The Cardinal's Blades (20 page)

“Agnès!”

“Hello, Marciac.”

“Agnès! Will you permit me to embrace you?”

“I will allow that.”

They hugged in a friendly fashion, although the young woman had to restrain a hand that had gone wandering down the small of her back before they separated. But the happiness which the Gascon displayed on seeing her again seemed sincere and she did not want to spoil it.

“What a delight, Agnès! What a delight … ! So, you too, you’re back in the game?”

Agnès indicated the steel signet ring she wore over her grey leather glove.

“By my word,” she said. “Once in …”

“… always in!” Marciac completed for her. “Do you know how many times I have thought of you over the past five years?”

“Really? Was I dressed?”

“Sometimes!” he exclaimed. “Sometimes!”

“Knowing you, that’s a very pretty compliment.”

Almades, who had left the window, emerged from the front door of the main building.

“Welcome, Agnès.”

“Thank you. I’m very pleased to see you. I’ve missed your fencing lessons.”

“We can continue them at your pleasure.”

During these effusions, Guibot had toiled to open the two great doors of the carriage gate. This done, the coach entered, driven by Ballardieu, who jumped down from the seat and, pipe between his teeth, smiled broadly. Once again, the greetings were jubilant and noisy, in particular between the old soldier and the Gascon: these two shared quite a few memories of bottles emptied and petticoats lifted.

They had to unhitch the coach, tow it into the stables, unload the luggage, and settle the horses in their stalls. This time everyone lent the porter a hand, all the while forbidding Agnès from lifting a finger to help. She wasn’t listening, but happily made acquaintance with the charmingly shy Naïs who had been drawn from her kitchen by the sound of raised voices.

La Fargue, in his turn, arrived.

Without entirely putting a damper on their joyful mood, his presence did cause them to lower their tone slightly.

“Did you have a good journey, Agnès?”

“Yes, captain. We hitched up the horses upon receiving your letter and we have burned our way through the staging posts getting here.”

“Hello, Ballardieu.”

“Captain.”

“It’s still a sad place,” said the young woman, indicating the sinister grey stones of the Hôtel de l’Épervier.

“A little less now,” said Marciac.

“Is that everyone, captain?”

Looking stern and proud, girded in his slate grey doublet, and with his hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword, La Fargue blinked slowly and paused before replying, his gaze drifting toward the carriage gate.

“Almost, now.”

The others turned and immediately recognised the man standing there, with a white rapier at his side, smiling at them in a way which might have been melancholic or simply sentimental.

Leprat.

9

On Sundays and feast days, when the weather was fine, Parisians were happy to travel beyond the capital for their pleasure. Once past the
faubourgs the country villages of Vanves, Gentilly, and Belleville, and the market towns of Meudon and Saint-Cloud offered hospitable inns where all could drink, dance, play bowls beneath the trees, or simply partake of the cool shade and fresh air. The atmosphere was joyful and people took liberties or, in the eyes of some, indulged in scandalous licence. And it is true that spontaneous revels of lovemaking at times took place there in the evenings, enlivened by wine and a desire to taste all of life’s pleasures. There being fewer customers during the week, these establishments then became retreats which were visited mainly for their tranquillity and the quality of their table—such as Le Petit Maure, in Vaugirard, renowned for its peas and strawberries.

Saint-Lucq and Bailleux had temporarily found refuge in one of these inns. Having jumped into the river through a window in the water mill where the notary had been held captive, they successfully escaped the cavaliers who had come to collect their prisoner but were also carried far from their horses by the current. Rather than turn back toward their enemies Saint-Lucq had decided they would continue on foot. They therefore walked for several hours through woods and across fields, scanning the horizon on constant lookout for signs of pursuit, and arrived, exhausted, at a village with a hostelry standing by its entrance.

For the time being Lucien Bailleux found himself alone in a room on the first floor. Sitting at a table laid for the purpose, he ate with a ferocious appetite born of three days’ captivity, poor treatment, and fasting. He was still in his nightshirt—the same one he had been wearing when he was dragged from his bed in the middle of the night. But at least he was clean, after his forced bath in the river. Thin, his face drawn, and his hair falling across his eyes, he looked exactly what he was: a survivor.

