Cardinal's Blades

by Pierre Pevel

  But Ballardieu, to the great relief of his innocent victim, passed almost at once from anger to compassion and regret.

  “No, friend. Forgive me. It’s my fault.… Here, take my hand.”

  The lampoonist found himself catapulted upward rather than simply raised.

  “I offer my apologies. You’ll accept them, won’t you? Yes? Good man! Nothing broken, I hope.… Good, I would happily pay for the brushing of your clothes but I’m short of time. I promise to buy you a drink when next we meet. Agreed? Perfect! Good day, friend!”

  With these words, Ballardieu went on his way, while the other man, still tottering and dazed, an idiotic smile on his lips, bade him farewell with a hesitant wave.

  Far ahead of him, Naïs had fortunately taken no notice of the incident and he had to quicken his pace in order not to lose sight of her. After Pont Neuf she followed rue Saint-Denis, then rue de la Vieille-Cordonnerie, came out on rue de la Ferronnerie, and went up rue Saint-Honoré, which Ballardieu had never known to seem so long. They passed in front of the scaffolding of the Palais-Cardinal and went as far as rue Gaillon, into which Naïs turned. Recently absorbed by the capital by the construction of wall know as “Yellow Ditches,” this former faubourg was foreign territory to Ballardieu. He was about to discover its layout, its houses, and its building sites.

  Opposite rue des Moineaux, Naïs crossed a large porch that opened onto a courtyard full of people and animation, overlooked by a strange tower that stood at the end, like an oversized dovecote. A sign hung over the entrance where one could read the words: “Gaget Messenger Service.”

  “‘Gaget Messenger Service’?” muttered Ballardieu with a frown. “What’s this, then?”

  Seeing a passerby, he asked him: “Excuse me, sir, what is this place of business?”

  “There? Why it’s the Gaget Messenger Service, of course!”

  And the man, in a hurry like all Parisians and as lofty as most of them, walked away.

  Feeling his temper rise, Ballardieu sucked in his cheeks, took a deep breath in the vain hope of controlling the murderous impulses that had entered his head, and caught up with the passerby in a few strides, gripping him by the shoulder and forcing him to spin round.

  “I know how to read, monsieur. But what is it exactly?”

  He was breathing hard through his nose, was red-faced again, and his eyes were glaring dangerously. The other man realised his mistake. Turning slightly pale, he explained that the company owned by Gaget offered customers a postal service using dragonnets, that this service was both rapid and reliable, although somewhat expensive, and …

  “That’s enough, that’s enough …” said Ballardieu, finally releasing the Parisian to go about his business.

  He hesitated for a moment over whether or not he should enter and then decided to take up a position at a discreet distance in order to wait and to observe—after all, Naïs might go elsewhere next. It wasn’t long before the old soldier saw a familiar figure come out of Gaget’s establishment.

  It was not Naïs.

  It was Saint-Lucq.

  5

  La Fargue and Almades had no trouble finding the house Cécile had indicated, which stood at the fringe of the faubourg Saint-Denis where the buildings faded away into open countryside. It was surrounded by an orchard enclosed by a high wall, in the middle of a landscape of fields, pastures, small dwellings, and large vegetable gardens. The spot was charming, peaceful, and bucolic, yet was less than a quarter-league from Paris. There were peasants working in the fields and herds of cows and sheep grazing. To the east, beyond some leafy greenery, the rooftops of the Saint-Louis hospital could be seen.

  Along the way they had encountered a band of riders coming in the other direction at full gallop, forcing them to draw aside toward the ditches. In normal circumstances they would have taken little notice of them. But the band was headed by a one-eyed man dressed in black leather who strongly resembled the individual Marciac had surprised the night before, organising the abduction of the young Cécile Grimaux.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences of this kind,” La Fargue had commented as they watched the riders disappear toward Paris.

  And, after a meaningful look in reply from Almades, they both promptly spurred their mounts in an effort to arrive at their destination as quickly as possible.

  They did not slow down until they reached the gate. It was opened wide onto the path that led straight through the orchard to the house.

