by Pierre Pevel
Marciac shrugged.
‘Shaking the tree is not the worst way of making fruit fall out,’ he said sulkily.
‘But some trees are better left unshaken, and Gabrielle knows this full well.’ La Fargue scratched his beard pensively. ‘So what are you planning to do?’
The Gascon had already thought about the question.
‘If you don’t need me, I’ll go talk to Mortaigne tomorrow.’
‘All right. But be careful. And assure Gabrielle that we will provide all the help we can. I’ve not forgotten that I am in her debt.’
‘Thank you, captain.’
After supper, La Fargue waited until night had fallen before going up to his bedchamber. He locked the door, put the lit candle down, and brought a small casket out of his nearly empty clothing chest. Sitting down at his table, he opened the casket with a small key that never left his person, gently lifted the lid and removed an object wrapped in cloth. It was a precious silver mirror, which he unwrapped and placed before him, next to the candle. Its flame trembled, disturbed by a breath of air from a half-open window.
And then he waited.
At the first stroke of the bell tolling the hour, La Fargue closed his eyes and, with a rapt expression, recited a ritual formula in an ancient tongue that he had learned by heart. The surface of the mirror rippled, and then it no longer showed his reflection in the dim light.
The translucent image of a white dragon’s head appeared, the contours and edges of the image sparkling slightly.
‘Good evening, master.’
‘Good evening, captain. What is it?’
‘I require your aid, at the request of the cardinal.’
‘Cardinal Richelieu knows full well that the Seven do not respond to requests. What is this about?’
‘La Donna had been taken by the Black Claw. I have received the order to save her, but I …’
‘When?! When did this happen?’
‘Two days ago, in Champagne. It was at the Château de Mareuil where La Donna was carrying out—’
‘—a mission for the Pope, yes,’ concluded the dragon.
Then, as if to himself, in a voice that combined anger and regret:
‘And yet we told her not to intervene …’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It was far too dangerous for her to reappear so soon. But she refused to listen to us …’
‘I don’t understand,’ La Fargue said, with a troubled air.
The dragon fell silent, reflecting, and finally decided to explain:
‘La Donna serves us, just as you serve us.’
The old captain froze.
‘Since when?’ he asked.
‘What does that matter? The cardinal is correct in this instance: it’s absolutely necessary that she be saved. Go to the regular rendezvous tomorrow. Valombre will tell you what to do.’
The dragon’s head faded and the mirror soon recovered its ordinary appearance.
La Fargue remained still, mulling over what he had just learned. So, he and La Donna sometimes served the same masters, the same cause. But whereas the rest of the time he devoted himself to serving the king of France, she hired out her talents as a spy and a schemer to the highest bidder.
… to the highest bidder? Really?
If she were truly the greedy adventuress that people claimed, the Guardians would not call on her services. So he had to believe that the beautiful and dangerous Italian had a moral code, after all …
La Fargue thought he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye.
Calmly, he turned towards the half-open window, saw nothing alarming, but got up anyway to check.
Had he imagined it?
Taking care to stand well back, he opened the window wide and craned his neck to look outside.
Nothing.
He stepped forward, leaned out, listened and looked in both directions along the deserted rue Saint-Guillaume, in search of a movement, a sound, a clue.
In vain.
La Fargue was forced to accept the evidence of his senses, but his instinct rarely deceived him. Was he simply tired? Possibly. Nevertheless, he felt a nagging doubt as he closed the window.
Clinging to a ledge just above, Saint-Lucq waited a moment before hauling himself up silently to the roof.
He had seen and heard everything.
In the most elegant and comfortable chamber of the Hôtel des Arcanes, the Gentleman, the Enchantress and the Demoiselle drowsed, naked and sated, among the sheets in disarray on the black wooden bed. The Gentleman lay on his stomach and had his back to the two entwined women. The morning light seeped through the open windows, along with the distant, soothing murmur of Paris. It was already warm outside. The remains of a fine supper, served on expensive crockery, were spread upon a table draped in red cloth.
Preceded by the pounding of his heavy tread, the Illuminator entered without knocking or waiting to be announced. He was filthy and unkempt, sweating profusely, and he reeked of the stable. He marched straight for the food, picked items from the dishes almost at random and ate them, drank, and then continued to stuff himself noisily. Although this intrusion left the Gentleman indifferent, the Enchantress did nothing to hide her exasperation. The Demoiselle was the only one to show signs of a reflexive modesty. But she caught herself before she drew a sheet over her body.
‘So?’ asked the Gentleman, sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘The expedition was a success,’ announced the Illuminator between two fat mouthfuls.
‘La Donna?’
‘In our custody at Bois-Noir. What are we going to do with her?’
The Gentleman shrugged.
‘Sell her to the highest bidder. Or offer her to the Black Claw. The Heresiarch will decide.’
The Enchantress embraced him from behind and murmured:
‘I’d so much like to amuse myself with her …’
‘We’ll see, my dear,’ replied the Gentleman, turning to kiss her.
Having drunk from the neck of a flagon, the Illuminator wiped his mouth with the back of a sleeve and belched.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked, pointing with his chin at the former vicomtesse de Malicorne.
