The Cardinal's Blades

10

In the dining room of the Hotel de l’Epervier, the Cardinal’s Blades finished their lunch.

Seated at the head of the rough oak table, La Fargue spoke very seriously with Leprat and Agnes. Marciac listened, close by, and occasionally made an interjection but otherwise contented himself with rocking back and forth on his chair and shuffling a deck of cards which, inevitably, then turned out to have all four aces on top. Almades, silent, waited. As for Ballardieu, he digested his lunch while smoking a pipe and sipping the last of the wine, not without casting longing glances at Nais’s backside as she cleared the table.

“Pretty girl, isn’t she?” Marciac said to him, seeing the old soldier ogling the comely young woman.

“Yes. Very.”

“But not very talkative. Almost mute.”

“I see an advantage there.”

“Really? What a strange idea…”

They had all been somewhat apprehensive of this meal, which, following the immediate and genuine rejoicing of their initial reunion, would force them to take the true measure of their friendship. What remained of the people they had been? One never knows what friends lost from sight for a long time may have become and the circumstances which led to the disbanding of the Blades during the siege of La Rochelle had laid a mournful veil over the memories of its members. This veil, however, soon lifted and the previous ties between them were quickly reestablished.

As was entirely natural, the distribution of the Blades around the table indicated their affinities as well as the resumption of old habits. Thus the captain presided over the table, in close council with Agnes and Leprat, whom he consulted with ease, the musketeer even acting as a lieutenant within the very informal organisation of the Blades. Marciac, remaining somewhat aloof, was one of those who knew their own value and abilities but preferred to stay on the margins, never showing himself to be unworthy and who would consider it an insult if he were ordered about. Serious and reserved, Almades waited to be called upon. And Ballardieu, accustomed to long preludes before battle, took advantage of any moment of peace.

Only three Blades, out of the original band, were missing. One of them had vanished as if the twisted shadows from which he had emerged had engulfed him once again after La Rochelle. The other had been a traitor and no one, yet, had dared to speak his name. And the last one, finally, had perished and his loss was a wound which continued to bleed in the memories of all present.

As Nais left the room with the last plates, Agnes glanced with a question in her eye at La Fargue, who understood and nodded. The young woman rose and said with deep feeling: “I believe, messieurs, that the time has come to raise our glasses in honour of he whom only death could keep from being here.”

They all stood, glasses in hand.

“To Bretteville!” said La Fargue.

“To Bretteville!” cried the others in chorus.

“To Bretteville,” Agnes repeated in a strangled voice, as if to herself.

The Blades reseated themselves, divided between the joy of having known Bretteville, the pride of having loved this man, and the sorrow of having lost him at the last.

“We have a mission,” La Fargue said after a moment.

They listened.

“It is a matter of finding a certain chevalier d’Ireban.”

“What has he done?” Agnes inquired.

“Nothing. He has disappeared and there is concern for his life.”

“People who have not done anything do not disappear,” Almades declared in a neutral voice.

“A Spaniard?” Marciac was surprised.

“Yes,” said the captain.

“So Spain will be busy trying to find him!”

“That is precisely what the cardinal wishes to avoid.”

La Fargue rose, walked around his chair, and leaned against the back, his hands folded.

“The chevalier d’Ireban,” he repeated, “is the heir to a Spanish grandee. A secret and unworthy heir to the title. A corrupt young man who, under an assumed name, has come to Paris to spend his coming fortune.”

“What is his real name?” asked Almades.

“I don’t know. It seems Spain would like to keep it a secret.”

“No doubt for fear of a scandal,” Ballardieu guessed. “If his father is a grandee-”

“‘If’!” Marciac interrupted. “Should we take everything Spain says at face value?”

La Fargue silenced the Gascon with a glance and continued: “His father is not well. He will soon be dead. And Spain has been seeking the safe return of the son since she first realised he had disappeared. Ireban seems to have vanished suddenly and it is feared he has met with some mishap in Paris.”

“If he was leading a life of debauchery,” noted Agnes, “that’s probable. And if he was keeping bad company, and they realised who he really is-”

“Once again, ‘ifs,’” Marciac emphasised in a low voice.

