The Cardinal's Blades

17

Urbain Gaget was speaking to one of the handlers who worked for his flourishing enterprise when he received word that his merchandise had arrived at the Saint-Honore gate. The information was transmitted to him by a gangling adolescent who came rushing into the courtyard.

“Finally!” snapped Gaget.

Evening was falling and the Paris gates would soon be closed.

Gaget gave a coin to the boy, went over the final preparations one last time with the handler, and called for his lackey. He was trading his shoes for a pair of clean boots to protect his stockings from the ravages of Parisian muck when Gros Francois joined him.

“Take a stick,” he told him. “We’re going out.”

Thus escorted by a solid-looking lackey armed with an equally solid stick, he hastened to go and make his payment to the tax collectors.

As he had taken care to add a few pistoles to the tax, the formalities were dealt with swiftly. Soon he was watching the heavy cart enter the queue of travellers and suppliers granted permission to enter the capital. A dense crowd blocked the area around the gate and stretched almost as thickly along rue Saint-Honore. This had been one of the main Paris roads even before the city’s recent enlargement. Still as busy as ever, it had now been extended as far as the new fortified city wall-called “Yellow Ditches” by Parisians because of the colour of the earth that had been dug from the site-and was so full that it was difficult to make any progress here, with a noisy, restless multitude trying to advance up and down the street.

Loaded down with a dozen cages, each of which sheltered a dragonnet, the cart moved forward at a slow but steady pace behind the oxen pulling it. A peasant held the reins; his partner had given his place on the driver’s bench up to Gaget and was guiding the beasts forward by their bits while Gros Francois walked ahead and opened a path through the tightly packed mob with some difficulty. Fortunately, their destination spared them from having to follow rue Saint-Honore into the twisted, populous maze of the old heart of Paris. Instead, they turned onto rue de Gaillon and continued along the street for almost its entire length until they came to the porch of a building opposite rue des Moineaux. In the shadow of Saint-Roch hill with its windmills, it was one of the most attractive areas on the Right Bank-that is to say, the Ville, as it was designated by way of contrast to the Universite on the Left Bank and the Cite on its island between them. This new neighbourhood was still under construction in the spring of 1633, but it had already been divided up and was crisscrossed with regular streets and punctuated by numerous gardens as well as a vast esplanade that served as a horse market. As further proof of its success, many beautiful and prosperous-looking private mansions were now being built there.

If it had been located elsewhere in the capital, Urbain Gaget’s property would easily have occupied an entire block. Several stone buildings were arranged around a cobbled courtyard that was strewn with straw. These included a round, slender tower capped with a conical slate roof that was pierced with several rows of semicircular openings. It resembled a dovecote-an oversized one, for inmates who made meals out of doves. Dragonnets could be heard moving around inside, mewling and sometimes spitting, accompanied by the brusque flapping of wings.

It was thanks to these small winged reptiles that Gaget would soon be a very rich man and was already a very busy one. He had started out with his father’s business selling ordinary dragonnets in the city markets. Then he turned his attention to the luxury end of the trade, selling creatures with pedigrees or with spectacular physical characteristics to his wealthier customers. But the idea that would make his fortune only came to him later, when he hit upon a method of using dragonnets for a new purpose: a messenger service. Whereas a homing pigeon could only transport a minuscule roll of paper, a dragonnet was powerful enough to carry letters, or even a small package, faster and further than any bird.

The problem was that while dragonnets could be trained to travel between two given points in the same city, they lacked the predispositions of homing pigeons: they went astray or escaped when the distances they covered became too great. His solution was to take advantage of the females’ maternal instinct, an instinct that always brought them back to their egg regardless of the difficulty or length of the journey. Gaget began to displace the females just after they laid their eggs, substituting the real eggs with simulacra when necessary to which the dragonnets would become equally attached and to which they would inevitably return, along with the mail they carried, once they were released. All that was left, after that, was to transport the females back to their point of departure by road.

Without abandoning the retail trade of buying and selling the dragonnets themselves, the breeder was soon able to carry out his new trade with a royal licence granting him a monopoly within Paris and surrounding towns. His messenger service very quickly thrived, linking the capital with Amiens, Reims, Rouen, and Orleans. With the help of relay stations, it was even possible to send mail by air as far as Lille, Rennes, or Dijon.

A slender and rather handsome grey-haired fellow, not lacking in charm, Gaget supervised the unloading of the cart and watched as his employees carried the cages into a building where the dragonnets would remain confined and alone for a few days, until they settled down after the stress of their journey and became accustomed to their new environment. The result of a strict selection process, these particular specimens were destined to be sold and each one was worth a small fortune. They had to be treated with care, for fear that they might injure one another or damage themselves.

Satisfied, the breeder left his handler to examine the reptiles and returned to his office, where tedious paperwork awaited him. He removed his cloak and his boots, realised that he had gone out without wearing a hat, and then gave a start when he became aware of another presence in the room when he had believed he was alone. His heart beating fast, he gave a sigh of relief when he saw who it was. He had quickly discovered that along with the royal licence he held came the expectation of certain discreet services. He owed his new privileges to the cardinal’s intervention and could of course refuse nothing to such a benefactor, especially when he was so honoured to have his trust. Thus the Gaget messenger service became a favoured means of transmitting secret dispatches.

And much else besides.

“I frightened you,” said Saint-Lucq.

He was sitting in an armchair, his hat lowered over his eyes, legs stretched out and crossed, and his heels resting on a window sill.

“You… you surprised me,” explained the breeder. “How did you get in here?”

“Does it matter?”

Quickly recovering his composure, Gaget went to lock the door and close the curtains.

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up for three days,” he said in a reproachful tone.

“I know,” said the half-blood lifting his felt hat.

With a casual air, he began to clean his spectacles with his sleeve. His reptilian eyes seemed to glow in the shadows.

“I received a visit from the comte de Rochefort,” said the breeder.

“What did he want?”

“News. And to tell you that there is some concern about your progress.”

“They are wrong to be concerned.”

“Will you succeed before it is too late?”

Saint-Lucq replaced the spectacles upon his nose and took time to weigh his reply.

“I was unaware that there was any other option…”

Then he asked: “When will you see Rochefort again?”

“This evening, no doubt.”

“Tell him that the business which worries him so greatly is now settled.”

“Already?”

Saint-Lucq stood, smoothed the front of his doublet, and adjusted his leather baldric, ready to leave.

“Add that the paper is in my possession and I simply wait to learn who I should deliver it to.”

“That I do know. You are to deliver it in person to the cardinal himself.”

The half-blood paused and gave Gaget a curious glance above his red glasses.

“In person?”

The dragonnet breeder nodded.

“As soon as possible, I was told. This very evening, therefore. At the Palais-Cardinal.”