by Pierre Pevel
“English steel?”
“Perhaps.”
“A clever move.”
Laincourt bowed slightly.
“I attended a good school, monseigneur.”
Richelieu dismissed the compliment with a vague gesture, as one might wave away an annoying insect.
“This person of whom we speak, do they know the nature of the paper you have entrusted to them?”
“Certainly not.”
“So what do you propose?”
“Monseigneur, you are misleading when you say you desire to find this letter.”
“Really?”
“Because instead you wish to destroy it, don’t you? What you desire, above all, is that this letter should remain unread by anyone, ever.”
The cardinal sat back in his armchair and signalled to the secretary to stop writing.
“I think I guess your intentions, monsieur de Laincourt. You want your life and your liberty, and in return you would pledge that this overly compromising letter remains where it is. And thus it would continue to guarantee your safety: if I were to incarcerate you for too long, or kill you, its secret would be revealed. But what guarantees can you offer me in return?”
“Nothing will protect me from you if I reveal the secret of this letter, monseigneur. And I know that wherever I go, it will never be far enough to escape you. If I want to live—”
“But do you want to live, monsieur de Laincourt?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, think instead of your masters. Think of the Black Claw. The lever that you employ with me will not work with them. On the contrary, the Black Claw has every interest in seeing the secret that binds us be revealed. So, who will protect you from them? I should even say: who will protect us from them?”
“Do not trouble yourself on that account, monseigneur. With respect to the Black Claw, I have also made certain arrangements.”
The cardinal then drew the secretary’s attention and indicated the door. The man understood and went out, taking his writing tablet with him.
“You also, monsieur,” said Richelieu addressing Saint-Georges.
The captain at first thought he had misheard.
“Excuse me, monseigneur?”
“Leave us, please.”
“But monseigneur! You cannot seriously think I would leave you!”
“Never fear. Monsieur de Laincourt is a spy, not an assassin. Besides, I only need to call out to have you return, is that not so?”
Regretfully, Saint-Georges left the room and as he was closing the door, he heard: “You are most decidedly a very prudent man, monsieur de Laincourt. Explain to me what this is all about.…”
14
“He no longer lives here, messieurs.”
“Since how long?”
“Some time.”
La Fargue and Leprat were questioning the owner of an inn on rue de la Clef, in the faubourg Saint-Victor. While Almades guarded the horses outside, the other two had taken a table, ordered wine, and invited the innkeeper to bring a third glass for himself.
“Have a seat, monsieur. We’d like to talk to you.”
The man hesitated for a moment. Wiping his big red hands on his stained apron, he looked around the room, as if making sure that he had nothing better to do. Then he sat down.
La Fargue knew that Castilla, the chevalier d’Ireban’s companion in debauchery, had been lodging here. Unfortunately, that was no longer the case.
“Be more precise, if you please. When did he leave?”
“Let me see.… It was about a week ago, I think. He took his things one night and never returned.”
“In a hurry, then.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Had he been lodging here long?” asked Leprat.
“About two months.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“No visitors?”
Suddenly wary, the innkeeper moved back in his chair.
“Why these questions, messieurs?”
The other two exchanged a look and La Fargue spoke again.
“Castilla has debts. He owes money, lots of money, to certain people. These people wish to recover what is owed them. They would prefer that their names not be mentioned but they are willing to be most generous. You understand?”
“I understand. Gambling debts, is it?”
“Indeed. How did you guess?”
The innkeeper had the satisfied smile of one who, without saying anything, wants to give the impression of knowing much.
“Bah.… Just an idea, like that—”
“His room,” Leprat interrupted. “We want to see it.”
“Well …”
“What? Have you let it to someone else?”
“No, but Castilla has paid for the month. Whether he uses the room or not, it is still his. Would you be happy to think I had opened the door to your room for strangers?”
“No,” conceded La Fargue.
“So what do I tell him if he returns tomorrow?”
“You shall tell him nothing. And what’s more, you shall send word to me at the address that I shall indicate to you shortly.…”
The captain drew from his grey doublet a purse—small but full—which he pushed across the table to the innkeeper. It was swiftly snatched up.
“Follow me, messieurs,” said the man as he rose.
They accompanied him upstairs where the innkeeper unlocked a door thanks to a ring of keys attached to his belt.
“This is the room,” he announced.
He pushed the door open.
The room was modest but neat, with walls daubed in beige and an unpolished wood floor. The sole furniture consisted of a stool, a small table upon which was placed a water pitcher and a basin, and a stripped bed whose straw mattress was folded back. A chamber pot was turned over on the sill of the window that opened onto the street.
The place had been tidied up and, perfectly anonymous, awaited a new lodger. The two Blades exchanged glances and sighed, doubting that they would find much of interest here.
Nevertheless, to allow Leprat a chance to inspect the room in peace, La Fargue kept the innkeeper busy in the corridor.