“Via a special emissary,” La Fargue went on, “Spain has explained the situation, her concerns, and her intentions to our king.”

“Her ‘intentions’?” queried Ballardieu.

“Spain wants Ireban returned and to this end, not to mince words, she is threatening to send her agents into our kingdom if France is not prepared to do what is necessary. That is where we become involved.”

Leprat’s self-restraint finally wore away.

Unable to hear any more he rose and paced a hundred steps in livid silence, his expression hard and a fire in his eyes. Firstly, he was displeased that Spain was imposing conditions upon France. But secondly, and more importantly, he had not intended to hang up his musketeer’s cape only to discover, on the very same day, that he had done so in order to serve another country.

An enemy country.

La Fargue had been expecting this reaction from his Blades.

“I know what you’re thinking, Leprat.”

The other stopped his pacing.

“Really, captain?”

“I know because I think just like you. But I also know that Richelieu is seeking a rapprochement with Spain right now. France will soon be at war in Lorraine and possibly in the Holy Roman Empire. She cannot allow herself to come under threat from the Pyrenees border at the same time. The cardinal needs to please Spain and so he’s offering her tokens of friendship.”

Leprat sighed.

“Very well. But why us? Why recall the Blades? The cardinal does not lack for spies, as far as I know.”

The captain didn’t respond.

“The mission is delicate,” Agnes began.

“… and we are the best,” added Marciac.

But as agreeable as this was to say and to hear, these explanations did not satisfy anyone.

It was a mystery which filled each of their minds.

The silence stretched out, until at last the Gascon said: “We don’t even know this chevalier d’Ireban’s real name and Spain is unlikely to tell us anything more about him. Suppose he lives. Suppose he is in hiding or being held prisoner. The fact remains that there are some five hundred thousand souls in Paris. Finding one, even a Spaniard, will not be easy.”

“We have a trail to follow,” announced La Fargue. “It is thin and no doubt cold, but it has the merit of existing.”

“What is it?” Agnes asked.

“Ireban did not come to Paris alone. He has a companion in vice. A gentleman of means, also a Spaniard. An adventurous duellist when it suits him and a great connoisseur of Paris at night. The man goes by the name Castilla. We shall begin with him. Almades, Leprat, you’ll come with me.”

Those he’d named nodded.

“Marciac, stay here with Guibot and make an inventory of everything we’re missing. Then this evening you will make the rounds of all the cabarets and gambling houses that Ireban and Castilla are likely to frequent.”

“Understood. But there are a lot of them in Paris.”

“You will do your best.”

“And me?” asked the baronne de Vaudreuil.

La Fargue paused for a moment.

“You, Agnes, must pay a visit. See to it.”

She already knew what he meant and exchanged a glance with Ballardieu.

Later, La Fargue went to see Leprat, who was saddling horses in the stable.

“I know what this costs you, Leprat. For the rest of us, a return to service with the Blades is a benefit. But for you…”

“For me?”

“Your career with the Musketeers is well established. Nothing forces you to give it up and if you want my advice…”

The captain didn’t finish.

The other man smiled warmly, obviously touched, and recalled what monsieur de Treville had said on relaying the orders for his new mission: “You are one of my best musketeers. I don’t want to lose you, especially not if you wish to keep your cape. I will take your side. I will tell the king and the cardinal that you are indispensable to me, which is the simple truth. You could stay. You have only to say the word.”

But Leprat had not said the word.

“This mission does not inspire confidence in me,” La Fargue continued. “Spain is not being frank with us in this business. I fear that she intends to use us for her benefit alone, and perhaps even at the expense of France… At best, we shall gain nothing. But you, you have a great deal to lose.”

The former musketeer finished tightening a strap, and then patted his new mount on the rump. The animal was a beautiful chestnut, a gift from monsieur de Treville.

“May I speak freely, Etienne?” he demanded of La Fargue.

He only spoke to the captain so personally in private.

“Of course.”

“I am a soldier: I serve where I’m told to serve. And, if that is not enough, I am a Blade.”