The Cardinal's Blades (26 page)

“He’s waiting for you,” said the cardinal’s henchman. “Don’t bother to knock.”

He seemed to be in a hurry, no doubt on his way to another errand. The half-blood stepped past him, but waited until he was alone to remove his red spectacles, adjust his attire, and open the door before him.

He entered.

The room was high-ceilinged, long, silent, sumptuous, and almost completely plunged into shadow. At the far end of the vast study lined with precious books, beyond the chairs, desks, and other furniture whose shapes and lacquered surfaces could barely be discerned, the candles of two silver candelabras cast an ochre light over the worktable at which Richelieu was sitting, his back to a splendid tapestry.

“Come closer, monsieur de Saint-Lucq. Come closer.”

Saint-Lucq obeyed, crossing the hall to reach the light.

“It has been a while since we last saw one another, has it not?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“Monsieur Gaget is a very capable intermediary. What do you make of him?”

“He is both discreet and competent.”

“Would you say he is loyal?”

“Most men are loyal for as long as they have no interest in betrayal, monseigneur.”

Richelieu smiled briefly.

“Inform me, then, of the progress of your mission, monsieur de Saint-Lucq. The comte de Rochefort is concerned that the days are passing by. Days which, according to him, are running short for us.…”

“Here,” said the half-blood, holding out the page torn long ago from an old register of baptisms.

The cardinal took it, unfolded it, drew it closer to a candle in order to decipher the faded ink, and then carefully placed it in a leather satchel.

“Have you read it?”

“No.”

“You have succeeded in just three days when I believed the task impossible. Please accept my congratulations.”

“Thank you, monseigneur.”

“How did you manage it?”

“Does Your Eminence wish to know the details?”

“Just the essentials.”

“The Grand Coësre told me where and by whom the notary Bailleux was being held captive. I freed him and led him to believe we were being hunted by those who had ordered his abduction.”

“Which was, strictly speaking, only the truth.…”

“Yes. But the riders who were searching the countryside in our vicinity and who constantly seemed to be on the verge of catching us, those riders were solely intended to intimidate Bailleux to the point of losing his better judgment.”

“So that was the purpose of the men you requested from Rochefort.”

“Indeed, monseigneur.”

“And the notary?”

“He won’t talk.”

On that point, the cardinal demanded no further explanation.

For a moment, he looked at his little dragonnet, which, inside its large wrought-iron cage, was gnawing at a thick bone.

Then he sighed and said: “I shall miss you, monsieur de Saint-Lucq.”

“I beg your pardon, monseigneur?”

“I made a promise that I must keep. To my great regret, believe me …”

Entering discreetly, a secretary interrupted them to whisper a few words into the ear of his master.

Richelieu listened, nodded, and said: “Monsieur de Saint-Lucq, if you would wait next door for a few moments, please.”

The half-blood bowed, and by means of a concealed door, departed in the wake of the secretary. Shortly after, La Fargue appeared, in a manner suggesting that he was responding to an urgent summons. Left hand on the pommel of his sword, he saluted by removing his hat.

“Monseigneur.”

“Good evening, monsieur de La Fargue. How does your mission fare?

“It is too soon to say, monseigneur. But we are following a trail. We have learned that the chevalier d’Ireban and one of his close friends frequented madame de Sovange’s establishment. At this very moment, two of my Blades are there incognito, gathering information.”

“Very good.… And what can you tell me about your prisoner?”

La Fargue twitched.

“My prisoner?”

“Today you captured a certain Malencontre with whom monsieur Leprat had a dispute recently. I want this man to be released to my custody.”

“Monseigneur! Malencontre has still not even regained his senses! He has not spoken a word and—”

“Anything this man could tell you would be of no consequence to your business.”

“But how can we be sure? The coincidence would be enormous if—”

The cardinal imposed silence by lifting his hand.

His sentence allowed no appeal, as the ageing captain, with clenched teeth and a furious look in his eye, was finally forced to admit.

“At your command, monseigneur.”

“You are about to discover, however, that I am not a man who takes without giving in return,” Richelieu murmured.

And in a voice loud enough to be heard in the adjoining room, he ordered: “Ask monsieur de Saint-Lucq to come in.”

22

Castilla led Marciac through dark deserted streets to the nearby faubourg Saint-Victor. They crossed rue Mouffetard and proceeded up rue d’Orléans, passing the rue de la Clef where the Spaniard had so recently been a lodger, before finally turning into the small rue de la Fontaine. There, after glancing around without spotting the Gascon, Castilla knocked three times on the door of a particular house. It opened almost at once, and as the man entered, Marciac caught a glimpse of a female silhouette.

The Gascon waited for a moment, and then crept forward. He approached the windows, but with the curtains closed all he could see was that there were lights burning within. He went up the alley to one side of the house and noticed a small window too high and too narrow to warrant such protection. He jumped up, gripped the sill, and lifted himself by his arms until he could rest his chin on the stone. While he was unable to hear what they were saying, he could see Castilla and a young woman speaking in a clean and tidy room. The unknown woman was a slender, pretty brunette, wearing her hair in a simple chignon, with soft curls gracing her temples. She wore a rather ordinary dress, of the kind the daughter of a modest craftsman might own.

Castilla and the young woman embraced in such a way that Marciac was unable to decide if they were friends, lovers, or brother and sister. His arms torturing him, he had to finally let go and landed nimbly. He heard a door open on the garden side of the house and then other hinges squeaked. A horse snorted and, moments later, the Spaniard came riding down the alley at a slow trot. Marciac was obliged to flatten himself in a recess to avoid being seen or run over. He then dashed out after Castilla, but his quarry was already disappearing around the corner of rue de la Fontaine.

The Gascon bit back on an oath. He knew that it would be futile to try and follow a man on horseback.

So now, what should he do? he asked himself.

Standing guard here all night would probably serve no useful purpose and, besides, sooner or later he would need to report back to the Hôtel de l’Épervier. It would be better to find the other Blades now in order to organise a continual watch on the house and its charming occupant. In any case, La Fargue would decide.

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?”