they had seen more than one docile man rebel at the last moment, the solders were somewhat brusque with the prisoner who, when he was shoved, reacted as if he had received a hot poker to the shoulder and spun round. An arquebusier was already lifting his weapon, but Leprat leapt forward and interposed himself before a blow from the butt could be struck.
‘This prisoner is mine,’ he said. ‘And he will be well treated.’
This intervention caused an angry stir among the soldiers, before their officer reminded them of their discipline.
‘Thank you, monsieur,’ said the prisoner.
That voice!
Squinting, Leprat suddenly recognised the eyes visible through openings cut into the mask. And he was even less likely to forget the eyes than he was the voice of a man who had coldly fired a pistol ball at his heart. Leprat remained dumbfounded while the soldiers placed the prisoner in the hitched wagon.
He realised someone was speaking to him.
‘These two are for the irons,’ the officer was saying, handing him a ring of small keys. ‘And this one is for the mask.’
The prisoner’s mask was held closed by a lock located at the rear of the skull.
Distracted, Leprat nodded as he pocketed the key ring.
‘Any particular instructions?’ he asked out of habit.
‘None that you don’t already know. But be careful, monsieur.’
‘Why?’
‘This prisoner, now entrusted to your care, has twice been the object of assassination attempts while under my guard. First by dagger, and then by poison. The dagger wounded one of my soldiers and the poison killed a gaoler.’
‘Who wielded the dagger?’
‘A madman who hung himself with his own belt before he could be interrogated. As for the poison …’
‘I understand. Thank you, monsieur.’
‘You’re welcome. Good luck.’
Leprat climbed back into his saddle, placed five of his musketeers in front of the wagon, and ten behind it. Then he stood in his stirrups and, when he signalled their departure, the great courtyard rang with a loud din of hooves, creaking axles, and iron-bound wheels grinding into the paving stones.
The prisoner hidden behind the mask of leather and iron was the marquis de Gagnière, a cold and implacable killer.
Leprat had suffered the sad privilege of crossing his path recently, while on a secret mission for the king. Gagnière had laid a trap for him that a lone man had no chance of escaping, and had left him for dead after – without batting an eyelash – shooting him with a pistol at close range. Luckily, Leprat was left-handed. The ball had lodged itself in the thick leather of his baldric, which happened to fall across his chest from left to right. Shortly after that, the Cardinal’s Blades had been recalled to service and confronted the Black Claw, in the person of a certain vicomtesse de Malicorne … and it had eventually come to light that Gagnière was her henchman. The vicomtesse had escaped. The sinister marquis had been captured and delivered to the cardinal’s justice.
For Antoine Leprat to find himself escorting the marquis de Gagnière was a curious twist of fate. To crown it all, there was the possibility that he might have to risk his life to protect the man. To protect him from the Black Claw, no less! For there was little doubt the Black Claw were behind the attempts on Gagnière’s life, either to punish him or to ensure his silence. Did he hide important secrets?
Leprat was only sure of one thing: the Black Claw would never give up. And there were forty-five leagues between Paris and their destination, which they would travel in a little under four days if they maintained a decent pace. The journey offered plenty of occasions for ambushes and attacks along the way.
With Leprat riding at the head, the wagon and its escort left Paris by the Saint-Antoine gate and galloped off into the night along a grey and powdery road.
When night fell, Marciac accompanied Agnès to the door of her bedchamber. They slept on the same floor of the Hôtel de l’Épervier and each had brought their own light. The Gascon, however, had no intention of retiring to his bed straight away.
‘Really?’ he insisted. ‘Are you sure you won’t come out with me to La Sovange’s club?’
Madame de Sovange maintained, on rue de l’Arbalète in faubourg Saint-Jacques, a gaming house frequented by the very best society.
And by Marciac.
‘No, Nicolas. Although it’s sweet of you to ask.’
‘I promise we’ll come home early.’
‘It’s already late.’
‘I bow to your wishes … But promise me that …’
‘Soon, yes. I promise you I will.’
‘Cross your heart?’
‘Cross my heart. But if you want my opinion, you look like a man who needs a good night’s sleep.’
The Gascon shrugged his shoulders and looked away, like a young boy caught doing something naughty.