Drawing apart from the Gentleman, the Enchantress pivoted on her knees and said:
‘May I present the Demoiselle. She is henceforth one of us, or will be soon, exactly as the Heresiarch desires …’
The Illuminator examined the newcomer for a long moment, then snorted in disdain and turned heel.
‘I’ll be at Bois-Noir,’ he said as he left the chamber without closing the door.
The Gentleman gave a burst of laughter and fell back on the bed, arms spread.
Both furious and taken aback, the Demoiselle stammered:
‘Wh—who was … that brute?’
‘That was the Illuminator,’ replied the Enchantress, getting up to put on a vaporous garment. ‘You will get to know him, but it may take some time for you to appreciate him – if you ever do.’
‘He’s useful,’ added the Gentleman, rising in turn. He approached the table, in search of food that had not been pawed by the Illuminator. ‘By the way,’ he continued in a conversational tone, ‘the Enchantress tells me that you have some projects of your own in mind, is that right?’
The Demoiselle rolled onto her side and propped her head on her elbow.
‘I was thinking of gathering some of my former followers. I had assembled many of the servile Black Claw worshippers around me. Some of them were influential, and not all of them have been rounded up by Cardinal Richelieu’s men.’
‘That’s probably a good idea. What do you say?’ the Gentleman asked the Enchantress.
The Enchantress was dressing her hair in front of a mirror.
‘It’s just as well that the idea pleases you,’ she replied. ‘Because the Demoiselle and I have already started to put it into effect …’
That morning, master Guibot went to find Agnès de Vaudreuil in the fencing room, where
she was practising her fencing with Ballardieu.
‘Madame, someone has brought a letter for you.’
Breaking off her assault, the young woman turned towards the concierge.
And waited.
‘Well?’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Guibot, realising the misunderstanding. ‘The bearer has instructions to deliver the letter to you in person. He asked to wait in the courtyard.’
Agnès sighed, giving the old man a curt look. Then she tossed her rapier to Ballardieu, snatched a towel as she passed and, intrigued, went to see who it was.
There was indeed a man in the courtyard. Turning his back to the front steps of the main building, he stroked his horse’s mane. He wore the uniform of the Black Guards, the elite company charged with the security of the Sisters of Saint Georges.
Agnès frowned: one of the Black Guards; that surely meant another letter from the Chatelaine’s Mother Superior General. But the young woman’s expression went from one of wariness to incredulity and joy when the messenger turned around.
It was François Reynault d’Ombreuse, the son of the marquis d’Aubremont and younger brother of Bretteville, whom Agnès had loved in secret.
‘François?’ she exclaimed. ‘François, is it really you?’
She fell into his arms.
‘By God!’ he responded. ‘And who else would it be?’
A tall, handsome man, wearing his sword with an elegant air and natural poise, he was displaying a broad smile. His eyes shone, as did those of the fiery baronne, who, drawing apart from him, gave him a hard punch on the shoulder.
‘Do you know how worried we all were? Your father, above all. We’ve been searching for you high and low, and with those cursed Chatelaines—’
‘I’m well,’ said Reynault. ‘And I’m here. I haven’t disappeared. But I was away on a mission, after which I was assigned as a guard at Mont-Saint-Michel.’
‘At Mont-Saint-Michel? Recently? You mean—’
‘That I was there when you so distinguished yourself, yes!’
She remembered then the astonishing kindness with which her gaoler had treated her at the abbey on the mount, and suddenly she understood whom she owed it to.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come in. I’m sure the captain will be delighted to see—’
‘No, Agnès,’ Reynault interrupted her. ‘I must leave again at once. You know these are grave times …’
‘Ah,’ said Agnès, her smile vanishing. ‘So this is what brings you here … There is no letter, is there?’
‘No. I wanted to be sure of seeing you … You must agree to speak with the Mother Superior General, Agnès. Please.’
The young woman reflected. Then she sighed in resignation.
‘So be it. I will go this afternoon … But only on one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘Send your father news, or allow me to.’
‘I’ll do that. I promise you.’
Reynault remounted his horse and Agnès watched him ride off through the carriage gate. Turning round, she saw Ballardieu standing on the front steps.
The old soldier was smiling at her tenderly.
Paris was home to a dozen courts of miracles, the enclosed areas where the communities of beggars, criminals and other marginal elements would congregate under the authority of a single chief. The most famous of these courts was on rue Neuve-Saint-Sauveur, located behind the Filles-Dieu convent and ruled by the legendary Grand Coësre. There were also the Cour Brisset, the Cour Sainte-Catherine, the Cour Jussienne, the Cour du roi François, and other more or less populated and fearsome places.
