by Pierre Pevel
Alessandra reflected, admiring the old captain’s sagacity.
‘The Arcana have been devoted, for years, to an important project they call the “Grand Design”. The Guardians know nothing – or at least feign to know nothing – of this Grand Design. Perhaps the Chatelaines know a little more … Be that as it may, the Grand Design is on the point of being accomplished. My belief is that the Alchemist was working on it when you captured him. And I would add that I believe he was probably killed because of the things he could reveal about it.’
‘Killed by one of his own?’
‘Almost certainly.’
There was a knock on the door, the dragonnets became restless, and a servant announced monsieur de Neuvelle. The man himself soon appeared, wearing a red cape, his hat in his hand, and his fist curled around the pommel of his sword. He was a young gentleman, recently promoted to the rank of ensign, whom La Fargue did not recall ever having met.
He was not alone, however.
Rochefort, Cardinal Richelieu’s henchman, accompanied him.
When Marciac arrived at The Little Frogs, Gabrielle and her charming lodgers were gardening. Contrary to his habit, he presented himself at the door and was led by Thibault into the coolest room in the house, where ordinarily these demoiselles waited for their messieurs. Through the window, the Gascon saw Manon trimming a rosebush, which seemed to amuse her and the others, who closely surrounded her and were laughing with her.
Informed of his visit, Gabrielle returned from the back of the garden, removing her gloves as she walked. But it was only once she had come inside that she untied the scarf holding in place the wide-brimmed hat, which protected her from the sun. The fierce summer heat had made her cheeks flush. She was slightly out of breath and a faint trace of perspiration beaded her brow. With a distracted air, she fixed the arrangement of her strawberry-blonde hair.
As soon as that was done, she embraced Marciac affectionately, and for once his hands did not wander anywhere.
He let himself fall into an armchair.
‘We buried Ballardieu this morning,’ he announced.
‘My God, Nicolas! So soon?’
‘The heat, Gabrielle. The damned heat.’
‘But you should have warned me! I would have come. I …’
‘It was better you stayed here, with Manon.’
Gabrielle turned towards the window and the cheerful young women who could be seen out in the garden. One of them was trying to catch a butterfly with her hat and provoking much mirth.
‘How … How is Agnès?’
‘Distraught,’ Marciac said. ‘Destroyed. She left the Blades.’
‘I can understand that. And the others?’
The Gascon’s only response was to shrug and scowl.
‘And you?’ insisted Gabrielle.
Marciac looked into her eyes with a pained gaze.
‘Me? Me, I am weary.’
And to cut short any further expression of his feelings, he rose and went to the window.
‘I have come for news of Manon,’ he said.
Gabrielle joined him and, over the Gascon’s shoulder, looked in same direction as he.
‘She will get over her ordeal. We’ll help her.’
‘Good.’
‘And Cousty?’
‘He was taken in the middle of the night by people who do His Eminence’s dirty work. We will never hear of him again.’
‘So this story is over.’
‘It will be when I’ve settled accounts with Tranchelard.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Gabrielle, with the beginning of a note of alarm in her voice.
‘Cousty confessed that he paid Tranchelard to look the other way, and to pretend that Manon had fled. He is as responsible as Cousty for the torment that girl was subjected to. He should pay for it.’
‘No!’
Surprised, Marciac turned towards Gabrielle.
‘What?’
‘No, Nicolas. Enough blood has been shed!’
‘Tranchelard is a scoundrel, Gabrielle. He should answer for his deeds!’
‘No! There’s been enough violence! … After you’ve dealt with him, whose turn will it be next? Out of those who may want to avenge him? Mortaigne? The Grand Coësre?’
‘But—’
‘Promise me that you will not seek to harm Tranchelard!’
‘Gab—’
‘Promise, Nicolas! Promise!’
She had seized hold of Marciac and, with tears in her eyes, she gave him an imploring look so full of distress that it shamed him.
