by Pierre Pevel
They arrived at a brisk walk in a courtyard where several gentlemen, including the comte de Rochefort, were waiting in their saddles.
‘I am convinced that Gagnière’s death was not the main objective of the attack,’ added La Fargue. ‘The Black Claw were really after La Donna.’
‘I want you to find her,’ said Richelieu, halting to pull his glove back on. ‘It is only a matter of days before the Pope, through his ambassador, complains about this to the king. I want to be able to reply that signora di Santi is safe.’
‘Monseigneur,’ replied the captain of the Blades with a tense jaw, ‘there is a more formidable danger than the Pope’s displeasure now threatening Paris …’
‘A danger that you affirmed had something to do with the Alchemist of the Shadows, wasn’t that the one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, who knows more about the Alchemist than La Donna?’
‘But who is to say whether she is still in France, monseigneur? Who is to say she is even still alive?’
‘Find out.’
‘How?’
Leaning towards La Fargue, the cardinal replied in a low voice:
‘It is high time that your loyalty to the Seven be rewarded, don’t you think? Ask them. They’ll know.’
Without waiting for a reply, he joined the other riders and mounted his horse with the help of a lackey who held the stirrup for him. Then he added, just before spurring his mount forward:
‘Indeed, you may be pleasantly surprised by the amount of good will that your contacts are prepared to demonstrate in this affair. Do not fail me, captain.’
And then the riders quickly filed out of the courtyard in the wake of Cardinal Richelieu.
In the garden of the Hôtel des Arcanes, the Gentleman was exercising with his sword beneath the shady vault of an arbour over which black rosebushes climbed. He practised alone, in his shirtsleeves, his hair gathered back with a leather thong.
The Enchantress observed him for a moment, admiring his feline grace and the lethal elegance of his movements. Then she approached and picked up, one after another, the three spare rapiers that the Gentleman had brought and left on a bench, comparing their weight and other qualities. He watched her do so, a half-smile on his lips. She finally chose the lightest and best-balanced of the trio. After whipping the air with the blade to loosen her wrist, she went to join the Gentleman in the shadow of the black roses.
They exchanged a fencing salute and crossed swords.
The Enchantress knew how to fight and did not seem overly hampered by her dress, lifting the heavy skirt with her left hand. She executed a series of cuts and thrusts, parried, and soon found her rhythm, gaining in boldness while the Gentlemen preserved his sang-froid and prevented their exchange from ever becoming too heated. The Enchantress soon realised that he was holding back. Without warning, she attacked with greater speed and vigour, taking the Gentleman by surprise and giving him no time to recover. She feinted and suddenly slapped him across the face with the back of her hand.
He broke off combat, retreated, and touched his bleeding lip with his fingertips, addressing an admiring and amused glance at the Enchantress. She raised her eyebrows at him in mocking defiance and placed herself en garde.
The duel resumed, this time in earnest.
Now, just as the Enchantress had wished, the Gentleman held nothing back. He dominated her with art, with science. He imposed his rhythm and his strength, forcing her to give way step by step. Delighted, she sensed his gaining the upper hand, knew he dominated her, handling her as he pleased. He was virile, powerful, and implacable. And when he was finished with her, he disarmed her, giving her wrist a sharp twist as he did that caused her to cry out briefly in pain. She found herself shivering with her back to the wall, under threat, completely vulnerable to the steel point that brushed against her heaving bosom pearled with sweat.
‘If you kill me now, you’ll never receive the gift I have in store for you …’
The Gentleman smiled and withdrew his sword.
‘A gift?’
‘Come.’
She took him by the hand and led him into the mansion.
He followed her, intrigued, and played along as she eluded him by darting up a staircase, waited for him to appear, provoked him, and then eluded him again. He saw that she was drawing him towards their bedchamber and started to realise what she had prepared for him.
‘Really?’ he said with a faint smile.
In his eye, there was the uncertain, happy gleam of someone who has guessed what has been offered to him just by seeing the package. Retreating before him, the Enchantress plucked a tarot card from her bodice and twirled it teasingly. He glimpsed a major arcanum card, but which one? He wasn’t allowed the chance to see.