  “Are your pistols loaded?” asked the old captain.

  “Yes.”

  Riding side by side, all their senses alert, they advanced up the path between rows of blossoming trees. The air was sweet, full of delicate fruity fragrances. A radiant morning sun dispensed a light that was joyfully greeted by birdsong. The foliage around them rustled in the gentle breeze.

  There were two men standing in front of the small house. On seeing the riders approaching at a walk, they came forward, curious, craning their necks to see better. They were armed with rapiers and wearing doublets, breeches, and riding boots. One of them had a pistol tucked in the belt that cinched his waist.

  “Who goes there?” he challenged in a loud voice.

  He took a few more steps, while the other stood back and placed the sun behind him. At the same moment a third man emerged from the doorway to the house and remained close to the threshold. La Fargue and Almades observed these movements with an appreciative eye: the three men were perfectly positioned in case of a fight.

  “My name is La Fargue. I’ve come to visit a friend of mine.”

  “What friend?”

  “The chevalier de Castilla.”

  “There is no one by that name within.”

  “Yet this is his dwelling, is it not?”

  “No doubt. But he just left.”

  The man with the pistol was trying to appear at ease. But something was worrying him, as if he was expecting something irremediable to happen at any minute. His companions shared his anxiety: they were in a hurry to finish whatever they were doing and wanted these untimely visitors to turn round and leave.

  “Just now?” asked La Fargue.

  “Just now.”

  “I’ll wait for him.”

  “Come back later, instead.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever you please, monsieur.”

  Almades was leaning forward like a tired rider, his wrists crossed over the pommel of his saddle, hands dangling just a few centimetres from the pistols lodged in his saddle holsters. His glance sweeping out from under the brim of his hat, he observed his potential opponents and knew which of them—taking into account, among other things, the layout of the place—he would have to take on if things went badly. With his index, middle, and ring fingers he idly tapped out a series of three beats.

  “I would be obliged,” said La Fargue, “if you would inform the chevalier of my visit.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Will you remember my name?”

  “La Fargue, was it?”

  “That’s right.”

  The hired swordsman at the doorstep was the most nervous of the three. He kept glancing over his shoulder, seeming to watch something going on inside the house which was likely to be coming out soon. He cleared his throat, no doubt signalling to his accomplices that time was running short.

  The man with the pistol understood.

  “Very well, messieurs,” he said. “Goodbye, then.”

  La Fargue nodded, smiling, and pinched the felt brim of his hat in farewell.

  But Almades sniffed: a suspect, alarming odour was tickling his nose.

  “Fire,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth to his captain.

  The latter looked up at the chimney of the house, but could see no plume of smoke rising from it. On the other hand, in the same instant he and the Spaniard caught sight of the first curls of smoke obscuring the windows from within, on the ground floor.

  The house was burning.

 
; The assassins realised their secret was discovered and reacted instantly. But Almades was faster still, seizing his pistols, extending his arms, and firing simultaneously to the right and the left. He killed both the man on the doorstep and the other man who had been hanging back with two balls that drilled into the middle of their respective foreheads. The detonations startled his horse, which whinnied and reared, forcing La Fargue’s steed to take a step to one side. The last man had meanwhile drawn his pistol and was taking aim at the captain. But his shot missed La Fargue, who, struggling to control his mount, had to twist round in his saddle in order to return fire. He hit his target nevertheless, lodging a ball in the neck of his opponent, who collapsed in a heap.

  Silence returned to the scene just as suddenly as the previous violence had been unleashed. With La Fargue removing a second pistol from its holster, he and Almades dismounted, taking cover for a moment behind their horses, observing the house and its surroundings for signs of any other enemies.

  “Do you see anyone?”

  “No,” replied the Spanish master of arms. “I think there were only three in all.”

  “No doubt they stayed behind to make sure the fire took good hold.”

  “That means there’s something inside that must disappear.”

  Rapiers in their fists, they rushed into the house.

