by Pierre Pevel
Marciac rose up on an elbow and turning to the young man, enquired:
‘Are you mocking me?’
‘A little, yes.’
The Gascon appeared to weigh up the pros and cons, the pertinence of the mockery and its humour. And, being a good sport, he stretched out again on his back and asked:
‘Have we received so much as a single reply to all those messages that emptied our war chest?’
‘No word, I believe, has yet come back from the Gaget Messenger Service. And Saint-Lucq, who could best answer you on this point, seems to have disappeared.’
‘You’ll have to get used to the sudden and mysterious absences of our dear Saint-Lucq. That’s his style … But sending all those letters out like bottles tossed into the sea, they’re not La Fargue’s usual style. It’s a positively clumsy effort on his part.’
‘What else could we do? We cannot attempt to free Agnès by force. Even if we succeeded, Mère de Vaussambre would complain to the king and have us arrested. And I doubt the cardinal would come to our defence, when he has forbidden us from incurring the Chatelaines’ displeasure … Moreover, even if this is a point of law that might be disputed, it’s possible that the baronne de Vaudreuil—’
‘You might as well call her Agnès.’
‘—it’s possible that Agnès is being held for entirely legitimate reasons.’
‘Pardon?’ Ballardieu exclaimed.
‘The Sisters of Saint Georges have the right to administer high, middle and low justice within their fiefdoms and domains,’ Laincourt reminded him. ‘This affair falls under their jurisdiction, before which … before which Agnès would have to answer several accusations.’
‘Would you by any chance be a man of law?’ the old soldier asked in a suspicious tone.
Lawyers suffered from a bad reputation. They were viewed as masters at splitting hairs to prolong legal proceedings and multiply the number of documents required in order to earn as much money as possible from their clients. And their reputation was, by and large, well deserved.
‘I almost became one … But the case remains: if we act openly against the Sisters of Saint Georges, we will be dragged before their courts of justice, not those of the king.’
‘Nevertheless,’ decreed Marciac, ‘these letters will achieve nothing other than alarming La Vaussambre.’
‘Perhaps that was their purpose …’
‘One rarely gains anything by kicking an anthill.’
‘Except for ants up the breeches,’ declared Ballardieu who, at the mere thought, suddenly discovered an itch in an awkward place.
La Fargue’s arrival interrupted these serious deliberations.
Straddling a chair turned back to front, the captain accepted the jug that Ballardieu offered him and emptied it in three gulps. Then he wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, smoothed his closely trimmed beard and, for a few seconds, looked gravely at the three men who all waited expectantly for him to speak.
‘I have a plan,’ he said at last. ‘But you will need to trust me.’
‘For your eyes, madame,’ he said in his gentle voice. ‘It’s only for your eyes.’
The two gaolers had behaved in their usual manner, the one holding the torch remaining at the door while the other entered the cell. This time, however, they did not bring her a meal. So Agnès had recoiled when the man had leaned over her.
‘For your eyes, madame. It’s only for your eyes.’
Despite her weakened state, she had stiffened. But she had allowed the gaoler to tie a blindfold over her eyes. He had helped her to stand and guided her out of the cell, then through a series of corridors, stairways, and doors that she could not see.
She finally understood when she emerged into the open air, and full sunlight, on a high terrace within the abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel. The cloth was thin. She could almost see right through it, in the hot, dazzling clarity of a glorious day. The blindfold was intended to prevent the light from hurting her eyes, after the long period she had spent in darkness.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured to the gaoler.
She immediately regretted those two words that managed to pass through the barriers of her lips and her resistance.
‘Goodbye, madame.’
Other hands seized her, hands that were more brutal, belonging to a soldier. Her wrists were tied together before her. Forced to advance, she had to struggle against an instinctive urge to turn back in distress to her gaoler, who – she imagined – was watching her move away, like a helpless and miserable lover observing the departure of his beloved. She regained her self-control, guessing that the men leading her away were Black Guards. But where were they taking her? And why?