He gave a sharp, worried glance toward the door when Saint-Lucq entered without knocking. The half-blood brought a package of clothes which he threw onto the bed.

“For you. They belonged to a guest who left without paying.”

“Thank you.”

“I also found us two saddled horses,” continued Saint-Lucq, risking a quick glance out of the window. “Can you ride?”

“Uh.… Yes. A little.… You think the cavaliers are still after us?”

“I’m sure of it. They want you and they’ve not given up the fight.… The bodies of the brigands I killed at the mill were still warm when they arrived and as a result, these cavaliers know they only missed us by a tiny margin. And if they found the horses I had planned to use in our flight, they also know there are two of us, and that we are on foot. They are no doubt scouring the countryside for us at this very moment.”

“But we’ll escape them, won’t we?”

“We’ll have a chance if we don’t delay. After all, they don’t know where we’re going.”

“To Paris?”

“Not before we’ve reclaimed that document. Not before we’ve put it in a safe place. Get dressed.”

A little later, Bailleux was just finishing dressing when he broke down. He dropped onto the bed, put his face in his hands, and burst into sobs.

“I … I don’t understand,” was all he managed to say.

“What?” said the stone-faced half-blood.

“Why me? Why has all this happened to me … ? I’ve led the most orderly of lives. I studied and worked with my father before inheriting his position. I married the daughter of a colleague. I was a good son and I believe I am a good husband. I’m charitable and I pray. I conduct my business with honour and honesty. And in return, I have asked for nothing but to be allowed to live in peace.… So why?”

“You opened the wrong testament. And, what is worse, you let that fact be known.”

“But it was my duty as a notary!”

“Undoubtedly.”

“It’s not fair.”

To that, Saint-Lucq did not reply.

From his point of view, there was no fairness in life. There were only strong men and weak ones, the rich and the poor, the wolves and the sheep, the living and the dead. That was how the world was, and how it would always be. Anything else was merely fiction.

He approached the notary in the hope of encouraging him to get a grip on himself. The notary rose suddenly and hugged him hard. The half-blood braced himself as the other spoke: “Thank you, monsieur. Thank you.… I don’t know who you are, in truth. I don’t know who sent you.… But without you … my God, without you … ! Believe me when I say that you have my eternal regard, monsieur. There is nothing, from now on, that I could refuse you. You saved me. I owe you my life.”

Slowly but firmly, Saint-Lucq moved away from him.

Then, his hands resting on Bailleux’s shoulders, he gave him a shake and ordered: “Look at me, monsieur.”

The notary obeyed and the crimson spectacles returned his gaze.

“Do not thank me,” continued Saint-Lucq. “And do not trouble yourself any further with the question of who employs me, or why. I do what I do because I’m paid to. If I had been required to kill you, you would be dead. So never thank me again. My place is neither in sensational novels, nor in the chronicles of our times. I’m not a hero. I’m only a swordsman. Contrary to your opinion, I do not deserve anyone’s esteem.”

Initially incredulous, Bailleux was visibly hurt by this declaration.

Finally, still looking dazed, he nodded and pulled on the beret the half-blood had brought him.

“We should hurry,” concluded Saint-Lucq. “Each minute that passes is a minute lost.”

The notary left the room first and while he climbed gracelessly into the saddle in the courtyard the half-blood paused inside for a moment to pay the landlord and slip a few words into his ear. The man listened to his instructions attentively, then nodded and pocketed an additional piece of gold.

Less than half an hour after Saint-Lucq and Bailleux left, armed riders arrived. The landlord was waiting for them on the doorstep.

10

In the dining room of the Hôtel de l’Épervier, the Cardinal’s Blades finished their lunch.

Seated at the head of the rough oak table, La Fargue spoke very seriously with Leprat and Agnès. Marciac listened, close by, and occasionally made an interjection but otherwise contented himself with rocking back and forth on his chair and shuffling a deck of cards which, inevitably, then turned out to have all four aces on top. Almades, silent, waited. As for Ballardieu, he digested his lunch while smoking a pipe and sipping the last of the wine, not without casting longing glances at Naïs’s backside as she cleared the table.