  Fires had been set at several points and thick black smoke attacked their eyes and throats. But the danger was not yet significant, although it was too late for there to be any hope of extinguishing the conflagration. While Almades rushed up the stairs to the floor above, La Fargue took charge of inspecting the ground level. He went from room to room without finding anything or anyone, until he spied a small, low door, just as the Spaniard came back down.

  “There’s a room up there with a chest full of clothing for both a man and a woman. And there are theatre face paints.”

  “Let’s look in the cellar,” decided the captain.

  They opened the small door, went down some stone stairs, and there, in the dim light, found Castilla half naked and bloody, still suspended by his wrists, having been left to perish in the blaze that was beginning to ravage the entire house. At his feet lay the heavy chain that had served to torture him.

  La Fargue supported his weight while Almades cut him down. Then they carried him, hastily crossing the ground floor where flames were already licking at the walls and attacking the ceilings. They stretched the unfortunate wretch out on the grass at a safe distance from the house.

  Castilla was agitated, moaning and mumbling in spite of his weakened state. Something urgent was forcing him to call upon his last reserves of strength. La Fargue leaned over him and brought his ear close to the man’s swollen lips.

  “What is he saying?” inquired Almades.

  “I don’t know exactly,” answered the captain, straightening up on his knees. “Something like … ‘garanegra’?”

  “Garra negra,” murmured the Spaniard, recognising his mother tongue.

  La Fargue shot him an intrigued look.

  “The Black Claw,” Almades translated.

  6

  It didn’t take Saint-Lucq long to spot Ballardieu.

  His instinct, initially, had led him to suspect that he was being watched from rue des Moineaux as he left the Gaget Messenger Service. To confirm this, the half-blood entered a bakery nearby. When he reappeared in the street he was nibbling innocently on a little tart, but took the opportunity to survey his surroundings from behind the red lenses of his spectacles. Without seeming to do so, he took careful note of Ballardieu’s round, weathered face among the ordinary passersby.

  The presence of the old soldier surprised him but was not a cause for worry. Obviously, Ballardieu had latched onto his trail after following Naïs, the servant from the Hôtel de l’Épervier. This could only be at Agnès’s request. All that remained was to find out why.

  The previous evening, on returning from a delicate mission, Saint-Lucq had learned both that the Blades had resumed service and that he would be rejoining them under the direct command of La Fargue. The captain, however, had wished to keep the half-blood in reserve and it was agreed that he would await his orders at the Gaget Messenger Service. This idea had not displeased him. It indicated that the captain wished to keep a card up his sleeve, and that he was to be this card. But to be played against whom, and to what end? Did La Fargue mistrust someone within the Palais-Cardinal, or even among the Blades themselves? Saint-Lucq had not deemed it necessary to ask the question. Nevertheless, there was something fishy going on and Agnès de Vaudreuil, evidently, had not taken long to come to the same conclusion. Hence the appearance of Ballardieu on the half-blood’s heels.

  With La Fargue’s letter in his pocket, thanks to Naïs, Saint-Lucq proceeded at a steady, tranquil pace as far as the quays along the Seine, which he then followed upstream. Then, by way of the Pont Neuf and the elegant Place Dauphine, he arrived at the Palais de la Cité. He had concluded that he needed to shake Ballardieu from his tail without seeming to do it on purpose, in order not to arouse his suspicions and, above all, those of Agnès, who seemed to be dancing a strange pas de deux with La Fargue. The half-blood’s loyalty was to his captain first, and the Palais de la Cité was ideally suited for an impromptu game of hide-and-seek. At one time the seat of royal power, it was now, among other things, the most important court of law in the French kingdom, housing fourteen of the twenty-nine jurisdictions in Paris within a jumble of buildings dating back to the Middle Ages.

