The Cardinal's Blades (29 page)

“What a strange question,” she remarked.

Leaning forward, elbows on his thighs and hands clasped, he stared out at a distant point in front of them.

“Among other talents, you are better at delving into people’s souls than anyone else I know. So what do you make of her?”

Agnès turned away from the captain, sighed, and took the time to collect her thoughts and sum up her impressions.

“I believe …” she started to say. “I believe that she lies a little and hides much.”

Inscrutable, La Fargue nodded slowly.

“I would also guess that she was born in Spain,” Agnès continued. “Or has at least lived there for many years.”

She watched him from the corner of her eye and caught his expression. He frowned, straightened up, and asked: “How do you know that?”

“Her Spanish origins cannot be detected from her inflexions. But a few of her turns of phrase could be directly translated from Castilian.”

He nodded again, this time with a worried, resigned air.

A silence ensued.

“What exactly is it that you want to know, captain?” the baronne finally asked in a quiet voice. “Or rather, what do you already know … ? I was next to you when Marciac returned with the girl. I saw how you reacted. You went completely white.…”

On her return from the gambling house, Agnès had found the lights still burning at the Hôtel de l’Épervier despite the late hour and the Blades in turmoil following the abduction—at the cardinal’s orders—of Malencontre by the comte de Rochefort. Frustrated and humiliated, Leprat in particular would not calm down and drank more than was reasonable. Then Marciac had arrived with a woman he had managed to rescue after an epic struggle and they were suddenly faced with other matters of concern.

“I am not yet sure of anything,” La Fargue said. “Go rejoin the others, will you? And do not speak to them of our conversation. I will be with you shortly.”

Agnès hesitated, then rose and went downstairs.

Once he was alone, the old captain withdrew a medallion from his doublet, opened the small carved lid, and lost himself in the contemplation of a miniature portrait. If it had not been painted twenty-five years earlier, it might have been that of the new, mysterious guest at the Hôtel de l’Épervier.

After removing her gown and washing her face, Agnès joined the rest of the Blades in the main room, where the torches provided more light than the faint glimmer of day that entered through the small lozenge-shaped window panes.

Sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, Leprat, with his wounded leg propped on a stool before him, was silently drinking from a bottle. To one side, Almades was sharpening his rapier with a whetstone—three strokes along one edge, three strokes along the other, over and over. At the table, Ballardieu and Marciac partook of a light but solid repast that Guibot, hobbling about on his wooden leg, had served at their request. They drank, but the Gascon, still excited by his recent adventure, spoke more than he ate while the veteran nodded vigorously and polished off his meal with an appetite that nothing could discourage.

“I thought I was lost,” Marciac was saying. “But I threw myself to the side, she brandished her pistol with both hands, and—bam!—she fired. And her aim was dead on … ! The assassin who was about to run me through from behind collapsed with a ball right in the middle of his forehead.”

“That was a damned good piece of luck,” Ballardieu commented before washing down a mouthful of
pâté en croûte
with a swallow of wine.

“It was destiny, my friend. Destiny. ‘
Audaces fortuna juvat!
’”

His lips greasy and his mouth full, the other man looked at him with wide eyes.

“The saying,” Marciac explained “is more or less borrowed from Virgil: ‘Fortune smiles upon the brave.’”

Ballardieu was about to ask who Virgil was, but held his tongue as the Gascon, seeing Agnès, asked anxiously: “How is she?”

“Well. She sleeps.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And you? Your shoulder?”

In addition to a girl who was still trembling from fright, Marciac had returned from his eventful evening with the air of a conquering hero, his hair full of plaster, a few bruises, and—not that he paid much notice to it—a nasty wound to the shoulder.

“Oh, it’s just a scratch,” he said, with a vague gesture toward the bandage hidden beneath the sleeve of his clean, unwrinkled shirt. “It scarcely bled at all.”

“You were lucky,” Leprat said from his armchair, with just a hint of bitterness.

“No one succeeds without a bit of luck,” said Agnès as she sat down at the big table.

