by Pierre Pevel
Her left fist holding the cloth tight against her chest, Agnes trampled over the dress and the ruffled underskirts she had worn the day before. Her white stockings still sheathed her long legs. With her free hand she lifted and shook a number of wine bottles before finding one that wasn’t empty. She poured the dregs into a glass and carried it to the window, letting the warm May breeze caress her. From the first floor she had a view over the courtyard of her manor and the surrounding countryside, reaching as far as the distant glimmer of the Oise river.
Agnes sipped her wine and waited for dawn to come.
By daybreak the sheet had slipped a little, revealing a mark on her shoulder blade-a mark which worried some of her lovers and prompted a few to comment that Agnes had something of a witch about her. Remaining at the window, she toyed distractedly with a signet ring she wore around her neck. The jewel, set in tarnished steel, was etched with a Greek cross with arms capped by fleur-de-lis, and crossed by a rapier. Agnes heard the man rise from the bed behind her. She released the ring and thought of covering her shoulder but didn’t turn as he dressed and left the room without a word. She saw him appear in the courtyard and wake the coachman sleeping beneath the harnessed carriage. The whip cracked, the horses snorted, shaking their heads, and the vehicle of this already forgotten gentleman was soon nothing more than a cloud of dust on the stony road.
Life soon began to stir in the manor, as the surrounding village bell towers signalled the first mass of the day. Agnes de Vaudreuil finally left the window when she saw a valet taking orders from the ostler outside the stable. She performed a rapid toilette and hastily braided her long hair. She changed her stockings, did up her breeches, pulled on a wide-collared shirt, and, over it, an old red leather corset. She chose her best riding boots, then belted on the baldric and sheathed rapier which hung by the door.
The blade had been made for her especially, forged in Toledo from the best steel. She unsheathed it to admire its perfect straightness, its beautiful shine, its suppleness and keen edge. She sketched a few feints, parries, and ripostes. Finally, with her thumb, she made a spike as long as her hand spring from the pommel, fine and sharp-edged like a Florentine dagger, which she admired with an almost loving gleam in her eye.
3
On its completion, the Palais-Cardinal would comprise a splendid main building, with two long wings, two courtyards, and an immense garden which stretched between rue de Richelieu and rue des Bons-Enfants. But in 1633, it was still little more than the original Hotel d’Angennes, acquired nine years earlier, although its new, illustrious owner, determined to have a residence in Paris appropriate to his station, was busy having it enlarged and embellished. He was so determined, in fact, that when he was put in charge of the city’s new fortifications he seized the opportunity to extend his domain into the vast area which the old ramparts had occupied, rebuilding the walls further to the west from the Saint-Denis gate to the new gate of La Conference. The capital gained as much as the cardinal from this enlargement: new streets were laid out and new districts were born where only wasteland and ditches had existed before, including the creation of a renowned horse market and the beginnings of the neighbourhoods of Montmartre and Saint-Honore. But Richelieu was condemned to live with the builders a while longer in the Hotel d’Angennes. The imposing facade of his palace, on rue de Saint-Honore, would still take years to complete.
Thus it was that, at eight o’clock in the morning, Ensign Arnaud de Laincourt entered the Palais-Cardinal by passing beneath a large scaffold which was already loaded with workmen. The musketeers who had just opened the wrought-iron gates recognised him and gave him a military salute to which he responded before entering the guard room. This area, with its one hundred and eighty square metres of floor space and its monumental chimney, was where ordinary visitors waited to be summoned. There were already a score of them in attendance, but above all the room was crawling with men in red capes, as it was here that guards who had ensured the safety of His Eminence all night were relieved by those who, like Laincourt, had arrived to take their shift. Rows of muskets-loaded and ready to fire-were arranged on the racks. The light fell from high south-facing windows and conversations blended into a hubbub which echoed beneath the wainscoting.