“You didn’t tell us if Castilla had any visitors.…”
“Only one, in truth. A very young cavalier, another Spaniard like him. Castilla addressed him as ‘chevalier,’ but they seemed to be close friends.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Something like … Oberane … Baribane …”
“Ireban?”
“Yes! The chevalier d’Ireban. That’s it.… Does he also have debts?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Between those two, it was often a question of whether to visit madame de Sovange. And why would they go to see madame de Sovange, if not to gamble?”
“What did he look like, this Castilla?”
Without shutting it completely, Leprat pushed the door until it was ajar, under the pretext of looking behind it. He then conducted a thorough search of the room.
He did not know what he was looking for, which didn’t make the task any easier. He knocked on the walls and floor, looked in corners, prodded the straw mattress, and examined its seams closely.
In vain.
The room concealed no secret. If Castilla had ever possessed anything of a compromising nature, he had taken it with him.
The former musketeer was about to give up when by chance he looked out the window and down into the street. What he saw there or rather who he saw there—made him instantly go still.
Malencontre.
Malencontre who, wearing his leather hat and a bandage on his left hand, was being directed toward the inn by a passerby. He gazed up toward the room’s window, stiffened in surprise and promptly turned tail.
“Merde!” swore Leprat.
He knew that he would never catch the hired assassin if he took the stairs. He shoved open the window, causing the chamber pot to smash on the f
loor, and jumped out into the air just as La Fargue—drawn by the noise—came into the room.
Leprat landed near Almades in front of the inn. But he had forgotten the wound to his thigh. Pain shot through his leg and he crumpled with a loud yelp that alarmed people in the street. Unable to stand, grimacing, and cursing at himself, he nevertheless had the presence of mind to point out Malencontre to the Spanish master of arms.
“There! The leather hat! Quick!”
Malencontre was moving away, almost running, jostling people as he went.
As he set off in pursuit, Almades heard Leprat yelling at him from behind: “Alive! We need him alive!”
The Spaniard had already lost sight of the assassin when he arrived at the corner of rue de la Clef and rue d’Orléans. He climbed onto a cart that was being unloaded and, paying no heed to the protests he was raising, looked further down the street. He spotted the leather hat just as Malencontre was turning into an alley. He leaped into the crowd, banging his hip into a stall which tipped and spilled its vegetables onto the paving stones. He did not stop, pushing aside anyone who did not get out of his way quickly enough, provoking shouts and raised fists in his wake. Finally, he reached the alley.
It was deserted.
He drew his sword.
La Fargue left the inn with his rapier in his fist, only to find Leprat twisting in agony on the ground, clenching his teeth and holding his thigh with both hands. Some kind souls came over to help him, but they hung back upon seeing the captain.
“Blast it, Leprat! What the hell … ?”
“Malencontre!”
“What?”
“Leather hat. Bandaged hand. Almades is after him. I’ll explain later. That way! Quick!”
La Fargue took a pistol from the saddle of his horse and dashed off down the street.
Step by cautious step, Almades inched his way through silent alleys as narrow as corridors in a building. He had left the noises of the crowded streets behind him and he knew his prey had stopped running. Otherwise he would have heard his footsteps. The man was hiding. Either to escape from his pursuer, or to set an ambush for him.
Careful …
The attack came suddenly, from the right.
Emerging from a recess, Malencontre struck with a log he had taken from a woodpile. Almades raised his sword to protect himself. The log hit the rapier’s hilt violently, dislodging the weapon from the Spaniard’s grip. The two men immediately shifted to hand-to-hand fighting. Each held the right wrist of the other, grunting as they wrestled, bouncing off the walls of the alley, both of them receiving jarring blows as their backs collided with the rough stone. Then Almades drove his knee hard into the assassin’s side. Malencontre lost his hold but succeeded in landing a sharp blow with the log to the temple of his opponent. Stunned, the Spaniard reeled and then stumbled backward. His vision blurred while his ears filled with a deafening buzz. The universe seemed to lurch dizzily about him.
Dimly, he perceived Malencontre unsheathing his rapier.
Dimly, he perceived him preparing to deliver the fatal stroke while he himself slid down the wall to a sitting position on the ground, vanquished.
And as if wrapped in some woolly dream, he scarcely heard the detonation at all.
Malencontre fell in a heap.
At a distance of ten metres, La Fargue was pointing a pistol with a smoking barrel.
15
There were three riders waiting at Place de la Croix-du-Trahoir, which was a modest square in the neighbourhood near the Louvre, where rue de l’Arbre-Sec met rue Saint-Honoré. Silent and still, they sat on their horses near the fountain with an ornamental cross which gave its name to the square. One of them was a tall gentleman with a pale complexion who had a scar on his temple. Not many passersby would have recognised the comte de Rochefort, the cardinal’s henchman. But his sinister bearing never failed to disturb those who saw him.
Drawn by a handsome team, a coach without any coat of arms pulled up.
Rochefort descended from his horse and gave his reins to the closer of the two other riders, saying: “Wait for me.”
