The Cardinal's Blades (25 page)

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, commercial, 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.

The gentleman nodded, left the salons, and found his way to a small courtyard used by servants and suppliers. A hired sword waited for him there. Booted, gloved, and armed, both his clothes and his hat were of black leather. A patch—also made of leather and covered with silver studs—masked his left eye, but not enough to hide the rash of ranse that spread all around it. He had an olive complexion and angular features. Dark stubble covered his hollow cheeks.

“Malencontre has not returned,” he said with a strong Spanish accent.

“We will worry about that later,” Gagnière decreed.

“So be it. What are your orders?”

“For the moment, Savelda, I want you to gather some men. We will act tonight. This business has already gone on too long.”

19

The riders reached the old water mill as sunset bathed the landscape in flaming golds and purples. There were five of them, armed and booted, all them belonging to the Corbins gang, although they did not wear the distinctive large black cloaks. They had been riding for some distance since leaving the forest camp where most of the gang was currently to be found and they preferred not to be recognised as they made their way here.

The first body they saw was the lookout’s, lying in front of the miller’s house, stretched out close to the chair he’d been sitting in when Saint-Lucq had surprised and stabbed him.

One of the riders dismounted and was immediately copied by the others. A stocky man in his fifties, he owed his nickname Belle-Trogne, or “handsome mug,” to his battered, scarred face. He took off his hat, wiped away the sweat beading his completely bald skull with a leather-gloved hand, and said in a rough voice: “Search everywhere.”

As the men scattered, he entered the house and found two lifeless corpses close to the fireplace, then a third lying a little further away. They were lying in congealed puddles that offered a feast to a swarm of fat black flies. The smell of blood was mixed with that of dust and old wood. Nothing could be heard except for the buzzing of insects. The evening light came through the rear windows at a low angle that cast long sepulchral shadows.

The Corbins who had gone to inspect the rest of the property soon returned.

“The prisoner has gone,” said one.

“Corillard is with the horses in the shed,” announced another.

“Dead?” Belle-Trogne asked to put his mind at rest.

“Yes. Strangled while he shat.”

“God’s blood, Belle-Trogne! Who could have done such a thing?”

“A man.”

“Just one? Against five?”

“There was no fight. They were all murdered in cold blood. First Corillard in the shed, then Traquin in front of the house. After that, Galot and Feuillant in here, while they were eating. And Michel last of all.… One man could have done that.… If he were good …”

“I don’t want to be the one who tells Soral.…”

Belle-Trogne didn’t reply, instead going to squat near the last body he had mentioned. The man called Michel was lying in the open doorway to the room where the Corbins had been sleeping—pallets and blankets attested to the fact. Feet bare, shirt outside his breeches, his forehead had obviously been split open by the poker that had fallen close by.

“It happened early in the morning,” confirmed Belle-Trogne. “Michel had just woken.”

He stood back up and then something caught his attention. He frowned, counting the pallets.

“Six beds,” he said. “One of ours is still missing.… Have you looked everywhere?”

“The kid!” exclaimed one Corbin. “I forgot all about him, but don’t you remember? He insisted on taking part and Soral finally—”

He didn’t finish.

Muffled thumps could be heard and the brigands, by reflex, all drew their swords.

The thumping came again.

Belle-Trogne in the lead, the brigands went back into the common room, cautiously approaching a cupboard. They opened it suddenly and found the sole survivor of the massacre.

Gagged, bound, eyes reddened and wet, a boy aged about fourteen looked up at them with an expression that was both imploring and scared.

20

Night had fallen, but at madame de Sovange’s house fires and candles provided a warm light that reflected off the gold, the crystal, and the mirrors. The women looked radiant in their elaborate attire and the men were almost equally resplendent. All of them were dressed as if making an appearance at the royal court. Indeed, some of those present had come straight from the court, avid for the distractions and conversation that Louis XIII would not tolerate at the Louvre. But here, at least, away from their dull, timid king who only had a taste for the pleasures of the hunt, one could find amusement in agreeable company. It was possible to converse, laugh, gossip, dine, drink and, of course, gamble.

There were billiard tables upstairs, upon which madam de Sovange’s guests tapped at ivory balls with curved canes. Here and there were chess sets, chequers, and trictrac boards left at the guests’ disposal. Dice were being rolled. But above all, cards were being played.
Piquet
,
hoc
,
ambigu
,
impériale
,
trente et un
,
triomphe
—all of these games involved gambling on an ace of hearts, a nine of clubs, a wyvern of diamonds, or a king of spades. Fortunes were lost and won. Inheritances could disappear with an unlucky hand. Jewels and acknowledgements of debts were snatched up from the felt mat, along with piles of gold coins.