Reaching the end of the corridor, the Enchantress passed her hands behind her to open the door at her back. Following the movement, she entered and stepped aside, one arm pointing towards what lay within.
Towards the bed.
It was a splendid bed, immense, solid, made of black sculpted wood from whose canopy hung scarlet curtains attached to the columns by leather laces that often found other uses. And there, on the white sheets, a naked young blonde woman was waiting for him. She had a juvenile beauty with an adorable face, a milky velvet complexion, a slender waist and perfect curves.
She smiled, gazing at the Gentleman without uttering a word.
He remained still but was already carried away by his desire. He could not tear his eyes from her.
‘Forget madame de Chantegrelle,’ the Enchantress whispered in his ear. She embraced him from behind. ‘Forget the vicomtesse de Malicorne.’ She showed him the tarot card she had teased him with a few instants before. ‘And bid fair welcome to—’
‘—the “Demoiselle in the Tower”,’ finished the Gentleman, having recognised the major arcanum in question.
He advanced, climbed on to the bed and lay down beside the Demoiselle who offered herself to him, and he kissed her while the Enchantress unlaced her dress and joined them.
At the Hôtel de l’Épervier, the Blades conversed as they waited for La Fargue to return from Palais-Cardinal when, guided by a blushing Naïs, Leprat joined them in the garden. He was warmly welcomed, particularly by Agnès and Ballardieu who not seen him since their departure for Mont-Saint-Michel. He seemed slightly intimidated. Perhaps it was the house, where he felt less at ease now that he had reclaimed the blue King’s Musketeers cape for good. But the others treated him like a lifelong comrade and even Saint-Lucq greeted him with a nod and a faint smile.
So Leprat let Ballardieu seat him forcefully on a stool beneath the chestnut tree and was happy to clink the glass of wine that Marciac served him with those of all the Blades present. Laincourt busied himself with slicing sausage for everyone and they begged Naïs to bring more wine, bread and butter, and the remains of the ham they had started to eat the previous day.
It was almost noon.
‘Firstly, what are you doing here?’ the Gascon asked gaily. ‘And without your cape, no less! Aren’t Tréville’s Musketeers at Saint-Germain, with the king?’
‘Indeed. But I have been granted a leave of absence, like all those of us who were at Mareuil … Well, at least … like all those who survived …’
‘That Durieux gave me the impression of being an excellent fellow,’ noted Laincourt.
‘He is,’ affirmed Leprat.
‘Were you close to any of the musketeers who perished there?’ Agnès enquired gently.
‘To some, yes.’
‘How many died?’
‘Six. Five fell in the battle and I learned this morning that a sixth succumbed to his wounds in the night … We weren’t prepared,’ explained Leprat, who was feeling a need to confide. ‘Not for what we confronted there, in any case …’
‘There were thirty dracs,’ Laincourt explained. ‘They were organised and determined, showing no mercy. They had well-made weapons and powder charges. And they kne
w how to fight … How could we have been prepared for that?’
‘Not to mention the dragon,’ added Marciac.
‘All that just to kill Gagnière?’ asked Ballardieu in surprise.
‘To abduct La Donna,’ corrected Agnès.
‘Are we really sure about that?’ objected Saint-Lucq as he leaned across the table to snag a slice of ham with the point of his dagger. ‘Couldn’t all of this be a ruse, more of La Donna’s stagecraft? It would be just like her.’
‘To be sure,’ admitted Marciac. ‘But why would she?’
‘To escape from the Pope’s supervision. To recover her freedom. To cover her tracks while she took flight …’
‘But where would she have found thirty-odd dracs to do her bidding?’ asked Agnès. ‘And a dragon to command them?’
‘You’re right,’ conceded the half-blood. ‘So we must believe that, if she lives, La Donna is a prisoner of the Black Claw. I don’t envy her fate …’
La Fargue returned a little while later, after Leprat had already left to pay his respects to the family of the dead musketeer.
