by Pierre Pevel
‘Yes, captain.’
‘Do we know what became of her?’
‘No. But it is unlikely that she still lives, because the Black Claw is rarely merciful towards those who fail. And even if she is alive …’
Laincourt did not think it useful to end his sentence.
‘So we find ourselves at a dead end,’ La Fargue said, sounding discouraged.
‘I’m not so sure,’ replied Marciac. ‘There’s still Gagnière, whom Saint-Lucq took prisoner. He must know a lot, as the vicomtesse’s right arm. Let’s find out which gaol he’s rotting in and interrogate him.’
The idea was a good one, but they were all aware of the obstacle before them.
‘We can’t do any of that without the cardinal’s approval,’ said La Fargue. ‘We can go no further without his knowledge.’
Agnès awoke a little before dawn, with a throbbing shoulder and her mind still haunted by the vision that troubled her sleep. She sat up in bed, looked towards the open window and the night sky that was becoming pale in the east, behind the Saint-Germain-des-Prés abbey bell-tower. She sighed, before getting up and, her back turned three-quarters to the mirror, examining her shoulder again. She knew what she was going to see. The elegant lines of her mark that had been pulsing with a red glow in time with her heartbeat were now growing fainter, and the pain was beginning to fade. Soon, the two entwined runes would regain their normal appearance.
Agnès straightened her shirt and went over to the window, leaning on the sill.
Looking off into the distance, her expression was grim.
She had dreamed again of the great black dragon blasting Paris, and it had such a sharp clarity that she had felt the heat of the blazes on her face, the odour of burning wood and hot ashes had invaded in her nostrils, and it seemed her ears were still ringing from the terrible noise: the roaring flames, the crash of collapsing buildings, the screams of the victims, the cavernous bellowing of the dragon. The image of that black dragon had etched itself on her mind. She only needed to close her eyelids in order to see it again, immense and powerful, triumphant in the sky of a tormented Paris, its body covered with shining obsidian scales and its brow decorated …
… with a sparkling jewel?
Agnès abruptly opened her eyes again.
She had been the vicomtesse de Malicorne and she had lacked for nothing: neither youth, nor beauty, nor wealth. And now she was madame de Chantegrelle, an old woman, a pious lady who had retired to a convent in the faubourg Saint-Jacques, resting from the last labours of an over-long life. Which was equal to saying she wasn’t much of anything.
That morning, she had gone out to take a few steps in the convent’s garden when she received word of a visitor. Shortly after, she met an elegant gentleman for the first time, with blond hair, regular features, and a disturbing charm. They sat side-by-side upon a stone bench and, as soon as they were alone, the stranger briefly unleashed his aura. Madame de Chantegrelle felt a delicious, electrifying thrill run through her. So he, like her, was a dragon. But a powerful and vigorous dragon, one who was not prisoner of an aging, puny body and a miserable existence.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘I am the Gentleman. I should say, rather, I am “The Gentleman Lover”, since that is the full name of my arcanum. But let’s content ourselves with the Gentleman. I belong to the same lodge as the Alchemist.’
‘The lodge of the Arcana. So it really exists.’
‘Did you doubt it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Soon we will have all the time we need to set you straight on that score, madame.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I have come to ask you to join us.’
‘You’re mocking me.’
‘Not at all.’
Then the Gentleman spoke and the former vicomtesse de Malicorne listened, weighing each sentence, each word, lending an attentive ear to each intonation, each inflexion of his voice, and searching for the slightest sign of deceit or duplicity in her visitor’s face. But the gentleman knew how to please and how to persuade. And she could not help being tempted by what he proposed: to reclaim what she had once been and join the Arcana lodge.
‘Why choose me?’ she finally asked.
‘We have been observing you for a long time, madame. And, in contrast to the Black Claw, we prefer to consider what you have accomplished and what you might still succeed in accomplishing.’
