The Cardinal's Blades

20

At Les Petites Grenouilles, Marciac woke sated and happy in a very rumpled bed, and leaned on an elbow to watch Gabrielle as she brushed her hair, sitting half naked in front of her dressing table. This sight made his joy complete. She was beautiful, the folds of cloth which barely covered her had all the elegance of the drapery of ancient statues, and the light of the setting sun shining through the window made the loose strands of hair at the nape of her slender neck iridescent, flattered her pale round shoulders, and outlined the curve of her satiny back in amber. It was one of those perfect moments when all the harmony of the world is combined. The room was silent. Only the faint sound of the brush caressing her smooth hair could be heard.

After a moment, Gabrielle caught her lover’s gaze in the mirror and, without turning, broke the spell: “You should keep the ring.”

The Gascon saw the prize that he had won in the duel. Gabrielle had removed it from her finger and placed it near her jewel case.

“I gave it to you,” said Marciac. “I shall not take it back again.”

“You need it.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. To repay La Rabier.”

Marciac sat up in bed. Gabrielle, her back still turned to him, continued to brush her hair, saying no more.

“You know about that?” he said.

She shrugged.

“Of course. All secrets are known in Paris. All you have to do is listen… Do you owe her much?”

Marciac didn’t reply.

He let himself fall back onto the bed, arms opened wide, and contemplated the canopy above his head.

“As much as that?” said Gabrielle in a quiet voice.

“Yes.”

“How did you let it come to this, Nicolas?”

There was both reproach and commiseration in the tone of her voice-a tone which was, ultimately, very maternal.

“I played, I won, I lost triple,” explained the Gascon.

“Mother Rabier is a vicious woman. She can harm you.”

“I know.”

“And the men she employs have blood on their hands.”

“I know that as well.”

Laying her brush down, Gabrielle turned in her chair and fixed Marciac with a clear and penetrating gaze.

“She should be paid. Would this ring be enough?”

“It would be enough to make a start.”

“Then it’s decided.”

They exchanged a smile. A smile full of affection from her, and one full of gratitude from him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“I should consult you over every decision I make.”

“If you merely do the opposite of whatever your whim dictates, all will be well.”

Smiling easily, Marciac rose and began to dress while his mistress drew on her stockings, another spectacle of which he missed nothing.

Then, without preamble, Gabrielle said: “A letter arrived here for you.”

“When?”

“Today.”

“And as you were still furious with me,” guessed the Gascon while lacing his breeches, “you burnt it.”

“No.”

“Not even tore it up?”

“No.”

“Nor crumpled it?”

“You’re infuriating, Nicolas!” exclaimed Gabrielle.

She had almost shouted, and then, stiffening, stared straight ahead.

As they had often teased each other like this, he couldn’t explain her reaction. His chest bare, he watched the woman he loved and detected her anguish.

“What is it, Gabrielle?”

With her index finger, she discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. He approached her and, leaning over her from behind, held her gently.

“Tell me,” he murmured.

“Forgive me. It’s for you.”

Marciac took the letter she held out to him, and understood her distress when he saw the emblem stamped into the red wax seal.

It was that of Cardinal Richelieu.

“I thought…” said Gabrielle in a strangled voice, “I thought that this period of your life was over.”

He had thought so too.