Slender and athletic, Arnaud de Laincourt was approaching thirty. He had dark eyebrows, crystalline blue eyes, a straight nose, smoothly shaven cheeks, and pale skin. His fine features had a strange charm, youthful yet wise. It was easier to imagine him studying philosophy at the Sorbonne than wearing the uniform of the cardinal’s horse guards. Nevertheless, he carried the plumed felt hat and the white gloves, and wore the cape blazoned with a cross, along with the sword hanging from the regulation leather baldric which crossed his chest from his left shoulder. Moreover, as an ensign he was an officer-a junior officer according to the military hierarchy then in force, but an officer nonetheless, and one who was promised a lieutenancy, so highly did Richelieu regard him.
He was saluted again and, as was his habit, he courteously returned the salute with a personal reserve which discouraged idle chatter. Then he took one of the small books known as sextodecimos from his russet red leather doublet and, intending to read, went to lean against a pillar close to two guards sitting by a pedestal table. The youngest, Neuvelle, was only just twenty-six and had not been with the guards for more than a few weeks. His companion, on the other hand, was turning grey. He was called Brussand, was a good forty years of age, and had served with the Cardinal’s Guards since the formation of the company seven years earlier.
“Still,” said Neuvelle in a lowered voice, “I would love to know who the man His Eminence received in such secrecy last night was. And why.”
When Brussand, leaning on the card table, did not react, the young man insisted: “Think about the fact that he did not pass through the antechambers. The musketeers who guard the little gate were ordered to do nothing but announce his arrival, and not ask questions. All the other guards were kept away. And it was Captain Saint-Georges in person who escorted him to the cardinal’s apartments and accompanied him back!”
“Our orders,” Brussand finally replied, without raising his eyes from his game of patience, “were to be deaf and blind to all that concerned this gentleman. You should not have watched the doors.”
Neuvelle shrugged.
“Pff… What harm did I do?… And anyway, I only caught a brief glimpse of a silhouette in the corner of a very dark corridor. He could have shook hands with me without my recognising him.”
Brussand, still absorbed by his game, smoothed his salt-and-pepper moustache without comment, then with an air of satisfaction laid the wyvern of spades, which had appeared at the opportune moment, upon the previously troublesome knave of hearts.
“All these mysteries intrigue me,” Neuvelle blurted.
“They shouldn’t.”
“Really? And why is that?”
Although he gave no sign, Brussand, unlike his young companion, had noticed Laincourt’s discreet arrival.
“Would you explain it to him, monsieur de Laincourt?”
“Certainly, monsieur de Brussand.”
Neuvelle watched Laincourt, who turned a page and said: “Accept that there are secrets into which it is better not to pry, nor even to pretend to have stumbled across. It can prove to be harmful. To your career, of course. But also to your health.”
“You mean to say that-”
“Yes. I mean to say exactly that.”
Neuvelle mustered a weak smile.
“Go on! You’re trying to frighten me.”
“Precisely. And for your own good, believe me.”
“But I’m a member of the Guards!”
This time, Laincourt lifted his eyes from his book. And smiled.
Neuvelle wore his scarlet cape with a mixture of confidence and pride, convinced, not without reason, that he was protected to the same degree that he had been promoted. Because he entrusted his life to them, Richelieu chose all his guards p
ersonally. He wanted them to be gentlemen of at least twenty-five years in age, and required most of them to have served for three years in the army. Perfectly trained and equipped, subjected to an iron discipline, they were a company of elite horsemen. The cardinal preferred them by far to the company of musketeers-foot soldiers-that he also maintained and which recruited professional soldiers from the ranks of ordinary folk. And he rewarded his guards for their devotion by extending his protection to them in turn.
However…
“To be in the Guards, Neuvelle, is an honour which particularly exposes you to dangers that the common run of people do not even suspect-or which they exaggerate, which amounts to the same thing. We are like the fire dogs before a hearth which holds an eternal flame. This blazing fire is the cardinal. We defend him, but if you draw too near, you risk being burned. Serve His Eminence faithfully. Die for him if circumstances require it. Nevertheless, only listen to what he wishes you to hear. See only that which you are given to see. Guess only at what you are supposed to understand. And be quick to forget the rest.”
