by Pierre Pevel
Laincourt turned to greet him, suppressing a sigh.
“Monsieur Laborde.”
Like most members of the petty bourgeoisie, the ribbon seller evinced a fearful hatred of the popular masses, despised anyone poorer than himself, envied his equals and deemed them all to be upstarts, was quick to abase himself before those with power, and always felt he needed to wriggle into the good graces of representatives of authority. He dreamed of being able to count Laincourt, an ensign with His Eminence’s horse guards, amongst his customers.
“I invite you to do me the honour of passing by my shop sometime, monsieur. I have received some swathes of satin which, if I am to believe my wife, would look quite wonderful on you if made up into a doublet.”
“Ah.”
“Yes. And you know as well as I do how the ladies have an eye and a taste for such things.”
Laincourt could not stop himself from thinking of Laborde’s wife and the metres of coloured ribbons which adorned the least of her dresses, although in all honesty none of these could be described as “the least” once one had seen the imposing dimensions of the lady in question.
“True elegance is in the detail, isn’t it?” insisted the tradesman.
Detail. Another word which sat poorly with the enormous madame Laborde, who raised her little finger when she sipped her chocolate and gobbled up pastries as though eating for four.
“No doubt,” said Laincourt with a smile which said nothing. “Good day, monsieur Laborde.”
The ensign climbed as far as the second floor and, passing in front of the garret door where the ribbon seller’s maid slept, he entered his own rooms. His apartment was made up of two very ordinary rooms, that is to say: cold and gloomy ones, where the air circulated poorly. But he didn’t have much reason to complain as each had a window—even if one looked onto a dirty courtyard and the other into an alley so narrow that one could touch the opposing wall with an outstretched arm. His furniture was meagre: a bed and a chest for clothes in the bedroom; and a table, a rickety sideboard, and two chairs in the second room. This furniture, moreover, did not belong to him. With the exception of the chest, they had all been there when he arrived and would remain there when he left.
In order not to compromise the impeccable cleanliness of his rooms, Laincourt’s first care was to remove his stained boots, promising himself he would soon clean off the black and stinking muck they had acquired from the Parisian streets. Then he hung his belt from the same nail which held his felt hat with its white plume, and took off his cape.
There were writing implements on the table and Laincourt set to work at once. He had to retranscribe the letter he had read at midday in Charpentier’s—Richelieu’s secretary—tiny study. He copied it out from memory, only he used Latin vocabulary combined with Greek grammar. The result was a text which, while not entirely undecipherable, could not be read by anyone without a perfect knowledge of both languages—which remained the province of scholars alone. The ensign didn’t hesitate even once as he filled a page with lines of cramped writing, and he didn’t release the quill until he had penned the final period.
He was waiting, motionless and impassive, for the ink to dry, when someone knocked on the door. Laincourt turned his head toward it, frowning.
As the knocking was insistent, he resolved to go and open the door. When he did, he saw the Labordes’ servant, a nice girl with pink cheeks who nursed a secret crush on the young ensign of the Cardinal’s Guards.
“Yes?”
“Good morning, monsieur.”
“Good morning.”
“I don’t know if you know, but a gentleman came here.”
“A gentleman.”
“Yes. He asked some questions about you.”
“Questions to which monsieur Laborde no doubt zealously replied.…”
The servant nodded, embarrassed, as if a little of her master’s abject nature reflected on her.
“Did he give his name, this gentleman?” asked Laincourt.
“No.”
“How did he look?”
“He was tall, slightly handsome, with black hair. And he had a scar on his temple.… He did not give any cause for alarm, but he was … frightening.”
The ensign nodded, inscrutable.
At that moment, madame Laborde called out for her maidservant, who made haste to answer the summons.
“Thank you,” said Laincourt, as she took leave with a brief curtsey.
Having closed the door again, he returned to his writing table and slipped the transcription of the letter into a thin leather envelope. He carried it to the chair, lifted the rug, dislodged a floorboard, and hid the secret document before returning everything to its normal place.
Or almost.
As he saw at once, a corner of the rug remained rolled up: an obvious discrepancy which was at odds with the perfect order of the room.
The ensign hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and prepared to leave. He pulled his fouled boots back on, strapped on his belt, took his hat, and threw his folded cape over his shoulder. In the distance, the Sainte-Opportune bell tower tolled the half hour, almost immediately followed by the Saints-Innocents church.
20
At Les Petites Grenouilles, Marciac woke sated and happy in a very rumpled bed, and leaned on an elbow to watch Gabrielle as she brushed her hair, sitting half naked in front of her dressing table. This sight made his joy complete. She was beautiful, the folds of cloth which barely covered her had all the elegance of the drapery of ancient statues, and the light of the setting sun shining through the window made the loose strands of hair at the nape of her slender neck iridescent, flattered her pale round shoulders, and outlined the curve of her satiny back in amber. It was one of those perfect moments when all the harmony of the world is combined. The room was silent. Only the faint sound of the brush caressing her smooth hair could be heard.