‘Then let us speak of the Black Claw, as you mention it. What will they say if they learn—’
‘Whatever they like. The Arcana lodge is free to initiate whoever it chooses. Besides, we don’t pay much heed to the old masters in Madrid …’
‘But don’t you see what I’ve become?’
‘We have the remedy for that.’
She shot the Gentleman a look that was alight with hope and ambition.
‘Truly?’ she asked.
He answered her with a gentle smile full of confidence; and they spoke some more.
This time, however, madame de Chantegrelle listened little and thought much. She quickly came to the obvious decision. If she was lacking in physical and magical strength ever since the aborted ritual had nearly killed her, she had lost none of her mental acuity. She was in no position to make any demands of the Arcana, but she was resolved to set one condition.
‘If I am in the state and the situation that you see before you,’ she said, ‘it is by the fault of a handful of men and a woman. So I should like to know: if I join you, will I have my revenge?’
And being a person who appreciated audacity, the Gentleman smiled.
‘Madame, I can promise you that.’
Marciac and Laincourt accompanied La Fargue to the Palais-Cardinal. They arrived just as Richelieu was preparing to join the king at the Château de Saint-Germain and as, in the great courtyard, sixty guards in red capes, already mounted and arrayed in parade order, were waiting for the departure of His Eminence’s coach. The cardinal had in fact already taken his place inside the vehicle and the Blades’ captain had a difficult time gaining permission to speak with him at the coach door.
Remaining a short distance away, the other Blades also waited patiently, the Gascon holding La Fargue’s horse by the bridle, while Laincourt inspected the aligned guards. He saw with satisfaction that Brussand was among them and that he seemed to be in good form, even if a bandage that no doubt constricted his skull could be glimpsed underneath his hat. From where they were standing, Marciac and Laincourt could not hear anything of what La Fargue, hat in hand, was saying to Cardinal Richelieu. But the old captain seemed to be arguing as firmly as possible. Of the cardinal, they could only see a thin, motionless hand resting upon the coach door.
‘This is taking a long time,’ said Marciac.
‘La Fargue does not have a strong hand to play,’ Laincourt pointed out.
Indeed, the conversation dragged on, forcing all those in the courtyard to endure the scorching sun. The Cardinal’s Guards appeared stoical enough but their horses, standing in ranks, started to grow nervous. Impatient hooves struck the paving stones. Some mounts whinnied and shied. Otherwise, a strange silence reigned. Everyone wondered what was going on, what had delayed a departure they had believed to be imminent.
Finally, La Fargue came away from the coach with its magnificent coats-of-arms, and replaced his hat on his head. An officer gave an order. Trumpets sounded and a first squad of guards took the lead, followed by His Eminence’s coach which ponderously set off, and then the rest of the escort. The procession left the courtyard and was soon travelling along rue Saint-Honoré, in the direction of the gate bearing the same name.
The great courtyard of the Palais-Cardinal suddenly appeared quite deserted.
With a stern face and a hurried step, La Fargue rejoined Marciac and Laincourt.
‘We should make haste,’ he said, climbing into the saddle.
Less than an hour later, Agnès was watching as La Fargue, Laincourt and Marc
iac carried out their final preparations in the courtyard of the Hôtel de l’Épervier: making sure their horses were properly saddled, tightening a strap here, adjusting a bit there, patting a neck and, finally, mounting their steeds. André was helping them, always observing their mounts with an expert and vaguely critical eye. On the small step that marked the threshold of her kitchen, Naïs also looked on with a worried air. Old Guibot stood beneath the archway, where he had just opened the carriage gates and was now holding one of the two massive rectangular doors.
Once all three men were ready to depart, they each saluted Agnès: La Fargue with a nod of the head, Laincourt with a sign of the hand, and Marciac with a wink. Then they left, filling the courtyard briefly with the clatter of hooves on paving stones. In rue Saint-Guillaume, they came across Ballardieu who gaped in surprise as he saw them pass by at a full trot and hastened to return to the Blades’ mansion. Hobbling on his wooden leg, Guibot was already closing the gate.
