The Cardinal's Blades

8

Entering Paris through the Richelieu gate, a two-horse coach descended the street of the same name between the Palais-Cardinal gardens and Saint-Roch hill, followed the quays of the Seine, and crossed the river over a recently built wooden toll bridge: the Pont Rouge, so-called because of the red lead paint with which it was daubed. And so the coach reached the faubourg Saint-Germain which was prospering in the shadow of its famous abbey and almost constituted a city in its own right.

A new neighbourhood had sprung up, just at the far end of the Pont Rouge. Before Queen Marguerite de Navarre decided, at the beginning of the century, to make the Pre-aux-Clercs her domain the area had been nothing but a muddy riverbank and a vast empty ground. Now it comprised a new quay, a luxurious mansion, a large park, and the convent of Les Augustins Reformes. The queen, who was Henri IV’s first wife, had borrowed money to finance her projects and had even gone as far as to misappropriate funds-from which, it was said, came the name of Malaquais quay, meaning “badly acquired.” Upon her death in 1615 she left behind a magnificent property, but also 1,300,000 livres in debts and a host of creditors who were still anxious to collect. To satisfy them, the domain was put up for auction and sold off in lots to various entrepreneurs who laid out new streets and started building.

Guided by the sure hand of a solidly built grey-haired coachman who chewed at the stem of a small clay pipe, the coach followed the Malaquais quay and then took rue des Saints-Peres. At Hopital de la Charite he turned the coach onto rue Saint-Guillaume and soon came to a halt before a large and sombre looking nail-studded door.

Within the coat of arms, worn away over time, a bird of prey carved from dark stone presided on the pediment above the gate.

Sitting at the bottom of the steps to the Hotel de l’Epervier, Marciac was bored and playing dice against himself when he heard the heavy thud at the coach door. He lifted his head to see monsieur Guibot hobbling on his wooden leg across the courtyard to see who was knocking. At the same time, Almades leaned out of an open window.

A moment later a woman entered through the pedestrian gate. Very tall, slender, dressed in grey and red, she wore a dress whose skirt was hitched up on her right side to reveal male hose and the boots of a cavalier beneath it. Her wide-brimmed hat was decorated with two large ostrich feathers-one white and the other scarlet-and a veil which hid her face while protecting it from the dust to which anyone undertaking a long coach journey on the terrible roads was exposed. But the shape of her mouth could be discerned: pretty, with full, dark lips.

Without taking any interest in Marciac, who approached her, she looked up at the private mansion as if she were considering buying it.

“Good day, madame.”

She turned toward him, looking at him haughtily without replying.

But her mouth smiled.

“How may I help you?” the Gascon tried.

From the window, Almades chose that moment to intervene.

“You have a very poor memory, Marciac. You don’t even recognise your friends.”

Disconcerted, Marciac shrugged and wrinkled his brow, then went from puzzlement to sudden joy when the baronne de Vaudreuil lifted her veil.

“Agnes!”

“Hello, Marciac.”

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

Agnes 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, Agnes.”

“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 Agnes from lifting a finger to help. She wasn’t listening, but happily made acquaintance with the charmingly shy Nais 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, Agnes?”

“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 Hotel de l’Epervier.

“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.