by Pierre Pevel
Marciac was about to leave when he detected suspect noises coming from the direction of rue du Puits-l’Hermite. He hesitated, turned back in his tracks, and risked taking a peek around the corner of a house. A little further down the street a group of hired thugs had gathered around a rider dressed in black leather and wearing a patch with silver studs over his left eye.
These devils are up to some mischief, Marciac thought to himself.
He wasn’t close enough to hear them and he sought in vain a means of approaching them discreetly at street level. He spied a balcony, climbed to it, and then up onto the roofs and then, silently, his left hand holding the scabbard of his sword so it would not knock into anything, he passed from one house to another. His movements were fluid and assured. The gaps that he sometimes had to stride across did not frighten him. He crouched down and finally crawled forward before completing his journey at the tiled roof edge.
“It’s on rue de la Fontaine,” the one-eyed man with a Spanish accent was saying. “You’ll recognise the house, won’t you … ? The girl is alone, so you won’t run into any problems. And don’t forget that we need her alive.”
“You’re not coming, Savelda?” asked one of the thugs.
“No. I have better things to do. Don’t fail me.”
Without waiting for a reply, the man in black spurred his horse and left, while Marciac, still undetected, abandoned his observation post.
23
Laincourt emerged, dirty and unshaven, from Le Châtelet at nightfall. His clothes, hat, and sword had been returned to him, but his guards had relieved him of the contents of his purse. That did not surprise him and he had not sought to make a complaint. Honesty was not one of the criteria in the selection of gaolers. Nor was it demanded of the archers in the city watch or among the lower ranks of those who served the king’s justice. Clerks, halberdiers, scriveners, and turnkeys, all of them found ways of supplementing their ordinary pay.
His stay in prison had left him in a weakened state.
His back, his kidneys, and his neck ached. A migraine lanced through his temples with each beat of his heart. His eyes glittered in pain. He felt the beginning of a fever coming on and dreamed of finding a good bed. He was not hungry.
From Le Châtelet, he could easily reach rue de la Ferronnerie by walking a short distance up rue Saint-Denis. But he knew that his apartment there had been visited—and no doubt ransacked—by the cardinal’s men. Perhaps those assigned with this task even wore the cape. They would have arrived by horseback, broken down the door, made a great deal of noise, and alerted the entire neighbourhood to their activities as they kept the curious at bay. No doubt his neighbours were talking of nothing else right now. Laincourt did not fear their attention. There was nothing to attach him to rue de la Ferronnerie anymore, since Ensign Laincourt of His Eminence’s Guards no longer existed.
He rented another dwelling in secret, where he kept the only possessions that had any importance to him: his books. Despite everything, he resolved not to go there at once and, by way of rue de la Tisseranderie, he went to a square near the Saint-Jean cemetery instead. Out of fear of being followed he made various detours, taking obscure passages and crossing a maze of backyards.
This was the ancient heart of Paris, formed of winding alleys where the sun never shone, where the stinking air stagnated, and where vermin thrived. There was muck everywhere, and in thicker layers than anywhere else. It covered the paving stones, was smeared on the walls, spattered pedestrians’ clothing, and stuck to their soles. Black and foul, it was a mixture of turds and droppings, earth and sand, rot and garbage, of manure, of waste from latrines, of organic residues from the activities of butchers, tanners, and skinners. It never completely dried, ate away at cloth fabrics, and did not even spare leather. According to one very old French proverb, “Pox from Rouen and muck from Paris can only be removed by cutting away the piece.” To protect their stockings and breeches pedestrians were forced to wear tall boots. Others travelled by carriage, or in sedan chairs, or, according to their means, on the back of a horse, a mule, or … a man. When they did their rounds, the few dustmen in Paris only managed to collect a certain amount before dumping their carts at one of the nine rubbish tips, or voieries, situated outside the city. The peasants from the surrounding areas knew the value of Parisian muck, however. They came each day to harvest it and spread it on their fields. Parisians couldn’t help noticing that these tips were cleaner than the capital itself.
Laincourt pushed a tavern door open and entered an atmosphere thick with smoke from pipes and poor-quality candles made of tallow. The place was dirty, foul-smelling, and sordid. All of the customers were silent and despondent, seeming to be crushed by the weight of the same contagious sadness. An old man was playing a melancholy air on a hurdy-gurdy. Dressed in moth-eaten rags and wearing a miserable-looking hat whose folded brim at the front boasted a bedraggled feather, he had a gaunt, one-eyed dragonnet sitting on his shoulder, attached to a leash.
Laincourt took a seat at a table and found himself served, without asking, with a goblet filled with a vile cheap wine. He wet his lips, refrained from grimacing at the taste, and forced himself to drink the rest in order to buck himself up. The hurdy-gurdy man soon ceased playing, to the general indifference of his audience, and came to sit in front of Laincourt.
“You’re a sorry sight, boy.”
“You’ll have to pay for the wine. I don’t have a brass sou to my name.”
The old man nodded.
“How do matters stand?” he asked.
“I was arrested yesterday and released today.”