“Pretty girl, isn’t she?” Marciac said to him, seeing the old soldier ogling the comely young woman.

“Yes. Very.”

“But not very talkative. Almost mute.”

“I see an advantage there.”

“Really? What a strange idea.…”

They had all been somewhat apprehensive of this meal, which, following the immediate and genuine rejoicing of their initial reunion, would force them to take the true measure of their friendship. What remained of the people they had been? One never knows what friends lost from sight for a long time may have become and the circumstances which led to the disbanding of the Blades during the siege of La Rochelle had laid a mournful veil over the memories of its members. This veil, however, soon lifted and the previous ties between them were quickly reestablished.

As was entirely natural, the distribution of the Blades around the table indicated their affinities as well as the resumption of old habits. Thus the captain presided over the table, in close council with Agnès and Leprat, whom he consulted with ease, the musketeer even acting as a lieutenant within the very informal organisation of the Blades. Marciac, remaining somewhat aloof, was one of those who knew their own value and abilities but preferred to stay on the margins, never showing himself to be unworthy and who would consider it an insult if he were ordered about. Serious and reserved, Almades waited to be called upon. And Ballardieu, accustomed to long preludes before battle, took advantage of any moment of peace.

Only three Blades, out of the original band, were missing. One of them had vanished as if the twisted shadows from which he had emerged had engulfed him once again after La Rochelle. The other had been a traitor and no one, yet, had dared to speak his name. And the last one, finally, had perished and his loss was a wound which continued to bleed in the memories of all present.

As Naïs left the room with the last plates, Agnès glanced with a question in her eye at La Fargue, who understood and nodded. The young woman rose and said with deep feeling: “I believe, messieurs, that the time has come to raise our glasses in honour of he whom only death could keep from being here.”

They all stood, glasses in hand.

“To Bretteville!” said La Fargue.

“To Bretteville!” cried the others in chorus.

“To Bretteville,” Agnès repeated in a strangled voice, as if to herself.

The Blades reseated themselves, divided between the joy of having known Bretteville, the pride of having loved this man, and the sorrow of having lost him at the last.

“We have a mission,” La Fargue said after a moment.

They listened.

“It is a matter of finding a certain chevalier d’Ireban.”

“What has he done?” Agnès inquired.

“Nothing. He has disappeared and there is concern for his life.”

“People who have not done anything do not disappear,” Almades declared in a neutral voice.

“A Spaniard?” Marciac was surprised.

“Yes,” said the captain.

“So Spain will be busy trying to find him!”

“That is precisely what the cardinal wishes to avoid.”

La Fargue rose, walked around his chair, and leaned against the back, his hands folded.

“The chevalier d’Ireban,” he repeated, “is the heir to a Spanish grandee. A secret and unworthy heir to the title. A corrupt young man who, under an assumed name, has come to Paris to spend his coming fortune.”

“What is his real name?” asked Almades.

“I don’t know. It seems Spain would like to keep it a secret.”

“No doubt for fear of a scandal,” Ballardieu guessed. “If his father is a grandee—”

“‘If’!” Marciac interrupted. “Should we take everything Spain says at face value?”

La Fargue silenced the Gascon with a glance and continued: “His father is not well. He will soon be dead. And Spain has been seeking the safe return of the son since she first realised he had disappeared. Ireban seems to have vanished suddenly and it is feared he has met with some mishap in Paris.”

“If he was leading a life of debauchery,” noted Agnès, “that’s probable. And if he was keeping bad company, and they realised who he really is—”

“Once again, ‘ifs,’” Marciac emphasised in a low voice.

“Via a special emissary,” La Fargue went on, “Spain has explained the situation, her concerns, and her intentions to our king.”

“Her ‘intentions’?” queried Ballardieu.

“Spain wants Ireban returned and to this end, not to mince words, she is threatening to send her agents into our kingdom if France is not prepared to do what is necessary. That is where we become involved.”