‘Well?’ enquired Marciac.
‘We must find La Donna.’
‘We must?’
‘By order of the cardinal.’
‘How will we even start?’ Agnès asked.
La Fargue hesitated.
‘I’ll know soon,’ he said, trying to ignore Saint-Lucq’s penetrating glace. ‘For now, get some rest, all of you.’
They spent the afternoon in a state of torpor. Saint-Lucq went out without saying where he was going, as usual. The others remained in the dimness and quiet of the Hôtel de l’Épervier, taking shelter from the summer heat. La Fargue, Laincourt, and Marciac had been riding almost without pause for four days, and had fought hard at the Château de Mareuil. Their short night of sleep since their return had not allowed them to recover from their fatigue or their wounds, as light as the latter might be. They isolated themselves to rest, aware that they might need all of their strength again soon.
In the fencing room, Agnès read and Ballardieu dozed, until La Fargue, too worried to remain still for long without something to do, came and joined them. He sat down with a sigh and took off his patch so that he could massage his damaged eye.
‘Guibot told me you received a letter from the Chatelaines’ Mother Superior General,’ he declared.
‘Guibot talks too much.’
‘He didn’t mean any harm by it. It occurred to him when I asked if anything had happened here during my absence.’
‘In fact, I received a first letter from La Vaussambre before your departure. And as I didn’t reply to it, a second letter arrived yesterday.’
‘Can you tell me what they said?’
‘I can. La Vaussambre wants to see me.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No.’
‘But you have an idea.’
‘Yes.’
‘You can’t keep avoiding this forever, Agnès.’
Ballardieu, who was listening, frowned and anxiously watched the young baronne de Vaudreuil. Closing the treatise on fencing she had been reading – a gift from Almades which he had annotated in his own hand – she stood up and left, saying:
‘I’m going to rest a while.’
La Fargue crossed glances with the old soldier.
‘When will she understand?’ he asked.
Ballardieu shrugged, looking distressed.
At the end of the day, Marciac was finishing a game of patience on his bed when Guibot came to warn him that he had a visitor.
‘And who would that be?’
‘The vicomte d’Orvand, monsieur,’ replied the old concierge.
Glad to have an excuse to be up and about, Marciac pulled on his boots, decided to do without his doublet, unhooked his rapier as he was leaving the chamber, and hastened downstairs. He was making some final adjustments to his baldric when he joined d’Orvand in the courtyard and greeted him with a broad smile.
‘Good afternoon, vicomte. How are you?’
D’Orvand was like a big brother to Marciac. He worried about the Gascon, reproached him repeatedly over all the scrapes he got himself into, and then never took long to forgive him. He had often offered him room and board, paid off certain of his debts, and once had even lent him a sword when Marciac had pawned his and needed to fight a duel. While he would never stop loving him, he despaired of ever seeing Marciac become reasonable. Perhaps he even secretly envied the Gascon’s carefree attitude.
‘Good afternoon, Nicolas. You look tired.’
‘Not at all. So what brings you here? What do you say we go round to visit madame de Sovange? We could wager a little of your money …’
‘Another evening. Right now, there is someone who needs to speak to you.’
‘Ah?’
‘Follow me, would you? My carriage is waiting outside.’
The vicomte’s coach did indeed stand in the street in front of the Hôtel de l’Épervier. D’Orvand opened the passenger door and invited Marciac to embark first.
‘Where are we going?’ asked the Gascon.
‘Nowhere.’
Intrigued, he climbed into the vehicle and found himself sitting opposite Gabrielle.
His Gabrielle.
An elegant woman, she had as much poise as she did beauty, with strawberry-blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and a calm gaze. She intimidated most men but Marciac was not one of them. He loved her completely and sincerely. In his eyes, other women didn’t count, or counted very little. And never for long, in any case.
‘She didn’t want to come,’ said d’Orvand taking a place inside the coach. ‘I had to convince her to come to you for help.’