Among them, the Cour-aux-Chiens was a well of shadows and stinks, surrounded by miserable façades to which clung a tangle of rickety galleries and rotting stairways. A noisy, turbulent life thrived in the dirty and polluted air. Down below, children played, ran around, appeared and disappeared through dark alleys, the soles of their clogs stamping through the unsanitary muck. Beneath browning canvas cloths, in which the remains of past downpours of rain slowly stagnated, tables flanked by stools were occupied by men condemned to a precarious, roving existence: unemployed workers, lackeys without a master, soldiers without a billet. They drained cups of sour wine and waited to be joined by women who would urge them to drink more before dragging them away to the sordid cubby-holes where they performed their services. Some of these women did not even make the effort to come back down and instead stood at the railings above, having quickly swiped between their thighs, calling out to whoever would listen: naming their prices, boasting of their talents and mocking those who hesitated. Others, more weary or resigned, simply waited. And when no one came, they chattered amongst themselves and watched over their boisterous offspring from the heights.
At a window situated on the first floor of one of the buildings overlooking the courtyard, Marciac also observed the brats amusing themselves. Perfectly indifferent to the misery surrounding them, they charged forward with joyful cries to assault their imaginary enemies. The Gascon, behind his dark spectacles, counted nine of them entering an unlit passage in single file, by order of age and size. A snot-faced blond boy armed with a wooden sword led the charge, while a tiny girl wearing rags trotted at the rear, always out-distanced but nevertheless happy to be part of the game. A woman shouted that they were to stay within sight. In vain.
‘Monsieur?’ asked a timid voice.
Marciac turned his head toward the very young girl who, with lowered eyes, presented him with a glass of wine. Wearing a patched dress that was fraying at the sleeves, she was thin and pale, perhaps ill, certainly fearful. Everything about her expressed the submissiveness of a broken soul.
The Gascon took the glass without saying a word.
The girl went away. She left the door to the corridor open, and Marciac saw a drunken man struggling to retie his breeches. A dishevelled prostitute was holding him by his vest.
‘You haven’t paid!’ she cried.
The man tried to free himself with a shove of his shoulder, but the woman wouldn’t let go.
‘You’re not going anywhere until you’ve paid!’
‘I did pay!’
‘Not enough! Twenty deniers have never made a sol!’
With a nasty back-handed blow, the drunkard struck the prostitute in the face. She fell backward and hit the wall with her skull, bleeding from the mouth.
‘There’s your account paid in full.’
Then the man saw Marciac observing him.
‘And you? Got anything to say?’ he spat.
The Gascon gave him a disdainful look and turned back to the window.
The drunkard moved off as the woman picked herself up from the floor and insulted him, furious. Sipping his wine, Marciac waited to see him come out in the courtyard below. There, three men armed with clubs caught up with him, hit him without warning from behind, and continued to bludgeon him, egged on by the cheated prostitute. Finally, they emptied his pockets and left him bloodied on a pile of rubbish. The Gascon recognised one of the brutes: a certain Tranchelard, whom he was surprised to see here. Outside, no one did anything to stop him delivering a last blow to his dying victim.
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’
Marciac turned to the man who had just entered the room and was walking toward him with a smile on his face. Caught short, Marciac accepted his warm and friendly accolade before the other man released him and declared:
‘I’m happy to see you again. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’
Without waiting for a reply, Mortaigne went to fill two glasses from the bottle placed on a table.
‘Here’s to our meeting again,’ he said, handing one glass to Marciac.
Dark-haired, his chin marked by a scar that did not detract from his charm, Mortaigne seemed to be in good health but had put on weight, as far as the Gascon could judge. He was dressed as a hired swordsman, wearing a heavy leather doublet, with a dagger tucked into his right boot. His sword and baldric hung from the bac
k of a chair.
He seemed sincerely glad to see Marciac.
‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘I heard that you had some problems with La Rabier.’
‘That matter was settled.’
‘Good. She’s a mean woman, that one. It’s not wise to be indebted to her for long.’ Mortaigne lifted his glass and drained it in one gulp, while Marciac contented himself with a mouthful. ‘So … to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’
‘I’m looking for one of Gabrielle’s girls who has gone missing.’
Mortaigne’s expression grew cloudy.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Manon, is it?’
‘Yes. What really happened that night? Do you know?’
‘Gabrielle is making a whole story about it, but there’s no real mystery …’
At that instant, Tranchelard and his companions went past in the corridor, bantering cheerfully with one another. Mortaigne could not see them, but he heard their voices.
‘Is that Tranchelard?’ he enquired.
‘Yes.’
‘Call him over, will you?’
‘No.’
Mortaigne stared at the Gascon and then hailed his henchman in a loud voice:
‘Tranchelard!’
Coming back the way he came, the man in question appeared in the doorway. Tall, with long, greasy hair and a surly look, he still held the club he had just employed on the drunkard. The weapon’s studs were spattered with blood and hair.
‘Patron?’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘Maybe.’
‘If he doesn’t crawl out of here before then, dump him in the Seine when night falls.’
‘Right you are.’
‘That evening, Tranchelard was the one keeping an eye on things,’ explained Mortaigne. Then he addressed the henchman again: ‘Marciac is a friend of mine. Tell him what happened, the night that girl from The Little Frogs scarpered off.’
‘After supper, she went up to a bedroom with a young gentleman. And in the morning, they had both disappeared. The bed wasn’t even messed up.’
Tranchelard said no more.
‘And that’s all?’ prompted the Gascon.