His tirade complete, Laincourt peacefully returned to his reading.
He believed the matter was settled, but still Neuvelle persisted.
“But you-”
The ensign frowned.
“Yes?”
“I mean…”
Searching for words, Neuvelle’s eyes implored for help from Brussand, who rewarded him with a black look in reply. The young guard suddenly understood that he had ventured into territory which was delicate, if not dangerous. He would have given a great deal to have been suddenly transported elsewhere and was very relieved when Laincourt chose another target.
“Monsieur de Brussand, have you spoken to monsieur de Neuvelle about me?”
The interested party shrugged his shoulders, as though excusing himself.
“We’re often bored, when we’re on guard.”
“And what have you said?”
“On my word, I said what everyone says.”
“Which is?”
Brussand took a breath.
“Which is that you had intended to become a lawyer, before the cardinal noticed you. That you joined the ranks of his personal secretaries. That he soon entrusted you with confidential missions. That on one of these missions you left France for two years and, when you returned, you took the cape and the rank of ensign. There. That’s everything.”
“Ah…” said Arnaud de Laincourt without betraying any emotion.
There was a silence in which he seemed to reflect on what he had heard.
Finally, with a vague glance, he nodded.
Laincourt returned to his reading while Neuvelle found other things to do elsewhere and Brussand began a new game of patience. A few minutes passed, and then the veteran guard blurted out: “To you, and you alone, Laincourt, I would say-”
“What is it?”
“I know who His Eminence received last night. I saw his outline as he was leaving, and I recognised him. His name is La Fargue.”
“This name means nothing to me,” said Laincourt.
“At one time, he commanded a troop of highly trusted men and carried out secret missions on the cardinal’s behalf. They were called, in a whisper, the Cardinal’s Blades. Then there was some nasty business during the siege of La Rochelle. I don’t know the details but it brought about the disappearance of the Blades. Until last night, I had believed they were permanently disbanded. But now-”
Arnaud de Laincourt closed his book.
“The same prudent advice I gave to Neuvelle also applies to us,” he said. “Let us forget all of that. Without doubt we shall be better off for having done so.”
Brussand, thoughtful, nodded.
“Yes. You are right. As always.”
At that moment, Captain Saint-Georges summoned Laincourt. Cardinal Richelieu wished to go to the Louvre with his entourage, and his escort needed to be prepared. Saint-Georges was taking command and Laincourt, in his capacity as an officer, was to watch over the cardinal’s palace during his absence.
4
Two coaches sat at some distance from each other in a meadow by the road to Paris. Three elegant gentlemen surrounded the marquis de Brevaux by the first coach while, by the second, the vicomte d’Orvand paced alone. He went backward and forward, sometimes stopping to watch the road and the horizon as he nervously stroked his thin, black moustache and the tuft of hair beneath his lower lip and sent impatient looks toward his coachman, who remained indifferent to the entire proceedings but was beginning to feel hungry.
At last, one of the gentlemen detached himself from the group and walked toward d’Orvand, passing through the soft, damp herb grass with a determined step. The vicomte knew what he was going to hear and struck as appropriate an attitude as possible.
“He’s late,” said the gentleman.
“I know. I’m sorry, believe me.”
“Will he come?”
“I believe so.”
“Do you even know where he is, right now?”
“No.”
“No?! But you’re his second!”