‘Yes,’ he hastened to assure her. ‘Yes. I promise.’
‘Truly?’
He nodded sincerely.
Then Gabrielle burst into tears and clung to him. In return he held her tightly in his arms, felt her trembling body, and inhaled her perfume.
‘I promise,’ he repeated, caressing her hair gently. ‘I promise.’
‘I have some money,’ she whispered to him. ‘And I’ve just bought a small estate in Touraine. We could live there happily if you wanted. Just you, and me, and the child I am carrying.’
Some sixty years old, Mère de Cernay had previously led the Sisters of Saint Georges. Supplanted by Mère de Vaussambre after a ferocious internal struggle, she was now the mother superior of a beautiful and prosperous abbey in Ile-de-France. She was living out her days peacefully there, without relinquishing, however, a certain degree of influence within the Order. She continued, in fact, to be widely respected and widely heeded. And consequently, closely watched.
The sun was setting when she joined Agnès, who was waiting for her near the ivy-covered dovecote where she had liked to retire during her novitiate with the Chatelaines. On her father’s death, guardianship of the young baronne had been entrusted to a distant relative who had immediately given way to the temptation to lay hands on Agnès’ inheritance by sending her off to the Sisters of Saint Georges, where an aunt and two or three cousins had already taken the veil. She had only recovered her wealth and her freedom several years later, on the eve of pronouncing her vows. But as fortuitous as her connection with the Order might have seemed at the time, this time spent with the Chatelaines would decide her destiny.
Mère de Cernay became concerned from the moment she saw Agnès wearing black. Then the young woman turned round and the mother superior saw her downcast expression and the tears flowing from her reddened eyes.
‘My God, Marie-Agnès! What’s wrong? What’s happened?’
Sitting together beneath the ivy, Agnès and Mère de Cernay spoke.
Or rather Agnès spoke while Mère de Cernay listened and tried to comfort her. The young woman let herself open up and confided her feelings, releasing herself from the stranglehold of repressed pain. Without shame or modesty, she recounted all of her sorrows and doubts.
All of her anger, too.
A nearly full moon rose in the still bright sky, while sweet cooing drifted down from the dovecote. Torches were lit here and there in the great, peaceful abbey.
‘Let us pray together,’ the mother superior proposed at last, taking Agnès’ hands. ‘I know it may seem a feeble and ridiculous remedy, but it is often a real comfort.’
‘No,’ replied the young woman as she rose to her feet. ‘No, I … I must go …’
‘It’s almost night. Where will you go?’
Agnès remained standing, hesitant and distressed, looking around as if the answers to her questions could be found under the ivy.
‘You have felt the Call, haven’t you?’ asked Mère de Cernay.
Agnès gave a resigned sigh.
‘Yes,’ she confessed.
‘Your mark?’
‘Woken. Almost burning.’
‘You know what that means …’
‘What I have guessed is enough to frighten me.’
‘You must not be afraid. No one should fear their destiny … It’s Providence that sends you, Marie-Agnès.’
‘A Providence that has killed Bal
lardieu so that there is nothing left to hold me in the secular world?’ Agnès retorted aggressively.
The mother superior now rose in her turn.
‘Come. Let’s walk,’ she said, taking the arm of this young woman who, even as a novice, had shown exceptional quality.
They were only a few steps away from the medicinal herb garden, whose paths they slowly paced.
‘When I was the Superior General, the Chatelaines made a mistake,’ revealed Mère de Cernay. ‘An enormous mistake, and one for which I take full responsibility … Unfortunately, we discovered it too late, when there was no time to repair it. All we could do was to hide it. Since then, the Sisters of Saint Georges have done everything in their power to prevent their mistake leading to a tragedy …’
‘What mistake, mother?’
‘I can’t tell you that because you are not a Chatelaine. But you should know you may be the one to undo it. The mark you bear signals a great destiny and …’
Agnès halted, obliging the mother superior to do the same and turn round to face her.