“Did you see the cardinal?”
“At Le Châtelet, in the presence of Saint-Georges and a secretary who noted everything down. The match has begun.”
“It’s a match in a dangerous game, boy. And you don’t even know all the rules.”
“I didn’t have any other choice.”
“Of course you did! And there may still be time to—”
“You know that’s impossible.”
The hurdy-gurdy player stared into Laincourt’s eyes, then looked away and sighed.
The dragonnet leaped from his master’s shoulder onto the table. It lay down, stretched out its neck, and scratched playfully at a pile of wax that had solidified on the grimy wood.
“I see you are determined to see this whole affair through to the end, boy. But it will cost you, believe me.… Sooner or later, you will be caught between the cardinal and the Black Claw, as between the hammer and the anvil. And nothing you—”
“Who is Captain La Fargue?”
The question caught the old man short.
“La Fargue,” Laincourt insisted. “Do you know who he is?”
“Where … where did you hear this name?”
“He reappeared at the Palais-Cardinal.”
“Really? When was this?”
“The other night. His Eminence received him.… Well?”
The hurdy-gurdy player waiting before saying, as if with regret: “It’s an old story.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know all the details.”
Laincourt grew all the more impatient as he didn’t know the reasons for such reluctance.
“I’m not in the mood to drag this out of you. You’re supposed to keep me informed and serve me, aren’t you?”
But the other man still seemed hesitant.
“Tell me everything you know!” ordered the young man, raising his voice.
“Yes, yes.… All right.…”
The hurdy-gurdy player drank some wine, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and, giving Laincourt a reproachful look, said: “A while ago, La Fargue commanded a group of men who—”
“—carried out secret missions for the cardinal, yes. This much, I already know.”
“They were called the Cardinal’s Blades. There were no more than ten of them. Some would say they did the cardinal’s dirty work for him. Personally, I would say that they
were both soldiers and spies. And at times, it’s true, assassins—”
“‘Assassins’?”
The hurdy-gurdy player made a face.
“The word is perhaps a little strong. But not all of France’s enemies fight on the fields of battle, nor do all of them advance to the beat of drum and preceded by a banner.… I don’t need to tell you that wars can also be waged behind the stage and that many deaths take place there.”
“And for there to be deaths, someone has to cause them.…”
“Exactly. But I remain convinced that the Blades have saved more lives than they have taken. Sometimes you have to cut off a hand to preserve the arm and the man that comes with it.”
“What happened at the siege of La Rochelle?”
Once again surprised, but now on guard, the old man lifted an eyebrow at Laincourt.
“If you’re asking that question, boy, then you know the answer.…”
“I’m listening to you.”
“The Blades were given a mission that, no doubt, was meant to hasten the end of the siege. But don’t ask me the nature of it.… Whatever it was, La Fargue was betrayed.”
“By whom?”
“By one of his own men, by a Blade.… The mission failed and another Blade lost his life there. As for the traitor, he managed to flee.… And as for the siege, you know how it ended. The dam that prevented the besieged forces in the town from being reinforced by sea suddenly broke, the king had to recall his armies rather than risk the financial ruin of the realm, and La Rochelle became a Protestant republic.”
“And after that?”
“After that, there was no longer any question of the Blades.”
“Until today.… What do the Blades have to do with the Black Claw?”
“Nothing. Not to my knowledge, at least.”
The dragonnet had fallen asleep. He snored softly.
“La Fargue’s return no doubt signals the return of the Blades,” Laincourt declared in a low voice. “It must have something to do with me.”
“That’s by no means certain. The cardinal always has several irons in his fire.”
“Be that as it may, I would prefer not to have to watch my flanks as well as my rear.…”
“Then you chose the wrong path, boy … entirely the wrong path.…”
Later, as Laincourt ventured back out into the night, a black dragonnet with golden eyes discreetly took flight from a roof nearby.
24
La Fargue was galloping through Paris at Almades’s side. He had just come out of the Palais-Cardinal and found the master of arms waiting for him with their horses. They rode along the École quay and crossed a deserted Pont Neuf at full speed.
“His Eminence wants Malencontre?” the captain was saying loudly enough to be heard over the hoofbeats. “Very well. I can only bow to his demand. But nothing prevents me from dragging the truth out of the villain before I hand him over!”
“If the cardinal is asking for him, it’s because Malencontre is more valuable than we imagined. No doubt he knows a lot. But about what?”
“Or about who … ? If we believe the cardinal, whatever Malencontre knows has nothing to do with the affair that concerns us. We’ll see about that.…”
A short distance from Pont Neuf, they were forced to halt at the Buci gate.
They went forward at a slow walk between two crenellated towers, beneath a wide vaulted ceiling which made the horses’ hoofbeats echo against the paving stones like shots from a musket. The pikemen of the city militia called their officer over, who examined the riders’ passes in the lantern light and saw a seal—that of the cardinal—which opened gates everywhere in France.