‘Sleep eludes me,’ he confessed. ‘I can’t close my eyes without seeing Almades.’
‘I know. It’s the same for me.’
Marciac forced himself to smile.
‘If someone had told me that I would miss his grim face so much … But to the Devil with this sadness!’
Pulling himself together, he opened Agnès’ door for her, stepped aside to let her pass and ushered her inside with a bow and a flourish.
‘Madame.’
‘Thank you.’
She went in, placed her candle on a small table, and turned around to face the Gascon who remained on the threshold.
‘Tell me, Nicolas …’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you know why Leprat left us?’
‘Not exactly, no. He gave the captain an explanation, but I wasn’t there.’
‘And La Fargue, how did he take the news?’
‘In his usual manner,’ replied Marciac with a shrug. ‘With cries, tears, and sobs. Afterwards, he wrote a poem recounting his sorrow …’
Agnès stifled a laugh but remained concerned.
‘And you?’ she asked. ‘Did you speak with him?’
‘With Leprat? No.’
‘Do you think he would like it if I paid him a visit?’
‘Perhaps. But you’ll need to wait a bit. Or else go to Saint-Germain,’ added Marciac. And seeing Agnès frown, he explained: ‘The king has retired there, so the King’s Musketeers went with him …’
‘Oh yes, that’s right … Well, good night, Nicolas.’
‘Good night, baronne.’
Marciac closed the door and went away.
Feeling tired, Agnès undressed and freshened up. Then, turning her back to the mirror, she twisted her neck to examine the mark decorating her left shoulder. It was an old mark whose outlines had only become sharper over time. Now there could be no doubt that it was a rune or, more precisely, two runes entwined together to form one. The first signified ‘dragon’ and the second ‘death’.
With her finger, Agnès de Vaudreuil brushed this mark which had seemed to waken recently and whose meaning she knew, although she couldn’t admit it to herself. As she got into bed, she prayed for a dreamless sleep, only to have the vision of the great black dragon destroying Paris return once more to haunt her.
Upon arriving in the neighbourhood of Place Maubert that morning, Laincourt found Jules Bertaud’s bookshop closed. That was hardly surprising; the bookseller rarely opened for business before noon. But his regular customers knew they could always knock on the door and peer through the shop’s large front window. Bertaud was usually working in the storeroom or in some secluded corner of his shop. He would glance out and, seeing a favoured client, gesture for th
em to come round to the courtyard in the rear.
It was not Bertaud, however, who answered Laincourt’s knock on this hot morning in July 1633, but his daughter. And rather than make him come through the courtyard, she hastened to open the door and usher him in. Clotilde was a pretty brunette with green eyes. Sixteen years old, she was totally devoted to her father and deeply in love with Arnaud de Laincourt, a fact that Laincourt alone was unaware of.
‘Good morning, Clotilde. Is your father in? Could he receive me?’
‘I will call him right away, monsieur.’
Thanking her with a polite smile, Laincourt began to wander distractedly about the shop, examining one book, leafing through another, without seeing that Clotilde had hesitated before leaving him, no doubt searching for something to say, before finally withdrawing reluctantly, cursing herself for being so dim-witted.
Bertaud soon came down from the first floor, where he and his daughter lived. He had his hat in his hand and the busy air of a man caught just as he making ready to go out.
‘Good morning, Arnaud. You almost missed me: I was just on my way to the Hôtel de Chevreuse.’
‘That’s precisely what I’ve come to see you about. Can we talk?’
The bookseller caught Laincourt’s meaning and brought him into the storeroom where no one could see or hear them. The room was dark and filled with the smell of dust and old paper.
‘Yesterday,’ said Laincourt in a low voice, ‘I asked if you would undertake to transmit a message to the duchesse de Chevreuse. You replied yes, but I want you to know that I don’t consider you bound by your answer. So, listen to me closely. I need to meet madame de Chevreuse. I must speak to her about a matter of which, unfortunately, I can tell you nothing. It must be done in greatest secret and I need to arrange a rendezvous with her. That’s why I must go through you, given that you have access to the Hôtel de Chevreuse.’
‘I say to you again, Arnaud, that I am willing to render you this service.’
‘Don’t answer just yet.’
‘Are you plotting against the king?’
‘No.’