She took a plate and, after poking around in the dishes, loaded it with cold meats and cheeses, gratefully accepting a glass of wine that Ballardieu poured for her. La Fargue arrived, sat astride a backward-turned chair, and immediately launched a general discussion: “You first, Marciac. Tell us what you know about this girl.”

“Her name is Cécile.”

“And what else?”

“That’s all. I followed Castilla, who Agnès and I spotted leaving madame de Sovange’s gaming salons. Castilla led me to Cécile’s house in rue de la Fontaine. He did not stay long and left on horseback. By chance, I then came upon some men who I overheard preparing to abduct Cécile—although at the time, I didn’t know that was her name. Be that as it may, I told myself that I could not let them succeed in their plan. And there you have it.”

“Who were these men?”

“Just some hired swords, like others of their kind. But they took their orders from a Spaniard, a one-eyed man in black leather who was so sure of their success that he did not remain with them.”

“Would you recognise him?” asked Leprat.

“Of course.”

“But you’d never seen him before.”

“No.”

La Fargue mulled over this information and then turned to Agnès.

“Now you.”

The baronne emptied her glass before speaking.

“She says her name is Cécile Grimaux. Last year she was living with her father and mother in Lyon. Both of them are now dead, the father from illness and the mother from grief, shortly after him. With no other resources, Cécile went to join her elder sister, Chantal, a seamstress who was living modestly in Paris but who was glad to take her in—”

“‘Was living’?” Leprat interrupted.

“I’m coming to that.… She occasionally worked for a glove maker and it was through him that Chantal made the acquaintance of two Spanish adventurers, the chevalier d’Ireban and his friend Castilla. She fell in love with the first and became his mistress. They trysted in secret in a little house in the faubourg Saint-Martin, living their perfect love while hidden from the eyes of the world. It lasted for a few weeks until they both disappeared suddenly. Since then, Castilla has been searching for them and Cécile awaits news. It seems that this ordeal has drawn them together.”

“How closely has it drawn them together?” asked Marciac.

Cécile being a very pretty girl, the others immediately guessed the reason for his interest.

“I believe you have a rival for her affections,” indicated Agnès with a quirk of her lips. “But no doubt your chivalrous exploits last night plead in your favour—”

“That’s not at all what I was thinking about!”

“Come, now …”

“That’s enough!” La Fargue ordered with a rare display of temper.

But he recovered his calm quickly, pretending not to notice the wary looks being exchanged by the others.

“Nevertheless,” said Ballardieu, “it’s a strange tale.”

“But it matches pretty well with what Rochefort has told us,” noted Leprat almost regretfully.

Resuming the discussion, the Blades’ captain asked Agnès: “What does Cécile know of Ireban?”

“Almost nothing. According to her, her sister was not very forthcoming on the subject.”

“And of Castilla?”

“We hardly spoke of him. I only know that he has taken up residence at the love nest in the faubourg Saint-Martin, in case Chantal or the chevalier shows up there.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Yes.”

“Give Almades the directions: he will accompany me there in the hope of finding Castilla, who may help us get to the bottom of things. You will stay here, Agnès, and learn everything you can from Cécile once she wakes. As for you, Marciac, you’ve earned the right to rest for a bit.”

Since it went without saying that wherever Agnès was, one would also find Ballardieu, it only remained to assign Leprat. For a brief moment, out of respect, La Fargue tried to think of a task for him. But the former musketeer came to his rescue: “Don’t trouble yourself, captain. I know that I’ll be useless until this blasted leg is healed. Let’s just say that I am holding the fort in your absence.”

Everyone nodded, slightly embarrassed, before heading off on their various errands.

As preparations were being made, La Fargue went to his room and wrote a short letter which he carefully sealed. Agnès saw him a little while later, scratching at the door to Cécile’s room and exchanging a few words with Naïs through the narrow opening, before giving her the missive. The baronne slipped away unnoticed and went to find Ballardieu.

“Get ready,” she said, once she was sure they were out of earshot of the rest of the company.

“For what?”

“Naïs will be going out, no doubt after the captain and the others have left. I want you to follow her.”