She heard the wyverns before she could make out their silhouettes. The winged reptiles waited peacefully. She was put on the back of one of them, occupying the second seat of a double saddle. She knew that these saddles had leather handles for the passenger and, having found them by fumbling blindly before her, she gripped them firmly while her feet were placed in the stirrups. A man mounted in front of her and took up the reins.
‘Hold on tight,’ he said.
And then the wyvern was flying.
After enduring the deep and stifling darkness of her cell, Agnès at first abandoned herself to a kind of happy exhilaration as they moved through the air, rocked by the slow beats of the wyvern’s wings. Then the time started to seem unexpectedly long and, prompted by curiosity, she lifted the blindfold to her brow. The guard who was directing their wyvern saw as much when he glanced over his shoulder, but said nothing. She thought about trying something against him, but finally rejected the idea. The man wasn’t armed, but there were three other wyverns escorting them, all of them ridden by members of the Black Guards with swords at their sides, and more importantly, a pair of pistols apiece in their saddle holsters.
So Agnès bided her time and lost herself in contemplation of the landscape beneath them. They were proceeding westward.
Perhaps towards Paris.
They flew until evening, when they landed in the courtyard of a large fortified abbey belonging to the Chatelaines. Although she was kept under constant watch, Agnès was allowed to wash, change her clothing, and eat. She did not refuse the meal offered to her, aware that her situation was changing and that she might soon need her strength. She forced herself not to devour her food too quickly and was careful to water her wine, out of a fear of making herself sick. No one said a word to her and she asked no questions even though there were some that were burning her lips.
The following morning, after a good night’s sleep in a real bed and another light meal eaten in the deserted refectory, Agnès once again had her wrists bound and was forced to climb into a heavy wagon that resembled a large strongbox. It was in fact exactly that: a solid box made of sturdy oak covered in iron plating and mounted on wheels, used for transporting valuables. It was entered from the rear, after bending double to pass through a reinforced door equipped with two locks and a small sliding hatch. Inside, there was an iron chest riveted to the floor against the rear wall.
Agnès sat on the chest, her back to the direction of travel and facing the door that was closed upon her, plunging her into darkness. She heard keys being turned in each lock, then saw the hatch open and remain so, no doubt to allow some air and light to enter. Then the driver’s whip cracked and the wagon set into motion, escorted by five guards on horseback.
A short while later, the convoy was advancing along a dusty road at a fast trot, in the harsh light of an already scorching sun.
Antoine Leprat, the chevalier d’Orgueil, was having lunch alone in a modest inn near the Hôtel de Tréville, in rue du Pot-de-Fer. Some birds – whose fat fell in yellow drops – were cooking on a spit in the fireplace, while various soups and stews simmered beneath the lids of small black pots arranged along its outer edge. There were several tables standing before the hearth. Two rather elderly sisters, both widows, ran the establishment, cooking and serving the dishes. The atmosphere was qui
et and cosy, and the clientele was mostly composed of regulars. The wine cellar was mediocre but the food was rather good. The light, as well as the noise from outside, was heavily filtered.
‘May I sit down?’
Leprat lifted his nose from his plate to discover, to his pleasure, a gentleman of some forty years of age, whose handsome appearance and calm bearing indicated – without any possibility of error – that this was a great nobleman. Yet no one knew his true name, only the nom de guerre under which he wore the blue cape of the King’s Musketeers.
‘Athos!’ Leprat exclaimed joyfully as he rose.
They exchanged a warm handshake and sat down facing one another.
‘It’s … quiet in here,’ said Athos, taking in the humble nature of their surroundings with a steady gaze.
Leprat smiled.
‘There are more charming places in Paris, and even in the faubourg Saint-Germain itself, I grant you that. But as you said, it’s quiet here … So how did you know where to find me? I only ever come here on my own.’
Rather than reply, Athos waited for the chevalier to guess, with a faint smile on his lips, and it did not take Leprat long.
‘D’Artagnan,’ he concluded.