‘No, mother. If I must take the veil, if I must pronounce my vows and become a Chatelaine, I deserve to know. I am so tired of secrets.’
Mère de Cernay gazed into her eyes and saw an unshakeable resolve there. She reflected for a moment longer, however, before saying:
‘I suppose I should start at the beginning.’
‘The beginning?’
‘With the Arcana.’
On returning to the Hôtel de l’Épervier, La Fargue found Leprat waiting, who told him:
‘Rochefort was here. He was looking for you.’
‘I know. He found me at the Palais-Cardinal.’
‘What did he want?’
‘To inform me of our latest mission from the cardinal. Where are Laincourt and Marciac?’
‘Laincourt is here. And there’s Marciac coming back.’
The Gascon was indeed just arriving.
‘I was with Gabrielle,’ he announced as he joined the two others on the front steps. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Let’s go inside,’ said La Fargue.
Shortly after, he addressed Leprat, Laincourt, and Marciac, gathered in the fencing room.
‘As you know, Agnès has left. So has Saint-Lucq, who returned his signet ring to me. Only you two and myself remain. And you, Antoine, if you are willing to lend us a hand once again.’
‘I am still on leave from the King’s Musketeers,’ said Leprat. ‘As long as that lasts, you can count on me.’
Laincourt gave the musketeer a grateful nod and Marciac clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ said La Fargue. ‘But before you commit yourself to serving again, there are a few things you need to know.’
Then he sat and spoke in an even voice, his eyes sometimes lost in the distance, without any of the other three daring to interrupt this old gentleman who had never revealed his secrets to anyone before but was now making honourable amends. He told them how, five years earlier, after La Rochelle and the infamous disbanding of the Blades, the Guardians had approached him and persuaded him to join their service. He explained who they were and how they were trying to avoid a war between the human race and the dragons out of which no victor could emerge. He said they were known as the Seven because a council of seven dragons led them, but that the Guardians brought together numerous agents from both races – including La Donna – who operated in the shadows and were prepared to risk their lives for the common good. He confessed at last that when Richelieu had ordered him to re-form the Blades he had consulted the Guardians, and they had told him to reveal his secret to the cardinal alone. He had obeyed them, and now he sincerely regretted it.
‘Sometimes honour lies in disobedience,’ he concluded.
Silent and grim-faced, Laincourt, Marciac, and Leprat exchanged long glances. The Gascon realised he could speak for all three of them and asked:
‘So? This new mission, what is it?’
‘I believe that the Heresiarch is placing us in peril,’ said the Gentleman in a worried tone.
From a window on the first floor of the Hôtel des Arcanes, he was watching the Heresiarch and the Demoiselle as they took advantage of the coolness of the evening to walk in the garden. Approaching him from behind, the Enchantress pressed herself against him and rested her chin on his shoulder.
‘I think so, too,’ she murmured.
‘Sometimes he gives the impression he is losing his reason. He’s obsessed with his Grand Design and he imagines that everyone is conspiring to bring about his downfall or that of the Arcana.’
‘Which, for him, are one and the same thing.’
‘I fear so. According to him, the Alchemist was betraying him in favour of the Protectress.’
‘The Alchemist? That’s nonsense.’
‘Yet he believes it.’
‘Do you know what that means?’
‘That he distrusts everyone.’
‘Everyone except the Demoiselle. But what else?’
The Gentleman nodded grimly before replying:
‘That the Heresiarch may have killed the Alchemist out of personal motives and not because there was a danger he would reveal the Grand Design under torture … The Heresiarch may see clearly, however. Perhaps the Protectress does seek to supplant him. And perhaps the Black Claw has decided to dissolve our lodge.’
The Enchantress moved smoothly apart from the Gentleman.