‘What’s happened?’ asked the Gascon in alarm. ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Yes,’ replied Gabrielle, before correcting herself. ‘Well, actually, no, it’s not about me.’
Perplexed, Marciac turned to the vicomte.
‘One of the … one of Gabrielle’s protégées has disappeared,’ explained d’Orvand.
Gabrielle directed a brothel located in rue Grenouillère, called The Little Frogs. The protégées to which the vicomte bashfully alluded were the female residents of the house.
‘Who are we talking about?’ Marciac enquired.
‘Manon,’ replied Gabrielle.
The Gascon nodded. Young, pretty, blonde, and plump: he knew perfectly well who Manon was.
‘And?’ he prompted.
From time to time, Gabrielle allowed her ‘frogs’ to take part in special evening parties at the homes of rich clients. They had heard nothing from Manon since she had gone to one of these parties.
‘Didn’t she have a guardian angel?’ asked Marciac.
He knew that Gabrielle made sure that her protégées never went out without a bodyguard to accompany them.
‘Of course she did, but …’
‘But what?’
‘What Gabrielle is reluctant to tell you,’ interjected d’Orvand, ‘is that she has lost most of her associates and backers of late. And even some of her best clients …’
‘“Of late!” You mean since Rochefort has been making difficulties for her!’ exclaimed the Gascon, gritting his teeth in anger. ‘Gabrielle? Am I wrong?’
‘I haven’t come here to complain,’ she retorted.
Recently, Gabrielle had rendered the Blades a service by providing refuge to a young girl being hunted by the Black Claw. This young girl was La Fargue’s secret, hidden daughter, and the captain had been quick to find her another sanctuary. But this service had been enough for Rochefort to take an interest in The Little Frogs and to put pressure on Gabrielle in a variety of ways, including intimidation, in the hope of extracting information from her.
‘But you must allow Nicolas to help you,’ the vicomte insisted. ‘He has experience in these matters and you know you can trust him completely …’
Gabrielle nodded, took a deep breath, found the courage to look Marciac in the eyes, and co
nfessed:
‘I had no choice. I resorted to Mortaigne.’
Upon hearing this name, the Gascon went rigid and pale.
A quarter of an hour later, Marciac watched the vicomte d’Orvand’s coach drive away down rue Saint-Guillaume, then turn into rue des Saints-Pères. Worried, he went to find La Fargue in the small office next to the fencing room.
‘Captain?’ he called, as he knocked on the door left ajar.
‘Come in.’
‘May I sit down?’
‘Please. What’s the matter, Marciac?’
The Gascon reported everything he had just learned. La Fargue listened to him without interruption, and then asked:
‘You and this Mortaigne, you know one another, am I right?’
‘We’ve been associated in the past.’
‘And that’s all there is to it?’ insisted the captain, directing a penetrating gaze at Marciac.
‘No,’ admitted the Gascon. ‘Gabrielle was his mistress once.’
‘Ah … But let’s return to the present affair. What did he say about it? Surely he’s not claiming this Manon vanished into thin air, is he?’
‘According to him, the girl used this evening party to escape Gabrielle’s supervision and run away with a beau.’
‘But Gabrielle doesn’t keep her girls against their will.’
‘Indeed not.’
‘So Mortaigne is lying. What kind of man is he?’
‘A scoundrel. There are worse scoundrels than he, but he is a scoundrel nonetheless.’
With his feet on his desk, La Fargue gazed towards the window that looked out over the garden, now being invaded by the evening shadows. He thought for a moment, and then asked:
‘Who organised the party? Who was receiving the guests at their home? Who paid for it?’
‘Gabrielle did not want to tell me. Perhaps she doesn’t know.’
The captain addressed him a faint cynical smile.
‘I rather think she knows perfectly well who it is, and that it is a person of some importance. A person who wants their name to go unmentioned and who pays well for that privilege … Moreover, Gabrielle no doubt fears your provoking a disaster by going to see this man and hanging him by his feet until he tells you whatever you want to know. You have to admit it’s the sort of thing you’d do …’
