The Cardinal's Blades

9

Paris at midday was packed with working, bustling, and gossiping people, but in contrast, at the Palais-Cardinal, the guards on duty seemed to be sentries of some luxurious necropolis. Accompanied by his large entourage of advisors and his armed escort, Richelieu was at the Louvre, and in his absence, life at his residence carried on slowly, almost as though it was night. Men in capes were barely to be seen. More lowly servants moved along dark corridors without haste or noise, carrying out routine menial tasks. The crowd of supplicants had thinned out considerably when they heard that the master of the palace had left, and only a few persistent souls decided to wait for his return, making do with an improvised repast on the spot.

Alone in a small study, Ensign Arnaud de Laincourt made use of this lull in activity to carry out a task which came with his rank: filling out the log-book of the Cardinal’s Guards. The rule was that the officer on duty must scrupulously record all the day’s events, whether they were ordinary or unusual, from the hour when guards were relieved at their posts to possible lapses in discipline, and detailing every occurrence or incident which might affect His Eminence’s security. Captain Saint-Georges consulted the log at the end of each shift, before communicating anything noteworthy to the cardinal.

“Enter,” said Laincourt, on hearing a knock at the door.

Brussand entered.

“Monsieur de Brussand. You’re not on duty… Would you not be better off at home, resting after your long night on watch?”

“Of course, but… would you grant me a minute?”

“Just allow me to finish this task.”

“Certainly.”

Brussand sat down in front of the desk at which the young officer was writing by candlelight. The room had only a high, bevelled window opening onto a light well into which the sun barely peeped. There were, without a doubt, dungeons in the Bastille or in the chateau de Vincennes that were better lit.

Laincourt finished his report, checked it, wiped his quill on a rag, and then slipped it between the pages of the thick log-book before he closed it.

“There,” he said. “I’m all yours.”

And turning his crystal blue eyes upon Broussard, he waited.

“I have come to assure myself,” said the other, “that you do not hold anything against me.”

“Regarding what?”

“Regarding confidences about you that I repeated to young Neuvelle. Concerning your past. And the circumstances under which you joined the Cardinal’s Guards.”

Laincourt gave an amiable smile.

“Did you say anything slanderous?”

“Certainly not!”

“Anything untrue?”

“No. At least, not unless I’ve been misled myself.”

“Then you have nothing to reproach yourself for. And therefore, neither do I.”

“Of course. But…”

There was a silence during which the officer’s smile did not waver.

His courteous mask, ultimately, proved to be a perfect defence. Because it expressed nothing but polite interest it left others to carry the conversation, so that, without any effort on his part, they little by little became less self-assured. Rarely failing, this strategy was proving particularly effective against Brussand, who was growing more embarrassed by the moment.

But the old guard was a soldier, and rather than remain exposed in this manner, he instead charged forward: “What can I say? There are certain mysteries surrounding you that encourage rumours-”

“Indeed?”

“Your famous mission, for example. The one which, it is whispered, detained you for two years in Spain. And for which, no doubt, you were promoted to the Cardinal’s Guards with the rank of ensign… Well, you can imagine what is said about all that, can’t you?”

Laincourt waited without making any reply, the same indecipherable smile on his lips.

Then, a clock sounding half past one, he rose, picked up his hat, and tucked the heavy log-book under his arm.

“Forgive me, Brussand, but duty calls.”

The two men walked together to the door.

As he allowed the officer to go first, Brussand said to him in a conniving tone: “Strange country, Spain, isn’t it?”

Laincourt walked on, leaving Brussand behind him.

With the air of a man who knows exactly where he is going, Arnaud de Laincourt strode through a series of salons and antechambers, paying no heed to either the servants or the guards on duty who snapped to attention as he passed. Finally, he entered an empty service corridor and, at its intersection with another, paused a few seconds before turning right toward the cardinal’s private apartments.

From that point, he moved as quickly and silently as possible, although taking care not to appear furtive: there was no question of making his way on tiptoe, or hugging the walls, or glancing anxiously around. If someone was to surprise him, it was best to behave in a manner unlikely to arouse suspicion. His rank and his cape, certainly, protected him. But then, suspicion was the rule in the Palais-Cardinal.

He soon pushed open a door which, seen from the room within, merged seamlessly with the decorated wooden panels. This was the study where monsieur Charpentier, Richelieu’s secretary, normally worked. Functionally but elegantly furnished, it was filled to the point of overflowing with papers. Daylight filtered in through the closed curtains, while a candle guttered weakly. It was not there to provide light, but its flame could be transferred to numerous other candles at hand, and thus, in an emergency, fully illuminate the study in the middle of the night if required. Just one of the many precautions taken by those in the service of His Eminence, who demanded readiness at all times of the day or night.

Laincourt set the log-book down.

He drew a key from the pocket of his doublet and opened a cupboard. He had to be quick, as every minute now counted. On a shelf, a box sat between two tidily bound manuscripts. This was the object of his search. Another key, a tiny one, opened its secrets to him. Inside were letters waiting to be initialled and sealed by the cardinal. The ensign thumbed through them impatiently, and took out one which he perused more closely.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

Turning, he brought the letter closer to the candle and read it twice in order to memorise its every comma. But as he refolded the document, he heard a noise.

The squeak of a floorboard?

The ensign froze, heart thumping, with all his senses alert.

Long seconds passed…

Nothing happened. No one entered. And, almost as if it had never occurred, the sound was not repeated.

Pulling himself together, Laincourt replaced the letter in the box and the box in the cupboard, which he relocked with his key. He assured himself that he had disturbed nothing, and then departed silently, taking his log-book with him.

But Laincourt had barely gone when someone pushed open another door, left ajar and hidden behind a wall hanging.

Charpentier.

Returning in haste from the Louvre to fetch a document which Cardinal Richelieu had not thought he would need, he had seen everything.