Abandoned by Marciac at the first opportunity, the so-called madame de Laremont wandered through the salons for a while, and turned away a few presumptuous seducers before allowing one old gentleman to court her. The vicomte de Chauvigny was in his sixties. He still maintained a handsome bearing but he was missing several teeth, which he tried to hide by holding a handkerchief to his mouth when he spoke. He was friendly, amusing, and full of anecdotes. He wooed Agnès without any hope of success for the sole pleasure of gallant conversation, of which he was a master and which no doubt summoned up memories of his many past conquests as a dashing cavalier. The young woman willingly let him continue, as he spared her from having to endure less welcome attentions and was unknowingly providing her with precious pieces of information. She had already learned that the chevalier d’Ireban and Castilla had indeed been made welcome at the Hôtel de Sovange, that Ireban had not made an appearance here for some time, but that Castilla, even if he never remained for long, continued to visit almost every evening.

Trying in vain to catch a glimpse of Marciac, Agnès saw a dumpy little woman whose austere manner, surly glance, and plain black gown jarred with the setting. She skulked about, pillaging the plates of pastries, and kept a watchful eye on the proceedings as if she were searching for something, or someone. No one seemed to notice her and yet everyone avoided her.

“And her? Who is she?”

The vicomte followed the glance of his newfound protégée.

“Oh! Her … ? That’s La Rabier.”

“Who is … ?”

“A formidable moneylender. Permit me, madame, to give you some advice. Sell your last gown and embark for the Indies in your nightshirt rather than borrow money from that ghoul. She will suck your blood down to the very last drop.”

“She doesn’t look so terrible.…”

“That is an error in judgment that others have repented from too late.”

“And she is allowed to carry on?”

“Who would stop her … ? Everyone owes her a little and she is only cruel to those who owe her a lot.”

Casting a final wary glance over her shoulder, La Rabier left the room.

“Would you like something to drink?” asked Chauvigny.

“Gladly.”

The vicomte left Agnès but was quick to return with two glasses of wine.

“Thank you.”

“To you, madame.”

They clinked glasses, drank, and the old gentleman said in a conversational tone: “By the way, I just saw that Spanish hidalgo you were asking me about a short while ago.…”

“Castilla? Where?”

“There, at the door. I think he’s leaving.”

“Please excuse me,” said Agnès handing her glass over to Chauvigny, “but I simply must speak with him.…”

She hurried over to the door and recognised Castilla from the description given by the innkeeper from the rue de la Clef. Slender, handsome, with a thin moustache and very dark eyes, he was descending the front steps, greeting a passing acquaintance in his strong Spanish accent.

Agnès hesitated to accost him. Under what pretext? And to what end?

No, it would be better to follow him.

The problem was that Ballardieu was nowhere to be found and she could not imagine herself trailing Castilla around Paris at night in her slippers and evening gown. If only Marciac deigned to reappear!

Agnès cursed silently.

“Is there a problem?” madame de Sovange asked her.

“No, madame. None at all.… Isn’t that monsieur Castilla who is just leaving?”

“Yes, indeed it is. Do you know him?”

“Would you happen to know where the marquis is?”

“No.”

Masking her anxiety, the young woman returned to the salon, ignoring Chauvigny, who smiled at her from afar, searching for Marciac. She passed before a window and caught sight of Castilla, crossing the porch. At least he was on foot.…

The Gascon, finally, appeared at a door.

Given the circumstances, Agnès paid no heed to the grave expression on his face.

She caught him by an elbow.

“Good grief, Marciac! Where have you been?”

“Me … ? I—”

“Castilla was here. He just left!”

“Castilla?” replied Marciac as if hearing the name for the first time.

“Yes, Castilla! Damn it, Marciac, pay attention!”

Eyes closed, the Gascon took a deep breath.

“All right,” he finally replied. “What do you wish from me?”

“He left the mansion on foot. If no one is waiting for him in the street with a carriage or a horse, you can still catch him. He was dressed as a cavalier with a red plume on his hat. See where he goes. And don’t let him get away!”

“Understood.”

Marciac headed off, watched from behind by Agnès.

The young baronne remained pensive for a moment. Then, seized by a doubt, she pushed open the door through which the Gascon had just emerged. It led to a windowless antechamber, lit by a few candles.

Busy nibbling from a plate of almond paste sweets, La Rabier greeted Agnès with a polite, reserved nod of her head.

21

The same night, Saint-Lucq saw Rochefort in an antechamber within the Palais-Cardinal. They exchanged a brief nod of the head, each taking note of the other’s presence without further ado. It was a salute between two professionals who knew one another but were otherwise indifferent to each other.