The portcullis was already raised and the drawbridge lowered. But the enormous doors themselves still had to be opened and the sleepy militia soldiers were taking their time to remove the chains, lift the bar, and push the heavy iron-bound panels. They were wasting time that La Fargue knew to be precious.
He grew impatient.
“Hurry UP, messieurs!”
“Malencontre was still doing poorly when we left,” Almades said to him. “He had barely regained his spirits and wasn’t—”
“That doesn’t matter.… I will make him spill what he knows in less than an hour. By force if necessary. Whatever the cost.”
“But, captain—”
“No! I did not agree to hand this devil over in good condition, after all. He doesn’t even have to be alive, come to think of it.…”
At last they were able to pass and spurred their horses on to cross the foul muck-filled ditch before riding quickly through the streets of the faubourg. They burst into rue Saint-Guillaume just as Guibot was closing the gates to the Hôtel de l’Épervier. Almades slowed down, but not La Fargue. He entered at a full gallop, obliging the old porter to jump aside while pushing one of the panels of the coach gate back open. La Fargue’s horse had to pull up abruptly in the courtyard as the captain jumped down from the saddle and rushed over to the main building … and found Leprat sitting, or rather sprawled, on the front steps.
Bare-headed, with his doublet open and his shirt untucked, his wounded leg stretched out before him, the former musketeer was leaning back, supported by his elbows against the last step. He was drinking, without thirst, straight from a wine bottle. His rapier, still in its scabbard, was lying nearby.
“Too late …” he spat. “They took him away.”
“Malencontre?”
Leprat nodded.
“Who?” insisted La Fargue. “Who took him away?”
The other man swallowed a last mouthful, noticed that his bottle was empty, and threw it against a wall where it shattered. Then he picked up his rapier and heaved himself up.
“It looks rather as if, in summoning you, the cardinal only wished to draw you away, doesn’t it?” he replied in a bitter tone.
“Spare me that, will you? And answer my question.”
“Rochefort and his underlings, of course.… They just left. They had an order signed by His Eminence. An order that Rochefort seemed particularly pleased to wave under my nose.”
“I couldn’t have foreseen that! I couldn’t know—”
“Know what?” Leprat flared. “Know that nothing at all has changed? Know that the cardinal continues to play his own game with us? Know that we are puppets with him pulling the strings? Know that we count for so little … ? Go on, captain, did the cardinal even tell you why he was taking Malencontre from us? No, I think not. On the other hand, he was careful not to announce his decision until you were powerless to do anything about it.… That should wake some familiar memories in you. And it stirs up just as many questions.…”
Disgusted, Leprat limped back inside the house.
He left La Fargue behind, who was joined by Almades leading their horses by their bridles.
“He … he’s right,” murmured the captain in a tight voice.
“Yes. But that’s not the worst news.…”
La Fargue turned toward the Spaniard.
“Guibot,” explained Almades, “just told me Rochefort and his men brought a coach in which to carry Malencontre off. That means the cardinal not only knew we were holding him but also that he was not in a fit state to ride a horse.”
“So what?”
“We were the only ones who knew that Malencontre was wounded, captain. Just us. Nobody else.”
“Which means one of us is informing Richelieu on the sly.”
25
After making sure the front door was shut, the young woman extinguished all of the lights except one on the ground floor and, candlestick in hand, walked upstairs protecting the wavering flame with her palm. The candle illuminated her pretty face from below and set two golden points aglow in the depths of her eyes, while the creak of the steps was the only sound to be heard throughout the house.
Once she reached her bedroom, she set down the candlestick on a table and, undoing the chignon that held up her long dark hair, went over to close the window wh
ich had been left ajar behind the curtains. She had started to undo the lacings of her dress when someone seized her from behind and placed a hand against her mouth.
“Don’t cry out,” murmured Marciac. “I won’t harm you.”
She nodded, felt his grip on her relax, and broke free with a vicious blow of her elbow. She rushed to her bedside table and turned around brandishing a stiletto.
Marciac, who suffered less from his painful ribs than from hurt pride, stretched out his hand in an appeasing gesture and, keeping his distance, said in a voice that he also hoped was calming: “You really don’t have anything to fear from me. On the contrary.”
He was worried that she might injure herself.
“Who … who are you?”
“My name is Marciac.”
He stepped cautiously to one side, but the young woman, on her guard, followed the movement with the point of her stiletto.
“I don’t know you … ! What are you doing in my home?”
“I have been hired to protect you. And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
“Hired? Hired by whom?”
The Gascon was willing to gamble here.
“The man who just left you,” he ventured. “Castilla.”
That name caused the wary gaze directed at Marciac to falter.
“Castilla … ? He … he said nothing to me.”
“He was afraid of worrying you unnecessarily. He paid me and told me to stay out of your sight.”
“You’re lying!”
With a swift gesture, he reached out and seized the young woman’s wrist and, without disarming her, forced her to turn around against him. He now had her firmly in his grasp, but he was trying not to hurt her.
“Listen to me closely, now. Time is short. Some hired swordsmen are preparing to abduct you. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know exactly what they want with you. All I know is that I won’t let them have their way. But you must trust me!”