Ballardieu joined Agnès in the main hall. Dressed in her usual fashion as a squire, her waist cinched by her thick corset of scarlet leather, the young baronne de Vaudreuil was pulling on fencing gloves.
‘What’s going on?’ Ballardieu demanded to know. ‘I just saw the captain and the others who—’
‘Who were leaving, yes.’
‘Where are they going in such a rush?’
‘The cardinal was willing to allow La Fargue to meet Gagnière,’ she explained. ‘The problem is that Gagnière, under close guard, is en route to a secluded château near Auxerre where he will be handed over to a representative of the Pope.’
‘Handed over?’
‘Delivered, if you prefer. Exchanged, perhaps. Or sold. Don’t ask me what Rome wants with Gagnière.’
Agnès whipped the air with her rapier, and, looking satisfied, practised a few lunges.
‘Why aren’t we part of the expedition?’ asked Ballardieu in a sulky tone.
‘Because La Fargue has no need of us. And also because I am retained by matters here in Paris …’
The old soldier suddenly noticed the sword that Agnès was wielding.
‘Hey!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s your rapier!’
‘None other!’ enthused the young woman, saluting him as if they were about to engage in a duel.
And as if to provide final proof of her claim, she released the blade of the stiletto lodged in the grip of her weapon.
‘How is that possible?’
‘It was delivered this morning by one of the Chatelaines’ Black Guards.’
‘From Mère de Vaussambre?’
‘Who else? Besides, along with my sword there was a letter written by her hand.’
‘And what did it say, this letter?’
The blood in the vat was fuming. It gave off powerful, acrid, nauseating scents. Carved into the floor’s stone slabs, complex pentacles gave off a red glow, as if traced by incandescent wires. Black candles burned at their points, although the melted wax ran scarlet. The air vibrated with a deep and powerful presence.
The vicomtesse de Malicorne stood naked before the vat.
Soon, the elderly madame de Chantegrelle would be no more than a detestable memory, and so would this weak, shrivelled body with its flabby flesh and spindly limbs. Even the vicomtesse de Malicorne would be forgotten. Because while she would emerge from this rebirth just as young and beautiful as before, she would also be stronger, animated by a determination that nothing and no one could shake. For now, however, she was still an old woman who waited trembling amid the intoxicating vapours, her back tense, almost arched, her chin lifted, and her eyes closed.
The Enchantress also had her eyes closed.
Kneeling on the other side of the basin built into the floor, she chanted in a low voice, absorbed in her work. Warm blood ran from her slit wrists, as if endowed with a life of its own, slipping across the stone slabs to join the darker pool that already filled the vat. A spectral form emanated from the Enchantress, which could only be detected in the shadow on the wall behind her: that of a dragon whose power, still constrained, seemed to resonate from the bowels of the earth.
The vicomtesse knew that the crucial moment had arrived.
She took one step forward, plunged a foot into the blood, and struggled to contain a moan of pleasure at the burning sensation which, like a tongue of inner fire, filled her entire being.
4
Advancing at a trot in the middle of the countryside, still several leagues from the Château de Mareuil-sur-Ay, the small column of musketeers escorting their prisoner came across a coach sitting still at the side of the road. Leprat, riding at the front, saw it first. He immediately raised a hand, ordering his fifteen musketeers and the sealed wagon they escorted to come to a halt behind him. The dust settled slowly in their wake, without a breath of wind to disperse it.
Squinting beneath the brim of his hat, Leprat studied their surroundings, pressing both hands against the pommel of his saddle, his shoulders hunched slightly forward. The journey had proceeded, until now, without incident despite his fears. After three days, he had even begun to imagine that the Black Claw had renounced any intention to do the marquis de Gagnière an evil turn, or that it remained ignorant of the fact that he was being transferred, or how, or where. But that was no reason to abandon all precautions.
