by Pierre Pevel
“I’m a doctor,” he explained. “Well, almost.… It’s a long, complicated story.…”
This revelation astonished Naïs even more. She turned to Agnès, who nodded in confirmation.
As he busied himself examining the wound, the others explained how Leprat managed to reopen it. Then they told him of the pursuit, the fight between Almades and Malencontre in the alley, and La Fargue’s timely intervention.
“Rest and a crutch,” the almost-doctor prescribed when he finished bandaging the wound. “This is what happens when a patient plays at being an acrobat.”
“I overdid things a bit,” apologised Leprat.
“I suspect you forgot to think before you leaped.… For the next few days, I suggest you eat your meat rare and drink a decent quantity of unwatered red wine.”
“So tell us, what the devil got into you?” intervened La Fargue. “Who is this Malencontre exactly? And what did you want with him?”
They all drew closer to listen, except Naïs and Guibot, who left the room, and Ballardieu, who remained leaning against a wall nibbling on sugared almonds out of a large cornet that he had purchased on the Pont Neuf. Only Agnès had been invited to share them.
“Until this morning,” said Leprat, “I was still with the Musketeers. And yesterday, I carried out a secret mission.… For some time now, the King’s couriers have been attacked, robbed, and murdered on the roads between Brussels and Paris. The first time it occurred, it was thought the courier had merely run into brigands. But there was a second time, then a third, and finally a fourth, despite changes in the itinerary. It was as if the assassins not only knew when couriers were leaving, but also which routes they would take.… A diligent inquiry was conducted by the Louvre. In vain. So it was decided to lay a trap for the enemy.”
“And you were the bait,” guessed Agnès.
“Yes. After arriving in Brussels incognito I came back carrying a letter from our ambassador to the Spanish Netherlands. And it worked: I was ambushed on the border, then in Amiens, and finally at a staging post a few leagues from Paris I was caught and attacked by a group of hired assassins. Only one of them escaped me. Their leader. It was Malencontre.”
“And that’s all?” asked La Fargue.
“Almost.… I didn’t reach Paris until yesterday, during the night. Since my horse was tired and I wasn’t feeling too strong myself, plus as a precaution, I had been taking minor roads. I think Malencontre reached the capital before me. Be that as it may, I rode into an ambush on rue Saint-Denis. And I would have been killed if the pistol ball aimed at my heart had not been stopped by my leather baldric.”
“So where did you acquire the wound to your thigh?” inquired Marciac.
“Rue Saint-Denis.”
“And the one on your arm?”
“At the staging post.”
“And having been fortunate enough to survive a pistol ball, the following day you jumped out of a window.…”
Leprat shrugged.
“I didn’t stop to think.… Malencontre saw me the moment I saw him. He was already fleeing when—”
He cut himself short and turned to Almades.
“I’m sorry, Anibal.”
Head bare, the Spaniard was holding a cool, damp cloth against his temple.
“I let myself be taken by surprise,” he said. “It was my own fault. I’m lucky to get away with just this handsome bump.…”
“Let us return to the matter at hand,” said La Fargue. “What else do you know about Malencontre?”
“Nothing. I know his name, which he told me. And I know that he works for the enemies of France.”
“Spain,” suggested Marciac. “Who else but Spain would wish to know the content of France’s dispatches from Brussels?”
“The whole world,” retorted Agnès. “England, the Holy Roman Empire, Lorraine. Perhaps even Holland or Sweden. Not to mention supporters of the Queen Mother in exile. The whole world. Friends or enemies.…”
“Yes, but the whole world isn’t looking for the chevalier d’Ireban …” said Ballardieu between sugared almonds.
“Malencontre,” explained Leprat, “did not find rue de la Clef by chance. He was being pointed in the direction of Castilla’s inn when I recognised him. It can’t have been a coincidence.”
There was silence, punctuated only by the sound of Ballardieu munching, while each of them reflected on what had been said. Then La Fargue placed his hand on the table and said: “It is useless to lose ourselves in conjecture. This business is more complex than it seems, that’s plain. Let us hope that we learn more from Malencontre when he comes round. But for the moment we have a mission to accomplish.”
“What’s the next step?” asked Agnès.
“It all depends on Marciac.”
“Me?” the Gascon was astonished.
“Yes, you.… Do you know a certain madame de Sovange?”
17
Urbain Gaget was speaking to one of the handlers who worked for his flourishing enterprise when he received word that his merchandise had arrived at the Saint-Honoré gate. The information was transmitted to him by a gangling adolescent who came rushing into the courtyard.
“Finally!” snapped Gaget.
Evening was falling and the Paris gates would soon be closed.
Gaget gave a coin to the boy, went over the final preparations one last time with the handler, and called for his lackey. He was trading his shoes for a pair of clean boots to protect his stockings from the ravages of Parisian muck when Gros François joined him.
“Take a stick,” he told him. “We’re going out.”
Thus escorted by a solid-looking lackey armed with an equally solid stick, he hastened to go and make his payment to the tax collectors.