‘The masters of the Grand Lodge hate us due to their fear and jealousy. I don’t doubt for an instant that they might want our deaths … As for the Protectress, I don’t know … She’s not driven by ambition. So if she is plotting against the Heresiarch, it’s because she’s convinced that he’s leading the Arcana to their doom …’
‘The Heresiarch’s plan is to deliver Paris to the Primordial’s fury. That would help fulfil the Grand Design, but at what a price! The Protectress may also be right.’
‘If the Heresiarch falls, you and I will not survive him. It is too late for us to turn away from him now.’
‘So he has to succeed.’
‘Or we need to find ourselves a way out while there’s still time. What does he expect of us?’
The Gentleman looked away from the window.
‘An emissary of the Black Claw is in Paris. The Heresiarch wants us to find him and kill him.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Almost.’
‘It’s just as well. The less we have to do the better … And the Demoiselle?’
‘He has given her full liberty to carry out her act of revenge. I don’t know much more than that.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
The Gentleman abruptly seized the Enchantress by the waist and pulled her against him.
‘What do you have in mind?’ he asked.
‘I think we need to give the Heresiarch reasons to hope for a success. Besides, a burning city makes such a magnificent spectacle …’
Cardinal Richelieu was praying in the dim light of the chapel at the Château de Saint-Germain. He was alone, or at least he believed he was, until he sensed someone behind him. The exits were all guarded and no one should have been able to enter unannounced. Even so, he was not alarmed: he had been expecting the one person who was capable of eluding any security measures he might surround himself with.
Saint-Lucq was deliberately making his presence known.
He waited.
‘If you were an assassin I’d be dead, wouldn’t I?’ asked Richelieu, rising from his prie-dieu after a last sign of the cross in the direction of the altar.
‘I am an assassin, monseigneur.’
The cardinal turned towards the impassive half-blood and stared at him a long while.
‘It has been brought to my attention that you have left Captain La Fargue’s Blades,’ he said. ‘Is it true?
‘Yes, monseigneur. For reasons that are mine alone.’
‘Those reasons matter very little to me. Do you wish t
o leave my service?’
‘No.’
‘That’s fortunate, because I have great need of your talents.’
Returning to Paris in the morning, Agnès thought of paying a last visit to the Hôtel de l’Épervier, to make a proper farewell to La Fargue and the others. But she renounced this idea, afraid it would weaken her resolve, and crossed the Seine via Pont Neuf, remembering that it had been Ballardieu’s favourite place in all the capital. She slowly crossed the sinister Place de Grève, made her way up the long rue du Temple and rode through the fortified gate of the Chatelaines’ Enclos.
The Mother Superior General of the Sisters of Saint Georges was waiting for her.
2
Three days passed without the summer heat weakening to any degree.
At night, a little coolness relieved Paris, but the heat and the stink returned with the day, as soon as the first rays of sunlight ceased to skim caressingly over the roof-tiles and started to stab down obliquely onto the streets and courtyards encrusted with dried muck. Soon, in the absence of any wind, fresh excremental stenches mixed with the staler odours of urine and dirt. Mucky exhalations rose from ditches and trenches. The smell of blood and carrion haunted the abattoirs. Acid vapours escaped from the tanneries. All of these emanations were left to slowly cook together beneath the vault of the dazzling sky, in a furnace that exhausted men and beasts alike.
Three more days passed, until that Friday evening, in July 1633, when Paris burned.
The former mansion of the marquis d’Ancre was called the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs extraordinaires. It was the property of Louis XIII, who had resided there on occasion, and now reserved it for foreign diplomats visiting Paris. The custom was to host the envoys of foreign powers as royal guests for three days following their arrival in the capital. Magnificent-looking and sumptuously appointed, the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs was ideally suited for receiving guests of distinction, and their suites. It was located, moreover, in a pleasant neighbourhood on rue de Tournon in the faubourg Saint-Germain, only a stone’s throw from the Luxembourg palace.
After a final inspection of the upper storeys, Captain La Fargue joined Leprat in the entry hall at the bottom of the main stairway.
‘The sentries?’ he asked.