After a moment, Gabrielle caught her lover’s gaze in the mirror and, without turning, broke the spell: “You should keep the ring.”
The Gascon saw the prize that he had won in the duel. Gabrielle had removed it from her finger and placed it near her jewel case.
“I gave it to you,” said Marciac. “I shall not take it back again.”
“You need it.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. To repay La Rabier.”
Marciac sat up in bed. Gabrielle, her back still turned to him, continued to brush her hair, saying no more.
“You know about that?” he said.
She shrugged.
“Of course. All secrets are known in Paris. All you have to do is listen.… Do you owe her much?”
Marciac didn’t reply.
He let himself fall back onto the bed, arms opened wide, and contemplated the canopy above his head.
“As much as that?” said Gabrielle in a quiet voice.
“Yes.”
“How did you let it come to this, Nicolas?”
There was both reproach and commiseration in the tone of her voice—a tone which was, ultimately, very maternal.
“I played, I won, I lost triple,” explained the Gascon.
“Mother Rabier is a vicious woman. She can harm you.”
“I know.”
“And the men she employs have blood on their hands.”
“I know that as well.”
Laying her brush down, Gabrielle turned in her chair and fixed Marciac with a clear and penetrating gaze.
“She should be paid. Would this ring be enough?”
“It would be enough to make a start.”
“Then it’s decided.”
They exchanged a smile. A smile full of affection from her, and one full of gratitude from him.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t mention it.”
“I should consult you over every decision I make.”
“If you merely do the opposite of whatever your whim dictates, all will be well.”
Smiling
easily, Marciac rose and began to dress while his mistress drew on her stockings, another spectacle of which he missed nothing.
Then, without preamble, Gabrielle said: “A letter arrived here for you.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“And as you were still furious with me,” guessed the Gascon while lacing his breeches, “you burnt it.”
“No.”
“Not even tore it up?”
“No.”
“Nor crumpled it?”
“You’re infuriating, Nicolas!” exclaimed Gabrielle.
She had almost shouted, and then, stiffening, stared straight ahead.
As they had often teased each other like this, he couldn’t explain her reaction. His chest bare, he watched the woman he loved and detected her anguish.
“What is it, Gabrielle?”
With her index finger, she discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. He approached her and, leaning over her from behind, held her gently.
“Tell me,” he murmured.
“Forgive me. It’s for you.”
Marciac took the letter she held out to him, and understood her distress when he saw the emblem stamped into the red wax seal.
It was that of Cardinal Richelieu.
“I thought …” said Gabrielle in a strangled voice, “I thought that this period of your life was over.”
He had thought so too.
21
The sun was still high when Agnès de Vaudreuil arrived in sight of the village. Her doublet open and her sheathed rapier beating against her thigh, she was covered in the dust raised by her galloping horse’s hooves since she left the manor with all speed. She had pink cheeks and her face shone with sweat. Thrown into disarray by the ride, her long plait was now a mess of loose braids barely held together at their ends, with many full black curls having already escaped completely. Her face, however, still expressed a combination of relentless determination and contained anger. And her gaze remained fixed on the objective toward which her foaming mount progressed without flagging.
From a mere hamlet, the village had grown up around its church at the crossroads between two roads which wound between wooded hills. It was still only a staging post on the Chantilly Road and it owed its incipient prosperity to the Silver Cask, an inn renowned for the quality of its cellar and kitchen, and the amiable company of its serving girls. Local people went there for a glass of wine on occasion and well-informed travellers would happily sleep there—on their outward journey if their business did not require them to be in Chantilly at daybreak, or else upon their return.
Agnès slowed as she passed the first houses. In the streets her horse trod the same beaten ground as on the road, and she guided it into the heart of the village at a trot. In front of the Silver Cask’s porch, the villagers were dispersing. They smiled and chattered with one another, sometimes making grand gestures. One of them climbed onto a mossy stone bench and raised a laugh by miming blows and vigorous kicks up the arse. All of them seemed delighted, as though they were leaving a theatre where they had seen an exceptionally funny farce. Agnès guessed who might be behind this festive mood, which didn’t bode well. Just because the spectators were delighted did not mean that the spectacle itself had been pleasant. In these times, crowds gathered to witness the public punishment of condemned criminals and were greatly amused by the many howls and twitches of the unfortunates being thus tormented.
On seeing the horsewoman pass, some of them doffed their caps, and the clown climbed down from his bench.
“Who is that?” asked someone.
“The baronne de Vaudreuil.”
“Our Lady!”
“As you say, my friend. As you say.…”
The Silver Cask was a picturesque sight with its crooked buildings, its old and beautiful grey stone, its façades covered with ivy, and its red-tiled roofs.