A musketeer joined Leprat and drew up his mount alongside him. It was Durieux, a gentleman of thirty years with a sharp eye and an austere face who spoke little and displayed a disconcertingly deadpan sense of humour. He always had good advice. Leprat had made him his second-in-command.
‘Your opinion, Durieux?’ he asked.
The musketeer took time to observe the scene in his turn.
‘The terrain is hardly favourable for an ambush,’ he replied. ‘But the ruse may lie therein.’
They were not far from the town of Épernay. The road was crossing a charming corner of the Champagne countryside, green and peaceful. The weather was superb. In the distance they could see a sheepfold, but other than the coach there was no sign of a living soul.
‘I’ll go and see,’ announced Leprat.
‘Is that very wise?’
‘Keep your eyes open and take command if necessary.’
‘Never fear. If you should meet some misadventure, I’ll make sure that someone other than Sardent writes your funeral eulogy.’
Leprat spurred his horse forward, smiling broadly at Durieux’s jest, and crossed the distance to the coach at a full trot. He identified one individual as the coachman and, inside the vehicle, he could make out a shadow with whom a gentleman, leaning on the passenger door, one boot on the footboard and hat in his hand, was making conversation. The musketeer slowed and approached at a walk. Seeing him, the gentleman covered his head and advanced with a friendly smile. He was young, richly dressed, and attractive, moving with a supple grace.
‘Hello there!’ he hailed, raising his arm.
Leprat halted his horse, but kept one hand close to the pistols tucked into his saddle holsters. He did it with a perfectly natural air, as the gentleman gave no signs of hostility or wariness, but there were cases of murderers with even more innocent-looking faces. The true danger, moreover, could lie within the coach.
‘I am Leprat, King’s Musketeer. Is there a problem, monsieur?’
‘A broken wheel, monsieur,’ replied the other man with a strong Italian accent.
He stepped aside to point to the coach, whose left rear wheel was indeed broken. It was a very common accident, given the poor state of French roads.
‘I’ve sent my man ahead on my horse to the next relay station,’ the Italian continued to say, ‘but we’ve been waiting two hours for him and the wretch has still not returned.’
‘I fear that I cannot be of great assistance to you.’
‘We are accompanying a lady of quality, monsieur. And I see that a harnessed vehicle follows you. If you could offer this lady a seat as far as the next village, one of us will remain here with the coa
ch, while the two others could follow you.’
‘This wagon, whose escort I command, is in no way suitable for a person of quality. Moreover, the only available place is next to the coachman. Even were there no question of decorum, the discomfort would be great. The sun, the dust, the jolts—’
‘—are all inconveniences that I shall put up with, monsieur Leprat,’ said a clear, feminine voice. ‘You must remember that I am not one to be deterred by mere trifles. And furthermore, I have the feeling that we are going to the same place …’
Leprat then watched as a ravishing young red-headed woman descended from the coach.
A spy, a courtesan, and a schemer. Her name was Alessandra di Santi.
Otherwise known as La Donna.
III
Bois-Noir
1
The Gentleman, sitting in an armchair, was talking to the red dragon whose massive, scaly head, adorned with a set of three bony ridges, could be seen in the mirror, glimmering slightly in the dimness.
‘Everything will be ready,’ he promised in a grave, concerned tone.
‘Good,’ the Heresiarch replied with a tone of authority. ‘And since that settles the final details for the next Assembly, I would like to touch on another subject with you.’
The Gentleman was immediately on edge, but he tried not to show it. Was this about La Malicorne? It would soon be two whole days and nights that the Enchantress had spent performing the ritual intended to restore the former vicomtesse’s power and magnificence. She was working here, secretly, in the crypt below the Hôtel des Arcanes. Could the Heresiarch already have learned of this?
‘La Donna is in France,’ the red dragon announced.
The news caught the Gentleman unprepared. He needed a few seconds to gather his wits and understand what the Heresiarch was talking about.
‘La Donna? But didn’t the Black Claw promise to rid us of her?’
