The Cardinal's Blades

4

Barely distracted this time by the noisy, colourful crowd that milled about on the Pont Neuf, Ballardieu followed Nais discreetly. He was in a foul mood and, with an angry look in his eye, talked to himself as he pushed through the throng.

“Ballardieu, you’re not a complicated man,” he grumbled. “You’re not a complicated man because you don’t have very much in the way of wits and you know it. You have loyalty and courage but not much wit, and that’s simply the way of things. And you do as you’re told, usually without protest. Or without protesting too much, which is the same thing. You are a soldier, even a good soldier. You obey orders. But I know you would greatly appreciate it if someone did you the honour of explaining, just once in a while, for the sole pleasure of breaking with old habit, the orders they gave you…”

At this point in his monologue, keeping an eye on Nais’s white bonnet, Ballardieu repeated Agnes’s words and his own, hastily exchanged at the Hotel de l’Epervier.

“‘I want you to follow her.’ ‘Nais? Why?’ ‘You’ll see.’ ‘Ah… right.’ A fine explanation! And what did you reply to it? ‘Ah… right.’ Nothing else…! Ballardieu, you might have even less wit than you imagine. Because, in the end, there’s nothing preventing you from demanding an explanation, is there? Well, granted, the girl had that look in her eye and you know very well that she wouldn’t have explained anything at all. But at least you’d have tried instead of meekly following orders…”

Now getting himself worked up, Ballardieu shook his head.

“Good soldier! Good faithful dog, more like it…! And where will the first blows land when things go wrong? On the dog, not on the mistress, by God! Because have no doubt about it, Ballardieu, this business will go wrong and it’ll do so at the expense of yours truly. No one acts behind the captain’s back and gets away with it. Sooner or later, you-”

Lost in his thoughts, he had bumped into a lampoonist who fell backward in an explosion of printed papers.

“What?” flared Ballardieu angrily and in perfectly bad faith. “Can’t you watch where you’re going? Is this the new fashion in Paris?”

The other man, bowled over in both the literal and figurative senses, took some time to recover himself. He was still wondering what had happened to him, and gaped with amazement and fear at this bull of a man who had come out of nowhere and charged into him as he was haranguing the crowd and brandishing his sheets which-as he was unable to blame the king directly-accused Richelieu of crushing the people beneath the weight of taxes. The individual who had so abruptly entered the life of the lampoonist was not someone with whom he would wish to seek a dispute. Without being particularly tall, he was wide, heavy, and massive, and in addition to being red in the face and fuming, he was armed with a good-sized rapier.

But Ballardieu, to the great relief of his innocent victim, passed almost at once from anger to compassion and regret.

“No, friend. Forgive me. It’s my fault… Here, take my hand.”

The lampoonist found himself catapulted upward rather than simply raised.

“I offer my apologies. You’ll accept them, won’t you? Yes? Good man! Nothing broken, I hope… Good, I would happily pay for the brushing of your clothes but I’m short of time. I promise to buy you a drink when next we meet. Agreed? Perfect! Good day, friend!”

With these words, Ballardieu went on his way, while the other man, still tottering and dazed, an idiotic smile on his lips, bade him farewell with a hesitant wave.

Far ahead of him, Nais had fortunately taken no notice of the incident and he had to quicken his pace in order not to lose sight of her. After Pont Neuf she followed rue Saint-Denis, then rue de la Vieille-Cordonnerie, came out on rue de la Ferronnerie, and went up rue Saint-Honore, which Ballardieu had never known to seem so long. They passed in front of the scaffolding of the Palais-Cardinal and went as far as rue Gaillon, into which Nais turned. Recently absorbed by the capital by the construction of wall know as “Yellow Ditches,” this former faubourg was foreign territory to Ballardieu. He was about to discover its layout, its houses, and its building sites.

Opposite rue des Moineaux, Nais crossed a large porch that opened onto a courtyard full of people and animation, overlooked by a strange tower that stood at the end, like an oversized dovecote. A sign hung over the entrance where one could read the words: “Gaget Messenger Service.”

“‘Gaget Messenger Service’?” muttered Ballardieu with a frown. “What’s this, then?”

Seeing a passerby, he asked him: “Excuse me, sir, what is this place of business?”

“There? Why it’s the Gaget Messenger Service, of course!”

And the man, in a hurry like all Parisians and as lofty as most of them, walked away.

Feeling his temper rise, Ballardieu sucked in his cheeks, took a deep breath in the vain hope of controlling the murderous impulses that had entered his head, and caught up with the passerby in a few strides, gripping him by the shoulder and forcing him to spin round.

“I know how to read, monsieur. But what is it exactly?”

He was breathing hard through his nose, was red-faced again, and his eyes were glaring dangerously. The other man realised his mistake. Turning slightly pale, he explained that the company owned by Gaget offered customers a postal service using dragonnets, that this service was both rapid and reliable, although somewhat expensive, and…

“That’s enough, that’s enough…” said Ballardieu, finally releasing the Parisian to go about his business.

He hesitated for a moment over whether or not he should enter and then decided to take up a position at a discreet distance in order to wait and to observe-after all, Nais might go elsewhere next. It wasn’t long before the old soldier saw a familiar figure come out of Gaget’s establishment.

It was not Nais.

It was Saint-Lucq.