Agnès dismounted just beyond the porch, her spurs jingling as the heels of her riding boots touched the cobblestones of the courtyard. She wiped her shining face with the back of her sleeve, unbound her hair, and shook her head to make her heavy black curls fall into place. Then, dishevelled, dusty, and yet heedless of anyone’s glance, she looked around.
She recognised the innkeeper standing in front of the main building, trying to calm the impatience, if not the anger, of several patrons. Nervous and agitated, they were vying with one another for the chance to roundly scold the man, punctuating each angry point with jabs of their index fingers at his chest. The innkeeper made appeasing gestures expressing his most fawning respect, all the while preventing anyone from entering the building. But his efforts proved unsuccessful. His customers would not be soothed, and Agnès noticed that the appearance of a few of them—if not quite as disorderly as her own—left something to be desired. One had the right sleeve of his doublet, torn at the shoulder, tightly wrapped around his elbow; another, shirt hanging out from his breeches, was pressing a wet cloth against his face; a third was wearing a badly dented hat, and his lace collar hung down miserably.
Finally, remarking on her arrival, the innkeeper excused himself from the gentlemen. They grumbled while he hastened to greet Agnès. On his way, he hailed a stable boy, who abandoned his bucket and pitchfork to busy himself with the baronne’s horse.
“Ah, madame! Madame!”
She walked toward him with a firm step. And as she neither slowed her pace nor changed her course when they met, he was forced to make an abrupt about-turn and trot along at her side.
“What has he done now?” asked Agnès.
The innkeeper was a small, dry, thin man, although sporting a pot belly as round as a balloon. He wore a short waistcoat over his shirt, and his figure was squeezed by the belt of his apron, which fell to his thighs.
“Thank the Lord, madame. You’re here.”
“Rather than heaven, thank the boy you sent to warn me, master Léonard.… Where is Ballardieu? And what has he done?”
“He’s inside, madame.”
“Why are all these people waiting outside?”
“Because their coats or bags are still within, madame.”
“Then why don’t they collect them?”
“Because monsieur Ballardieu will not let anyone in.”
Agnès halted.
Caught unawares, the innkeeper was two steps past her before he followed suit.
“Pardon me, master Léonard?”
“It’s just as I said, madame. He threatens to shoot anyone who opens the door in the head, unless it is you.”
“Is he armed?”
“Only with a pistol.”
“Is he drunk?”
Master Léonard had the air of a man who was not quite certain he understood the question and was afraid of committing a faux pas.
“Do you mean: more drunk than usual?”
The baronne gave an aggravated sigh.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Then yes, madame. He is drunk.”
“Plague on the old tosspot! Can he not indulge within reason?” she said to herself.
“I believe he never learned how, madame. Or else he has no desire to do so—”
“So how did all this start?”
“Ah, well,” the innkeeper hesitated. “There were these gentlemen.… Please note, madame, that they had enjoyed an excellent meal and that it was more the wine than themselves that was talking.…”
“I see. And then?”
“A few of their comments displeased monsieur Ballardieu—”
“—who, in his way, let them know it. Very well, I understand. Where are they, these gentlemen?”
The innkeeper was astonished.
“They’re still inside, madame!”
“So who are those three over there, covered with bumps and bruises?”
“Just those who attempted to intervene.”
Agnès raised her eyes to the sky then continued to walk toward the inn and, in addition, toward those standing outside it. Mas
ter Léonard hurried ahead of her to open a path.
Seeing that she was about to enter, an elegant officer who had only remained to be entertained by the comedy of the situation, said to her: “Madame, I advise you against opening this door.”
“Monsieur, I advise you against preventing me,” the baronne replied in a flash.
The officer drew back his shoulders, more surprised than annoyed. Agnès suddenly understood that he had only meant to be gallant. She softened.
“Never fear, monsieur. I know the man conducting the siege inside.”
“What?” interrupted the man with the dented hat. “You know that raving madman?”
“Have a care with your remarks, monsieur,” said Agnès de Vaudreuil glacially. “He of whom you speak began some work upon you which I could easily complete. And it would cost you a little more than a hat.”
“Would you like me to accompany you?” the officer insisted politely.
“No, thank you, monsieur.”
“Know, nevertheless, that I shall be ready if needed.”
She nodded and entered.
Low-ceilinged and silent, the room had been thrown into an upheaval of fallen chairs, toppled tables, and shattered crockery. Splatters of wine stained the walls where jugs had been broken. Several panes of glass were missing from a window. A serving platter had been cracked. In the hearth, the spit was only held up by one forked support and the counterweight mechanism designed to keep it turning clicked uselessly.
“Finally!” exclaimed Ballardieu in the tone of someone welcoming a long-hoped-for visitor.
He was enthroned in triumph in the middle of the chaos, sitting on a chair, one foot leaning against a supporting beam to balance himself. His red velvet doublet was open over his massive chest, hairy and sweating, and his smile was huge, seeming full of reckless joy despite—or perhaps because of—his split lip and swelling eye. Ballardieu was one of those who took delight in a good brawl.
