The Cardinal's Blades

18

The carriage reached the faubourg Saint-Jacques at dusk and followed rue des Postes, to rue de l’Arbalete, before passing through the gates of a large private mansion. Although still useless at this hour, torches were burning in the courtyard where, one by one, passengers were already alighting from their coaches while sedan chairs arrived and elegant horse riders left their mounts in the care of stable boys. Three storeys of tall windows were brightly illuminated from within. Guests were conversing with one another on the front steps as they waited to pay their respects to the mistress of the house. The latter, madame de Sovange, smiled and had a pleasant greeting ready for each of them. Dressed in an elegant court gown she made friendly reproaches to those who did not come often enough, complimented others, and flattered everyone’s sense of vanity with consummate skill.

Then it was Ballardieu’s turn to halt their carriage at the bottom of the stairs. A lackey opened the door and Marciac emerged, elegantly dressed and holding out a hand for Agnes. Coiffed, powdered, and beautifully attired, the baronne de Vaudreuil was stunning in a gown of scarlet silk and satin. It was a somewhat unfashionable dress, however, as no one here failed to notice. Agnes was also aware of this, but she’d had no time to convert her wardrobe to the current fashion. Moreover, she knew she could count on her beauty to see her through, and this faux-pas in fact corresponded with the character she was playing.

“They only have eyes for you,” Marciac murmured as they waited patiently on the front steps.

In fact, she was attracting a number of sideways glances. Wary and sometimes hostile looks from the women, interested and often charmed ones from the men.

“It’s simply justice, isn’t it?” she said.

“You are superb. And what about me?”

“You’re not embarrassing, at least… To be honest, I wasn’t sure you knew how to shave…”

The Gascon smiled.

“Try not to stand out too much. Remember who you are this evening…”

“Do you take me for a debutante?”

They ascended several steps.

“I only see the great and the worthy here,” observed Agnes.

“Only the most worthy. Madame de Sovange’s gaming academy is one of the best frequented in Paris.”

“And they let you in?”

“You are cruel. The important thing is, if Castilla’s landlord told the truth, the chevalier d’Ireban and Castilla liked coming here often.”

“Who is she, by the way?”

“Madame de Sovange? A widow whose dear departed husband left her nothing but debts and who resolved to support herself by opening her salons to the biggest gamblers in the capital… But her house is not restricted to gambling. There is much intrigue as well.”

“Of what kind?”

“Of every kind. Gallant, commercial, diplomatic, political… You can’t imagine all the things which can be secretly arranged in certain antechambers, between two games of piquet, with a glass of Spanish muscatel in one’s hand…”

They arrived before madame de Sovange, a dark, plump woman lacking in any real beauty but whose smile and affable manner provoked a sympathetic response.

“Monsieur le marquis!” she exclaimed.

Marquis?

Agnes resisted the temptation to look around for the marquis in question.

“I am delighted to see you, monsieur. Do you know how much we have missed you?”

“I am the first to regret my absence,” replied Marciac. “And do not think I have been unfaithful to you. Important business kept me far from Paris.”

“Has this business been resolved?”

“But of course.”

“How fortunate.”

Still addressing madame de Sovange, Marciac turned slightly toward Agnes.

“Allow me to present madame de Laremont, a cousin of mine who I am showing around our beautiful capital.”

The mistress of the house greeted the so-called madame de Laremont.

“You’re most welcome, my dear… But tell me, marquis, it seems that all of your cousins are ravishing…”

“It runs in the family, madame.”

“I will speak more with you later.”

Agnes and Marciac passed through a brightly lit vestibule with all its gilded decor and walked on into a series of salons whose communicating doors had been left wide open.

“And so, you are a-”

“My word,” replied the Gascon, “if Concini was made marechal d’Ancre, I could very well be a marquis, couldn’t I?”

Neither of them took any notice of a very young and very elegant gentleman who was watching them, or, rather, was watching the baronne de Vaudreuil-no doubt attracted by the dazzling beauty of this unfamiliar woman. If he had been present, Leprat would have recognised the cavalier who had fired a pistol ball into his heart on rue Saint-Denis. It was the marquis de Gagniere, who was discreetly approached from behind by a valet who whispered a few words into his ear.

The gentleman nodded, left the salons, and found his way to a small courtyard used by servants and suppliers. A hired sword waited for him there. Booted, gloved, and armed, both his clothes and his hat were of black leather. A patch-also made of leather and covered with silver studs-masked his left eye, but not enough to hide the rash of ranse that spread all around it. He had an olive complexion and angular features. Dark stubble covered his hollow cheeks.

“Malencontre has not returned,” he said with a strong Spanish accent.

“We will worry about that later,” Gagniere decreed.

“So be it. What are your orders?”

“For the moment, Savelda, I want you to gather some men. We will act tonight. This business has already gone on too long.”