And then he climbed into the coach which immediately drove off.
The leather curtains were lowered, so that the interior of the vehicle was bathed in ochre shadow. Two white wax candles were burning in wall holders fixed to either side of the rear bench of the coach. A very elegant gentleman had taken a seat on this bench. With thick long hair and greying temples, he wore a brocade doublet with braids embellished by gold and diamonds. He was in his fifties, a respectable age for these times. But he was still robust and alert, and even exuded a physical charm that was enhanced by maturity. His moustache, as well as his royale beard, was perfectly trimmed. A thin scar marked his cheekbone.
By comparison, the man sitting to his right was rather undistinguished.
Short and bald, he was modestly dressed in a brown outfit with white stockings and buckled shoes. His manner was both humble and reserved. He was not a servant, yet one perceived him to be a subordinate, a commoner who had risen above his state by dint of zeal and hard work. He was perhaps thirty or thirty-five years in age. His features were of a type that did not attract much notice and were easily forgotten.
Rochefort was seated opposite these two persons, with his back to the direction of travel.
“I’m listening,” said the comte de Pontevedra in perfect French.
Rochefort hesitated, glancing at the little man.
“What? Is it Ignacio who worries you … ? Forget him. He does not matter. He is not here.”
“So be it.… The cardinal wishes you to know that the Blades are already at work in this matter.”
“Already?”
“Yes. Everything was prepared. It only remained for them to answer the call.”
“Which they did promptly, I suppose.… And La Fargue?”
“He is in command.”
“Good. What does he know?”
“He knows that he is searching for a certain chevalier d’Ireban, whose disappearance upsets Madrid because he is the son of a Spanish grandee.”
“And that is all?”
“Just as you wished it.”
Pontevedra nodded and took a moment to reflect, the candlelight highlighting his forceful profile from the side.
“La Fargue must remain unaware of the true underpinnings of this affair,” he said finally. “It is of the utmost importance.”
“His Eminence has seen to that.”
“If he should discover that—”
“Do not be concerned about this, monsieur le comte. The secret you evoke is well guarded. However …”
Rochefort left his sentence unfinished.
“Well, what?” said Pontevedra.
“However, you should know that the success of the Blades is by no means certain. And if La Fargue and his men should fail, the Cardinal is anxious to know what—”
The other interrupted: “It is my turn to reassure you, Rochefort. The Blades shall not fail. And if they do, it will be because no one could succeed.”
“And so Spain …”
“… will keep its word, come what may, yes.”
Once again, Pontevedra looked away.
He suddenly seemed struck by great sadness, and in his eyes there was a flicker revealing a profound worry.
“The Blades shall not fail,” he repeated in a strangled voice. But rather than asserting a sense of conviction, he seemed to be addressing a prayer to Heaven.
16
By the time they reached the Hôtel de l’Épervier, Leprat was barely hanging on to his saddle and Malencontre was laid over Almades’s horse. La Fargue called out, summoning everyone into the courtyard. They took care of Leprat first, Agnès helping him walk while Guibot closed the gate. Then Ballardieu and the Spaniard carried Malencontre into the house. Following the captain’s instructions, they stretched him out on an unused bed, tucked away in a windowless cubbyhole.
“What happened?” asked Marciac when h
e returned from his bedroom with a dark wooden case.
“Later,” replied La Fargue. “See to him first.”
“Him? What about Leprat?”
“Him first.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s called Malencontre.”
“And … ?”
“And he must live.”
The Gascon sat down on the bed facing the unconscious wounded man, and set the case down at his feet. Bound in iron, it took the shape of a small chest that could be carried easily using a leather grip nailed to its curved lid. It was a surgeon’s kit. Marciac opened it but did not touch any of the sinister-looking instruments—blades, saws, hammers, pincers—it contained. He leaned over Malencontre and began, with a great deal of care, to remove the bloody bandage wrapped about the assassin’s skull.
“What happened to him?”
“I fired a pistol ball into his head,” explained La Fargue.
With a smirk, Marciac turned toward the captain.
“And he must live? Would it not have been better to not bash his head in, for starters?”
“He was going to kill Almades. And I wasn’t aiming at his head.”
“No doubt that will console him and help him to heal.”
“Do your best.”
Marciac was left alone with the patient.
* * *
He rejoined the others in the main room a little later.
“Well?” asked La Fargue.
“He will live. Your pistol ball only scraped across the bone, and the man has a hard head.… But I don’t think he will be up to answering questions for a while. In fact, he still hasn’t regained his senses.”
“Merde.”
“Indeed. May I take care of Leprat now?”
The captain nodded, looking troubled and preoccupied.
Leprat had been installed as comfortably as possible in an armchair, with his leg stretched out and resting on a footstool. A large rip in his breeches exposed his wounded thigh, which Naïs was finishing washing with warm water and fresh linen.
“Naïs, let me take your place, please.”
The pretty servant got up, looked at the surgeon’s kit curiously, and gave the Gascon a searching glance.