  Saint-Lucq entered via rue de la Barillerie, and then through a gate flanked by two turrets. Beyond were two courtyards to either side of the Sainte-Chapelle. The courtyard on the left was that of the Chamber of Accounts: full of horses, carriages, and shops spilling over from the neighbouring streets, its walls were hung with signboards displaying the names and portraits of criminals at large. The Mai courtyard lay to the right, giving access to a staircase and then a gallery leading to the Salle des Pas Perdus. This immense, high-ceilinged, dusty, and noisy waiting room had been rebuilt in stone after a fire in 1618. It was swarming with people—lawyers, prosecutors, and clients who chattered and argued, often shouting and sometimes even coming to blows in a heated atmosphere aggravated by all the legal chicanery. But the plaintiffs and the men of law in their long black robes were not the only individuals haunting the place. It was also invaded by a multitude of curious onlookers and customers of the two hundred and twenty-four shops which occupied the galleries and passageways within the Palais. All sorts of trifles were sold in these small shops whose keepers called out to potential buyers: silks, velvets, lace, bibelots, jewellery, fans, precious stones, hats, gloves, cravats, books, and paintings. They were favoured as meeting places; elegant ladies strolled here, and handsome messieurs gave the glad eye to all of them.

  Saint-Lucq had little trouble losing Ballardieu in this populous maze. After wandering about in an apparently innocent fashion, he suddenly found a hiding place and watched from afar as the old soldier hurried straight on. The half-blood quickly left the Palais, feeling quite pleased with himself.

  He was then free to return to the mission which La Fargue had entrusted to him. He crossed the Seine by the Petit Pont and went to rue de la Fontaine in the faubourg Saint-Victor. There he found a house that he was supposed to first search and then keep an eye on. It was the dwelling of a young woman—a certain Cécile Grimaux—whom the Blades were protecting after some hired swordsmen had tried to abduct her the previous night. Marciac had foiled their attempt, proof that the years had not changed him in the least and that he was still as gifted as ever at playing the valiant knight rescuing demoiselles in distress. Whatever anyone thought of this, such occasions were rare and when they did present themselves, they always seemed to favour the Gascon.

  The house was small, modest, and discreet; on the side facing the street, only the shutters and windows distinguished it from its neighbours on this weekday morning. After a quick and unobtrusive look at the
place, Saint-Lucq went around to the rear, into the garden, and found a window that had already been broken into and left open. He entered cautiously, subjected the ground floor to a rigorous examination, found signs of a fight—or at least a violent upheaval—in the stairway, continued up to the next floor, and noted a certain disorder and the wide-open window through which Marciac and his protégée had no doubt made their escape to the rooftops.

  Nothing indicated that Cécile’s rooms had been searched. Saint-Lucq therefore performed this task with some hope of success, starting with the more obvious hiding places before narrowing his focus. Fortune smiled upon him. In a jewellery box, among various rings, necklaces, and earrings of no great value, he found a curved nail that caught his interest. He then had only to guess at what this nail might be used to dislodge. As it turned out, it was a small stoneware tile in a corner of the bedroom, beneath a small table which—having been moved too often—had left some faint scuff marks on the floor.

  Saint-Lucq sighed upon discovering this cache, half pleased to exhume the handwritten documents within, half disappointed by the trivial ease of this paltry treasure hunt.

  He was worth better than this.

  7

  At the Hôtel de l’Épervier, Marciac had slept for less than two hours when he rejoined Leprat in the main room. The musketeer was still sitting in the same armchair near the fireplace, now gone cold, his wounded leg stretched out before him with his foot propped on a stool. Restless from inactivity, he continued to mope, but at least he had ceased drinking. He was still a little inebriated, however, and feeling drowsy.

  Marciac, in contrast, seemed full of energy. He smiled, his eyes shone, and he displayed a vitality and joie de vivre that quickly exasperated Leprat. Not to mention the unkempt—but artfully maintained—state of his attire. The Gascon was every bit the perfect gentleman, dressed in a doublet with short basques and a white shirt, with his sword in a baldric and boots made of excellent leather. But he wore it all in a casual manner that betrayed his blind faith in his personal charm and his lucky star. The doublet was unbuttoned from top to bottom, the collar of his shirt gaped open, the sword seemed to weigh nothing, and the boots were desperately in need of a good brushing.