“Naïs? Why?”

“You’ll see.”

“Ah … right.”

3

Arriving by way of rue Beauregard, the marquis de Gagnière dismounted in front of Notre-Dame-de-Bonne-Nouvelle church and hitched his horse to a ring. It was still very early in the morning and not many people were up and about. But the elegant gentleman still found it prudent to entrust his mount to the watchful eye of one of the vendors of
eau-de-vie
who, in the early hours of the day, went around Paris—crying “
Vi! Vi!
Drink! Drink!”—selling little cups of alcohol which were bought and eagerly drunk on the spot by people of the lower classes before their hard day of labour.

The church was silent, dark, damp, and empty. As was usual in churches there were no pews, but chairs were stored in a corner ready to be rented out during services by the porter, who was also charged with ensuring the tranquillity of the premises, chasing away any beggars or stray dogs who attempted to enter with equal zeal. Gagnière advanced between the columns and placed himself in front of the high altar, near a thin young man with smooth cheeks and crystalline blue eyes. The young man did not react until they stood almost shoulder to shoulder. He wore an ochre doublet that matched his breeches, boots, and was carrying a sword at his side. If he was not praying then he seemed at least meditative, with his eyes shut and his hat in his hand.

“I am rather surprised to see you here this morning,” said the marquis after a moment.

“Have I ever missed one of our appointments?” Arnaud de Laincourt replied, opening his eyes.

“No, to be sure. But, until now, you had never been arrested.”

For a few seconds, the former ensign of His Eminence’s Guards did not respond.

“So you know,” he said at last.

“Naturally. Did you believe that such news would escape our attention?”

“No, I didn’t. But so quickly—”

“We are everywhere, Laincourt. Even at the Palais-Cardinal. You, better than anyone, should know that.”

“And at Le Châtelet, marquis? Are you present there, too?”

Gagnière pulled a face.

“The walls there are, shall we say … thicker.”

They remained silent for a moment in the sinister refuge of this deserted church where their secret meetings took place, always at dawn.

Notre-Dame-de-Bonne-Nouvelle had begun its life as a chapel, which was destroyed by soldiers of the Catholic League when the king of Navarre—and future Henri IV of France—laid siege to Paris in 1591. The existing church had been built in its place, with the first stone laid by Queen Anne d’Autriche. As the city absorbed its faubourgs, so the church now found itself at the extreme limit of the Saint-Denis district, right by the new city wall; only the narrow width of a newly laid street lined with building sites separated it from the bastions between the Poissonnière and Saint-Denis gates. This was the very edge of Paris.

“I am still a faithful servant of the Black Claw,” announced Laincourt in a calm voice. “My loyalty remains unchanged.”

“Permit me to doubt that. Your liberation scarcely argues in your favour. By all rights, at this moment you should be locked away in Vincennes castle waiting to be put to the question. But here you are, having been found guilty of treason, free to come and go as you please. You must admit that the extraordinary clemency the cardinal has shown you offers ample grounds for suspicion.…”

With a conciliatory shrug, Laincourt indicated that he understood. He explained: “I possess a document which protects me; it contains a secret the cardinal fears will be divulged.”

Perplexed, Gagnière frowned. Then, almost amused, he said: “A document that you have therefore taken pains not to transmit to us. A shining example of loyalty!”

“I am loyal, but also cautious,” Laincourt replied unmoved. “I knew that a day like today would come.”

This time it was the turn of the marquis to accept the other’s argument: he was forced to recognise that a “day like today” had indeed come.

“Very well. What is this document?”

“It’s a list naming France’s secret correspondents in the Spanish royal court. It is in reliable hands and will be released if ever I delay too long in giving signs of life. The cardinal had no choice. He and I agreed that I should remain alive and free as long as this list remained secret.”

“You are very naïve if you imagine Richelieu will be satisfied with such an arrangement for long. He will deceive you at the very first opportunity. He may already be working to do so as we speak. He will find your list and have you murdered.”

“That is precisely why I am turning to you rather than galloping toward the nearest border.”