As he had taken care to add a few pistoles to the tax, the formalities were dealt with swiftly. Soon he was watching the heavy cart enter the queue of travellers and suppliers granted permission to enter the capital. A dense crowd blocked the area around the gate and stretched almost as thickly along rue Saint-Honoré. This had been one of the main Paris roads even before the city’s recent enlargement. Still as busy as ever, it had now been extended as far as the new fortified city wall—called “Yellow Ditches” by Parisians because of the colour of the earth that had been dug from the site—and was so full that it was difficult to make any progress here, with a noisy, restless multitude trying to advance up and down the street.
Loaded down with a dozen cages, each of which sheltered a dragonnet, the cart moved forward at a slow but steady pace behind the oxen pulling it. A peasant held the reins; his partner had given his place on the driver’s bench up to Gaget and was guiding the beasts forward by their bits while Gros François walked ahead and opened a path through the tightly packed mob with some difficulty. Fortunately, their destination spared them from having to follow rue Saint-Honoré into the twisted, populous maze of the old heart of Paris. Instead, they turned onto rue de Gaillon and continued along the street for almost its entire length until they came to the porch of a building opposite rue des Moineaux. In the shadow of Saint-Roch hill with its windmills, it was one of the most attractive areas on the Right Bank—that is to say, the Ville, as it was designated by way of contrast to the Université on the Left Bank and the Cité on its island between them. This new neighbourhood was still under construction in the spring of 1633, but it had already been divided up and was crisscrossed with regular streets and punctuated by numerous gardens as well as a vast esplanade that served as a horse market. As further proof of its success, many beautiful and prosperous-looking private mansions were now being built there.
If it had been located elsewhere in the capital, Urbain Gaget’s property would easily have occupied an entire block. Several stone buildings were arranged around a cobbled courtyard that was strewn with straw. These included a round, slender tower capped with a conical slate roof that was pierced with several rows of semicircular openings. It resembled a dovecote—an oversized one, for inmates who made meals out of d
oves. Dragonnets could be heard moving around inside, mewling and sometimes spitting, accompanied by the brusque flapping of wings.
It was thanks to these small winged reptiles that Gaget would soon be a very rich man and was already a very busy one. He had started out with his father’s business selling ordinary dragonnets in the city markets. Then he turned his attention to the luxury end of the trade, selling creatures with pedigrees or with spectacular physical characteristics to his wealthier customers. But the idea that would make his fortune only came to him later, when he hit upon a method of using dragonnets for a new purpose: a messenger service. Whereas a homing pigeon could only transport a minuscule roll of paper, a dragonnet was powerful enough to carry letters, or even a small package, faster and further than any bird.
The problem was that while dragonnets could be trained to travel between two given points in the same city, they lacked the predispositions of homing pigeons: they went astray or escaped when the distances they covered became too great. His solution was to take advantage of the females’ maternal instinct, an instinct that always brought them back to their egg regardless of the difficulty or length of the journey. Gaget began to displace the females just after they laid their eggs, substituting the real eggs with simulacra when necessary to which the dragonnets would become equally attached and to which they would inevitably return, along with the mail they carried, once they were released. All that was left, after that, was to transport the females back to their point of departure by road.
Without abandoning the retail trade of buying and selling the dragonnets themselves, the breeder was soon able to carry out his new trade with a royal licence granting him a monopoly within Paris and surrounding towns. His messenger service very quickly thrived, linking the capital with Amiens, Reims, Rouen, and Orléans. With the help of relay stations, it was even possible to send mail by air as far as Lille, Rennes, or Dijon.
A slender and rather handsome grey-haired fellow, not lacking in charm, Gaget supervised the unloading of the cart and watched as his employees carried the cages into a building where the dragonnets would remain confined and alone for a few days, until they settled down after the stress of their journey and became accustomed to their new environment. The result of a strict selection process, these particular specimens were destined to be sold and each one was worth a small fortune. They had to be treated with care, for fear that they might injure one another or damage themselves.
Satisfied, the breeder left his handler to examine the reptiles and returned to his office, where tedious paperwork awaited him. He removed his cloak and his boots, realised that he had gone out without wearing a hat, and then gave a start when he became aware of another presence in the room when he had believed he was alone. His heart beating fast, he gave a sigh of relief when he saw who it was. He had quickly discovered that along with the royal licence he held came the expectation of certain discreet services. He owed his new privileges to the cardinal’s intervention and could of course refuse nothing to such a benefactor, especially when he was so honoured to have his trust. Thus the Gaget messenger service became a favoured means of transmitting secret dispatches.
And much else besides.
“I frightened you,” said Saint-Lucq.
He was sitting in an armchair, his hat lowered over his eyes, legs stretched out and crossed, and his heels resting on a window sill.
“You … you surprised me,” explained the breeder. “How did you get in here?”
“Does it matter?”
Quickly recovering his composure, Gaget went to lock the door and close the curtains.
“I’ve been waiting for you to show up for three days,” he said in a reproachful tone.
“I know,” said the half-blood lifting his felt hat.
With a casual air, he began to clean his spectacles with his sleeve. His reptilian eyes seemed to glow in the shadows.
“I received a visit from the comte de Rochefort,” said the breeder.