‘What can I say? He may have become a lieutenant, but d’Artagnan has not changed. And he’s always been intensely curious. He has to know everything. Secrets have the same effect on him as those red capes the Spaniards – one can only wonder why – like to wave in front of bulls. And you can be sure that when he saw you slipping away at noon and in the evenings, that Gascon devil couldn’t resist the temptation to follow you. You must not hold it against him.’
‘I don’t hold it against him; besides, my habit of coming here is no great secret.’
A second glass and a new jug of cool wine were brought to the table. However, it was not one of the two sisters who served them, but Grimaud, Athos’ lackey, who had been trained by the musketeer to express himself solely by means of signs and monosyllables … and to anticipate his master’s desires.
The silent, zealous and discreet domestic then went to wait, well away from the table.
‘Your habit of coming here is no great secret,’ Athos said. ‘But it is no mystery, either, to anyone familiar with His Majesty’s Musketeers … You’ve been given the cold shoulder since your return, haven’t you?’
Leprat looked at the other man, noting that he had only just returned from several days’ leave of absence and already seemed to know everything. Again, no doubt from d’Artagnan. Nevertheless, the information was accurate: the company had not extended a particularly warm welcome to the chevalier d’Orgueil, despite a few brave demonstrations of friendship, and despite the trust that Tréville had clearly manifested in welcoming him back.
‘I have the ranse, Athos. What else could I expect?’
‘Obviously, the illness from which you suffer does not help your case. And some will now portray you as a monster they prefer to despise rather than fear. Even today, there are many who consider the ranse to be a mark of infamy. That’s just how things are. You’ll have to make the best of it or become a hermit …’
Athos had spoken in a kind, firm, steady voice, looking straight into Leprat’s eyes, as if he were a doctor announcing an irrefutable and terrible diagnosis to a patient, putting aside his feelings in order to expose matters plainly, although not without compassion.
But he had not finished.
‘Nevertheless, your ranse is not the main cause of your current unpopularity.’ Leprat gave him a puzzled look, until the other man explained. ‘Do you realise that lately you’ve had a tendency to don and then remove your cape? Now, most of the King’s Musketeers do not care about your disease, but they cannot abide someone who rejoins their ranks by default.’
‘But I haven’t—’ Leprat started to protest.
Athos cut him short by lifting a hand in a sign of appeasement.
‘I know that. But, nonetheless, that is the impression you give. So, follow my advice and be patient. Show them that you are a musketeer and have no intention of renouncing your commission any time soon. I take it you are decided on this point?’
‘I am.’
‘And are you really through with the company of monsieur de La Fargue?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well then. Wear the musketeer’s cape proudly and serve faithfully. Time will not heal your disease, but it will let you demonstrate your loyalty. And above all else, avoid getting into any quarrels that certain people may try to pick with you.’
Leprat met Athos’ gaze and realised the gentleman had not given him this last piece of advice by chance.
The armoured wagon carrying Agnès arrived in Paris at the end of the afternoon.
Still surrounded by the mounted escort of Black Guards, it passed through the Temple city gate, followed the street bearing the same name, and turned left to cross the drawbridge that straddled the last vestiges of a moat around the Enclos du Temple, the Chatelaines’ headquarters. It advanced a little further and finally drew up before the lofty Tour du Temple.
Removed from the darkness and the stifling heat of the sealed wagon, Agnès, with her wrists still bound, staggered slightly as she set foot on the ground. But the baronne de Vaudreuil’s pride immediately gained the upper hand and, with a brusque shrug of her shoulders, she freed herself from the hands that intended to support her. Squinting painfully in the bright light, she lifted her eyes to gaze upon the tower that was to be her new prison. This massive keep was one of the most secure places in the capital; so secure, in fact, that the kings of France had once deposited their treasure there. Agnès wondered if she should feel flattered to be locked up within it now.
The guards urged her forward.