“Ah… well, that is to say…”
“A quarter of an hour, monsieur. The marquis de Brevaux is willing to be patient for a little longer-for another quarter of an hour, by the clock. And when your friend arrives, if he arrives, we-”
“Here he is, I believe…”
A richly decorated coach arrived. Drawn by a splendid team of horses, it stopped in the road with a spray of dust and a man climbed out. His doublet was entirely undone and his shirt hung half out of his breeches. His hat in his right hand and his left resting on the pommel of his sword, he kept one boot on the footplate in order to embrace a pretty young blonde leaning toward the open door. This spectacle did not surprise d’Orvand, who did, however, roll his eyes when he saw another farewell kiss exchanged with a second beauty, a brunette.
“Marciac,” murmured the vicomte to himself. “You never change!”
The gentleman charged with conveying the marquis de Brevaux’s complaint returned to his friends while the luxuriously gilded coach made a half turn in the direction of Paris and Nicolas Marciac joined d’Orvand. He was a handsome man, attractive despite, or perhaps even because of, the disorder of his attire. He was in need of a razor and he bore a wide grin on his face. He tottered only slightly and was the very image of a society-loving rake enjoying his evening, entirely heedless of the morrow.
“But you’ve been drinking, Nicolas!” exclaimed d’Orvand, smelling his breath.
“No!” insisted Marciac, shocked. “Well… a little.”
“Before a duel? It’s madness!”
“Don’t alarm yourself. Have I ever lost before?”
“No, but-”
“All will be well.”
By the other coach, the marquis de Brevaux was already in his shirtsleeves and executing a few feints.
“Good, let us finish it,” Marciac declared.
He removed his doublet, threw it on the vicomte’s coach, greeted the coachman and asked after his health, was delighted to learn it was excellent, caught d’Orvand’s gaze, adjusted his shirt, unsheathed his sword, and set out toward Brevaux, who was already walking to meet him.
Then, after a few steps, he changed his mind, turned on his heel without fear of further exasperating the marquis, and pitched his words for his friend’s ear alone: “Tell me just one thing…”
“Yes?” sighed d’Orvand.
“Promise me you will not be angry.”
“So be it.”
“Well then, I have guessed that I am to fight the man in his shirtsleeves who is watching me with that rough gaze. But could you give me some idea as to why?”
“What?” the vicomte exclaimed, rather louder than he had intended.
“If I kill him, I should know the reason for our quarrel, don’t you think?”
D’Orvand was initially lost for words, then pulled himself together and announced: “A gambling debt.”
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“What? I owe him money? Him too?”
“Of course not! Him!… It’s he who… Fine. Enough. I shall cancel this madness. I shall tell them you are unwell. Or that you-”
“How much?”
“What?”
“How much does he owe me?”
“Fifteen hundred livres.”
“Good God! And I was going to kill him…!”
Light-heartedly, Marciac continued to walk toward the furious marquis. He assumed a wobbly en garde stance and declared: “I am at your disposal, monsieur le marquis.”
The duel was speedily concluded. Brevaux took the initiative with assertive thrusts which Marciac nonchalantly parried before punctuating his own attack with a punch that cut his adversary’s lip. Initially surprised, then enraged, the marquis returned to the fray. Once again, Marciac was content to merely defend, feigning inattentiveness and even, between two clashes of steel, stifling a yawn. This offhandedness left Brevaux crazed with anger. He howled, struck a foolish two-handed blow with his rapier, and, without understanding how, suddenly found himself both disarmed and wounded in the shoulder. Marciac pressed his advantage. With the point of his blade, he forced the marquis to retreat to his coach, and held him there.
Pale, breathless, and sweating, Brevaux clutched his shoulder.
“Very well,” he said. “You win. I’ll pay you.”
“I am afraid, monsieur, that a promise is not enough. Pay me now.”
“Monsieur! I give you my word!”
“You have already promised once, and you see where we are now…”
Marciac tensed his arm a little and the point of his rapier approached the marquis’s throat. The gentlemen of Brevaux’s retinue took a step closer. One of them even began to draw his sword while d’Orvand, worried, came forward and prepared to assist his friend if necessary.
There was a moment of indecisiveness on both sides, but then the marquis removed a ring he wore on his finger and gave it to Marciac.