“What did he want?”
“News. And to tell you that there is some concern about your progress.”
“They are wrong to be concerned.”
“Will you succeed before it is too late?”
Saint-Lucq replaced the spectacles upon his nose and took time to weigh his reply.
“I was unaware that there was any other option.…”
Then he asked: “When will you see Rochefort again?”
“This evening, no doubt.”
“Tell him that the business which worries him so greatly is now settled.”
“Already?”
Saint-Lucq stood, smoothed the front of his doublet, and adjusted his leather baldric, ready to leave.
“Add that the paper is in my possession and I simply wait to learn who I should deliver it to.”
“That I do know. You are to deliver it in person to the cardinal himself.”
The half-blood paused and gave Gaget a curious glance above his red glasses.
“In person?”
The dragonnet breeder nodded.
“As soon as possible, I was told. This very evening, therefore. At the Palais-Cardinal.”
18
The carriage reached the faubourg Saint-Jacques at dusk and followed rue des Postes, to rue de l’Arbalète, before passing through the gates of a large private mansion. Although still useless at this hour, torches were burning in the courtyard where, one by one, passengers were already alighting from their coaches while sedan chairs arrived and elegant horse riders left their mounts in the care of stable boys. Three storeys of tall windows were brightly illuminated from within. Guests were conversing with one another on the front steps as they waited to pay their respects to the mistress of the house. The latter, madame de Sovange, smiled and had a pleasant greeting ready for each of them. Dressed in an elegant court gown she made friendly reproaches to those who did not come often enough, complimented others, and flattered everyone’s sense of vanity with consummate skill.
Then it was Ballardieu’s turn to halt their carriage at the bottom of the stairs. A lackey opened the door and Marciac emerged, elegantly dressed and holding out a hand for Agnès. Coiffed, powdered, and beautifully attired, the baronne de Vaudreuil was stunning in a gown of scarlet silk and satin. It was a somewhat unfashionable dress, however, as no one here failed to notice. Agnès was also aware of this, but she’d had no time to convert her wardrobe to the current fashion. Moreover, she knew she could count on her beauty to see her through, and this faux-pas in fact corresponded with the character she was playing.
“They only have eyes for you,” Marciac murmured as they waited patiently on the front steps.
In fact, she was attracting a number of sideways glances. Wary and sometimes hostile looks from the women, interested and often charmed ones from the men.
“It’s simply justice, isn’t it?” she said.
“You are superb. And what about me?”
“You’re not embarrassing, at least.… To be honest, I wasn’t sure you knew how to shave.…”
The Gascon smiled.
“Try not to stand out too much. Remember who you are this evening.…”
“Do you take me for a debutante?”
They ascended several steps.
“I only see the great and the worthy here,” observed Agnès.
“Only the most worthy. Madame de Sovange’s gaming academy is one of the best frequented in Paris.”
“And they let you in?”
“You are cruel. The important thing is, if Castilla’s landlord told the truth, the chevalier d’Ireban and Castilla liked coming here often.”
“Who is she, by the way?”
“Madame de Sovange? A widow whose dear departed husband left her nothing but debts and who resolved to support herself by opening her salons to the biggest gamblers in the capital.… But her house is not restricted to gambling. There is much intrigue as well.”
“Of what kind?”
“Of every kind. Gallant, commerci
al, diplomatic, political.… You can’t imagine all the things which can be secretly arranged in certain antechambers, between two games of piquet, with a glass of Spanish muscatel in one’s hand.…”
They arrived before madame de Sovange, a dark, plump woman lacking in any real beauty but whose smile and affable manner provoked a sympathetic response.
“Monsieur le marquis!” she exclaimed.
Marquis?
Agnès resisted the temptation to look around for the marquis in question.
“I am delighted to see you, monsieur. Do you know how much we have missed you?”
“I am the first to regret my absence,” replied Marciac. “And do not think I have been unfaithful to you. Important business kept me far from Paris.”
“Has this business been resolved?”
“But of course.”
“How fortunate.”
Still addressing madame de Sovange, Marciac turned slightly toward Agnès.
“Allow me to present madame de Laremont, a cousin of mine who I am showing around our beautiful capital.”
The mistress of the house greeted the so-called madame de Laremont.
“You’re most welcome, my dear.… But tell me, marquis, it seems that all of your cousins are ravishing.…”
“It runs in the family, madame.”
“I will speak more with you later.”
Agnès and Marciac passed through a brightly lit vestibule with all its gilded décor and walked on into a series of salons whose communicating doors had been left wide open.
“And so, you are a—”
“My word,” replied the Gascon, “if Concini was made maréchal d’Ancre, I could very well be a marquis, couldn’t I?”
Neither of them took any notice of a very young and very elegant gentleman who was watching them, or, rather, was watching the baronne de Vaudreuil—no doubt attracted by the dazzling beauty of this unfamiliar woman. If he had been present, Leprat would have recognised the cavalier who had fired a pistol ball into his heart on rue Saint-Denis. It was the marquis de Gagnière, who was discreetly approached from behind by a valet who whispered a few words into his ear.