Not knowing whether she would see the sun again, Agnès took in her surroundings as far as she could, gazing towards the houses neighbouring the Enclos, beyond the gardens and the crenelated wall. Some slaters were repairing the roof of one house, and a worker, no doubt intrigued by the strange-looking wagon that had just arrived, was looking in their direction. Standing, he removed his hat and wiped his brow with a red handkerchief before returning to his labour.
It was Ballardieu.
3
It was the last evening before his departure for Saint-Germain and the king wanted to spend it with the queen, along with some gentlemen from his suite. The royal couple’s apartments adjoined one another on the first floor of the Louvre. Louis XIII’s quarters occupied the aptly-named Pavillon du Roi, while Anne d’Autriche’s were located in the southern wing of the palace; the wing overlooking the Seine. They were separated by a single door. Yet the king’s visits were rare. Did this visit mean that His Majesty desired a rapprochement with his long-neglected spouse? There were those who wanted to believe it, and even some who started to dream of an heir to the French throne.
What drew particular comment, however, was the presence of Mère Thérèse de Vaussambre that evening, the Mother Superior General of the Sisters of Saint Georges. To be sure, it was not the first time that Anne d’Autriche and Mère de Vaussambre had met. But previously they had simply come into contact with each other during official ceremonies, where they were both constrained and protected by the rules of protocol. They had never exchanged more than three words unless they were obliged to and, until now, La Vaussambre had never even crossed the threshold of the queen’s antechamber. It was common knowledge that Anne detested the Chatelaines to the point that she kept them all at a distance, even the sisters charged with her protection. This hatred had sprung from the horrid examinations the Sisters of Saint Georges had subjected her to when, newly wed, she had joined her husband in France. She had been fourteen years old at the time.
Anne d’Autriche owed her name to her mother, Marguerite d’Autriche-Styrie, the archduchess of Austria and the princess of Styria. But she was also a Spanish infanta, born with the name Ana Maria Mauricia, daughter of King Felipe III of Spain. And Spain was known to be particularly suscepti
ble to the dragons’ influence. So much so that, in Spain, they did not hide their true nature and some of them were even part of the high aristocracy, occupying eminent positions within the Spanish state. So it had been necessary to ensure that the future queen of France was free of all contagion, the ranse being the very least of the possible dangers that the Chatelaines dreaded. Hence the rituals they had employed to examine, throughout an entire night, the body and soul of a terrified and humiliated adolescent girl who never would forget the ordeal.
On this evening in July 1633, however, the queen made a special effort to welcome Mère de Vaussambre, which pleased the king. Only a very few knew she was paying for a mistake which, even now, remained the deepest of secrets: fearing she was sterile, Anne had turned to magic for a cure and had fallen under the spell of one of the Black Claw, a secret society of malevolent dragons. Nothing of the affair had been divulged, the main protagonists being either dead or constrained to silence … hence the astonishment amongst those who saw Anne d’Autriche holding out her hand to the Mother Superior General and addressing her in a kindly fashion, even if her words had clearly been rehearsed. Much repeated and discussed afterwards, these words and smiles did not fool many people. But the words were not important: the key point lay in the queen demonstrating her submission to Louis XIII, who did not linger long thereafter.
As for Mère de Vaussambre and the Chatelaines, they had won an astonishing victory.
La Fargue waited for dusk before going to the Louvre. He and Ballardieu kept their horses to a walk as they crossed the Pont Neuf and then followed the École quay, before turning into the narrow rue d’Autriche. The captain did not utter a word throughout the journey. He was worried, but still maintained the calm of a great general on the eve of battle, aware that what was about to play out – or was, perhaps, already being played out – no longer depended on him.
To be sure, the messages carried by monsieur Gaget’s dragonnets had produced the desired effect: making Mère de Vaussambre bring Agnès to her headquarters in Paris. Meanwhile, the marquis d’Aubremont had agreed to provoke a major confrontation, even if it meant losing some of the king’s esteem. But for the rest, La Fargue was forced to rely on the talents of his Blades, on the pride of La Vaussambre, and on luck. His plan was risky. He knew it and had not hidden the fact from anyone. Nevertheless, he felt responsible.
