The Cardinal's Blades

2

“She’s resting,” said Agnes de Vaudreuil as she left the room. “Keep her company, would you? And come and find me the moment she wakes.”

Shyly avoiding the baronne’s eye, Nais nodded and slipped through the half-open door which she closed behind her without making a sound.

Agnes waited a short while and then, almost groping her way, went to the stairs. She could barely see anything in this gloomy corridor of the equally gloomy Hotel de l’Epervier. All of it was built from the same bare, funereal grey stone; the windows were low and far between, often occluded by shutters and always defended by stout iron bars. Elsewhere, along the passageways and stairs, there were narrow embrasures, veritable arrow slits, which at this hour only admitted small slivers of the pale glow of dawn. Moreover, it was usual to carry a light when moving about the house at night, rather than allow a flame to burn alone; out of a natural fear of fire, but also for the sake of economy-even tallow, as nasty smelling as it was, cost money, and the better-quality white wax candles were an expensive luxury. But Agnes had left her candle in the room.

She was about to descend the dark stairs carefully when someone called to her.

“Agnes,” said Captain La Fargue.

She had not noticed him standing there, hidden by silence and shadow. Added to the imposing stature of a body that had been hardened by combat and other trials, his patriarchal air demanded respect: his proud martial bearing and grim face whose features had been sharpened by the years, the closely shaven beard and eyes full of wisdom and strength. He was still wearing his boots and his doublet, with the top button undone. But he did not have his sword or his hat and his thick silver hair almost glowed in the dim light.

He approached Agnes, took her gently by the elbow, and invited her to sit with him on the first step of the stairs. She agreed, intrigued, understanding that he wished to speak to her before they rejoined the other Blades, whose faint voices rose from the ground floor. The old captain and the young baronne were separated by gender and three decades. And they also had to overcome a natural reserve on his side and a reluctance to confide in others on hers. But a special bond of friendship and mutual respect united them despite their differences and sense of proprieties. A bond almost akin to the love between father and daughter.

“How is she?” asked La Fargue.

He spoke in a low voice, as if they found themselves in the house of someone recently dead.

Looking over her shoulder, Agnes darted a brief, instinctive glance toward the door of the room where the young woman saved by Marciac had just fallen asleep.

“Her adventure last night has severely shaken her.”

“Did she confide in you?”

“Yes, if she is to be believed, she-”

“Later,” La Fargue cut her short. “For now, I would simply like to know what you make of her.”

Agnes had not yet had time to change and was still wearing the elegant gown of scarlet silk and satin that she had donned before going out with Marciac to madame de Sovange’s mansion. With a rustle of skirts, petticoats, and hoop, she drew back from the captain to look at him squarely.

“What a strange question,” she remarked.

Leaning forward, elbows on his thighs and hands clasped, he stared out at a distant point in front of them.

“Among other talents, you are better at delving into people’s souls than anyone else I know. So what do you make of her?”

Agnes turned away from the captain, sighed, and took the time to collect her thoughts and sum up her impressions.

“I believe…” she started to say. “I believe that she lies a little and hides much.”

Inscrutable, La Fargue nodded slowly.

“I would also guess that she was born in Spain,” Agnes continued. “Or has at least lived there for many years.”

She watched him from the corner of her eye and caught his expression. He frowned, straightened up, and asked: “How do you know that?”

“Her Spanish origins cannot be detected from her inflexions. But a few of her turns of phrase could be directly translated from Castilian.”

He nodded again, this time with a worried, resigned air.

A silence ensued.

“What exactly is it that you want to know, captain?” the baronne finally asked in a quiet voice. “Or rather, what do you already know… ? I was next to you when Marciac returned with the girl. I saw how you reacted. You went completely white…”

On her return from the gambling house, Agnes had found the lights still burning at the Hotel de l’Epervier despite the late hour and the Blades in turmoil following the abduction-at the cardinal’s orders-of Malencontre by the comte de Rochefort. Frustrated and humiliated, Leprat in particular would not calm down and drank more than was reasonable. Then Marciac had arrived with a woman he had managed to rescue after an epic struggle and they were suddenly faced with other matters of concern.

“I am not yet sure of anything,” La Fargue said. “Go rejoin the others, will you? And do not speak to them of our conversation. I will be with you shortly.”

Agnes hesitated, then rose and went downstairs.

Once he was alone, the old captain withdrew a medallion from his doublet, opened the small carved lid, and lost himself in the contemplation of a miniature portrait. If it had not been painted twenty-five years earlier, it might have been that of the new, mysterious guest at the Hotel de l’Epervier.

After removing her gown and washing her face, Agnes joined the rest of the Blades in the main room, where the torches provided more light than the faint glimmer of day that entered through the small lozenge-shaped window panes.

Sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, Leprat, with his wounded leg propped on a stool before him, was silently drinking from a bottle. To one side, Almades was sharpening his rapier with a whetstone-three strokes along one edge, three strokes along the other, over and over. At the table, Ballardieu and Marciac partook of a light but solid repast that Guibot, hobbling about on his wooden leg, had served at their request. They drank, but the Gascon, still excited by his recent adventure, spoke more than he ate while the veteran nodded vigorously and polished off his meal with an appetite that nothing could discourage.

“I thought I was lost,” Marciac was saying. “But I threw myself to the side, she brandished her pistol with both hands, and-bam!-she fired. And her aim was dead on…! The assassin who was about to run me through from behind collapsed with a ball right in the middle of his forehead.”

“That was a damned good piece of luck,” Ballardieu commented before washing down a mouthful of pate en croute with a swallow of wine.

“It was destiny, my friend. Destiny. ‘Audaces fortuna juvat!’”

His lips greasy and his mouth full, the other man looked at him with wide eyes.

“The saying,” Marciac explained “is more or less borrowed from Virgil: ‘Fortune smiles upon the brave.’”

Ballardieu was about to ask who Virgil was, but held his tongue as the Gascon, seeing Agnes, asked anxiously: “How is she?”

“Well. She sleeps.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And you? Your shoulder?”

In addition to a girl who was still trembling from fright, Marciac had returned from his eventful evening with the air of a conquering hero, his hair full of plaster, a few bruises, and-not that he paid much notice to it-a nasty wound to the shoulder.

“Oh, it’s just a scratch,” he said, with a vague gesture toward the bandage hidden beneath the sleeve of his clean, unwrinkled shirt. “It scarcely bled at all.”

“You were lucky,” Leprat said from his armchair, with just a hint of bitterness.

“No one succeeds without a bit of luck,” said Agnes as she sat down at the big table.

She took a plate and, after poking around in the dishes, loaded it with cold meats and cheeses, gratefully accepting a glass of wine that Ballardieu poured for her. La Fargue arrived, sat astride a backward-turned chair, and immediately launched a general discussion: “You first, Marciac. Tell us what you know about this girl.”

“Her name is Cecile.”

“And what else?”

“That’s all. I followed Castilla, who Agnes and I spotted leaving madame de Sovange’s gaming salons. Castilla led me to Cecile’s house in rue de la Fontaine. He did not stay long and left on horseback. By chance, I then came upon some men who I overheard preparing to abduct Cecile-although at the time, I didn’t know that was her name. Be that as it may, I told myself that I could not let them succeed in their plan. And there you have it.”

“Who were these men?”

“Just some hired swords, like others of their kind. But they took their orders from a Spaniard, a one-eyed man in black leather who was so sure of their success that he did not remain with them.”

“Would you recognise him?” asked Leprat.

“Of course.”

“But you’d never seen him before.”

“No.”

La Fargue mulled over this information and then turned to Agnes.

“Now you.”

The baronne emptied her glass before speaking.

“She says her name is Cecile Grimaux. Last year she was living with her father and mother in Lyon. Both of them are now dead, the father from illness and the mother from grief, shortly after him. With no other resources, Cecile went to join her elder sister, Chantal, a seamstress who was living modestly in Paris but who was glad to take her in-”

“‘Was living’?” Leprat interrupted.

“I’m coming to that… She occasionally worked for a glove maker and it was through him that Chantal made the acquaintance of two Spanish adventurers, the chevalier d’Ireban and his friend Castilla. She fell in love with the first and became his mistress. They trysted in secret in a little house in the faubourg Saint-Martin, living their perfect love while hidden from the eyes of the world. It lasted for a few weeks until they both disappeared suddenly. Since then, Castilla has been searching for them and Cecile awaits news. It seems that this ordeal has drawn them together.”

“How closely has it drawn them together?” asked Marciac.

Cecile being a very pretty girl, the others immediately guessed the reason for his interest.

“I believe you have a rival for her affections,” indicated Agnes with a quirk of her lips. “But no doubt your chivalrous exploits last night plead in your favour-”

“That’s not at all what I was thinking about!”

“Come, now…”

“That’s enough!” La Fargue ordered with a rare display of temper.

But he recovered his calm quickly, pretending not to notice the wary looks being exchanged by the others.

“Nevertheless,” said Ballardieu, “it’s a strange tale.”

“But it matches pretty well with what Rochefort has told us,” noted Leprat almost regretfully.

Resuming the discussion, the Blades’ captain asked Agnes: “What does Cecile know of Ireban?”

“Almost nothing. According to her, her sister was not very forthcoming on the subject.”

“And of Castilla?”

“We hardly spoke of him. I only know that he has taken up residence at the love nest in the faubourg Saint-Martin, in case Chantal or the chevalier shows up there.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Yes.”

“Give Almades the directions: he will accompany me there in the hope of finding Castilla, who may help us get to the bottom of things. You will stay here, Agnes, and learn everything you can from Cecile once she wakes. As for you, