The Cardinal's Blades

20

Night had fallen, but at madame de Sovange’s house fires and candles provided a warm light that reflected off the gold, the crystal, and the mirrors. The women looked radiant in their elaborate attire and the men were almost equally resplendent. All of them were dressed as if making an appearance at the royal court. Indeed, some of those present had come straight from the court, avid for the distractions and conversation that Louis XIII would not tolerate at the Louvre. But here, at least, away from their dull, timid king who only had a taste for the pleasures of the hunt, one could find amusement in agreeable company. It was possible to converse, laugh, gossip, dine, drink and, of course, gamble.

There were billiard tables upstairs, upon which madam de Sovange’s guests tapped at ivory balls with curved canes. Here and there were chess sets, chequers, and trictrac boards left at the guests’ disposal. Dice were being rolled. But above all, cards were being played. Piquet, hoc, ambigu, imperiale, trente et un, triomphe-all of these games involved gambling on an ace of hearts, a nine of clubs, a wyvern of diamonds, or a king of spades. Fortunes were lost and won. Inheritances could disappear with an unlucky hand. Jewels and acknowledgements of debts were snatched up from the felt mat, along with piles of gold coins.

Abandoned by Marciac at the first opportunity, the so-called madame de Laremont wandered through the salons for a while, and turned away a few presumptuous seducers before allowing one old gentleman to court her. The vicomte de Chauvigny was in his sixties. He still maintained a handsome bearing but he was missing several teeth, which he tried to hide by holding a handkerchief to his mouth when he spoke. He was friendly, amusing, and full of anecdotes. He wooed Agnes without any hope of success for the sole pleasure of gallant conversation, of which he was a master and which no doubt summoned up memories of his many past conquests as a dashing cavalier. The young woman willingly let him continue, as he spared her from having to endure less welcome attentions and was unknowingly providing her with precious pieces of information. She had already learned that the chevalier d’Ireban and Castilla had indeed been made welcome at the Hotel de Sovange, that Ireban had not made an appearance here for some time, but that Castilla, even if he never remained for long, continued to visit almost every evening.

Trying in vain to catch a glimpse of Marciac, Agnes saw a dumpy little woman whose austere manner, surly glance, and plain black gown jarred with the setting. She skulked about, pillaging the plates of pastries, and kept a watchful eye on the proceedings as if she were searching for something, or someone. No one seemed to notice her and yet everyone avoided her.

“And her? Who is she?”

The vicomte followed the glance of his newfound protegee.

“Oh! Her…? That’s La Rabier.”

“Who is…?”

“A formidable moneylender. Permit me, madame, to give you some advice. Sell your last gown and embark for the Indies in your nightshirt rather than borrow money from that ghoul. She will suck your blood down to the very last drop.”

“She doesn’t look so terrible…”

“That is an error in judgment that others have repented from too late.”

“And she is allowed to carry on?”

“Who would stop her…? Everyone owes her a little and she is only cruel to those who owe her a lot.”

Casting a final wary glance over her shoulder, La Rabier left the room.

“Would you like something to drink?” asked Chauvigny.

“Gladly.”

The vicomte left Agnes but was quick to return with two glasses of wine.

“Thank you.”

“To you, madame.”

They clinked glasses, drank, and the old gentleman said in a conversational tone: “By the way, I just saw that Spanish hidalgo you were asking me about a short while ago…”

“Castilla? Where?”

“There, at the door. I think he’s leaving.”

“Please excuse me,” said Agnes handing her glass over to Chauvigny, “but I simply must speak with him…”

She hurried over to the door and recognised Castilla from the description given by the innkeeper from the rue de la Clef. Slender, handsome, with a thin moustache and very dark eyes, he was descending the front steps, greeting a passing acquaintance in his strong Spanish accent.

Agnes hesitated to accost him. Under what pretext? And to what end?

No, it would be better to follow him.

The problem was that Ballardieu was nowhere to be found and she could not imagine herself trailing Castilla around Paris at night in her slippers and evening gown. If only Marciac deigned to reappear!

Agnes cursed silently.

“Is there a problem?” madame de Sovange asked her.

“No, madame. None at all… Isn’t that monsieur Castilla who is just leaving?”

“Yes, indeed it is. Do you know him?”

“Would you happen to know where the marquis is?”

“No.”

Masking her anxiety, the young woman returned to the salon, ignoring Chauvigny, who smiled at her from afar, searching for Marciac. She passed before a window and caught sight of Castilla, crossing the porch. At least he was on foot…

The Gascon, finally, appeared at a door.

Given the circumstances, Agnes paid no heed to the grave expression on his face.

She caught him by an elbow.

“Good grief, Marciac! Where have you been?”

“Me…? I-”

“Castilla was here. He just left!”

“Castilla?” replied Marciac as if hearing the name for the first time.

“Yes, Castilla! Damn it, Marciac, pay attention!”

Eyes closed, the Gascon took a deep breath.

“All right,” he finally replied. “What do you wish from me?”

“He left the mansion on foot. If no one is waiting for him in the street with a carriage or a horse, you can still catch him. He was dressed as a cavalier with a red plume on his hat. See where he goes. And don’t let him get away!”

“Understood.”

Marciac headed off, watched from behind by Agnes.

The young baronne remained pensive for a moment. Then, seized by a doubt, she pushed open the door through which the Gascon had just emerged. It led to a windowless antechamber, lit by a few candles.

Busy nibbling from a plate of almond paste sweets, La Rabier greeted Agnes with a polite, reserved nod of her head.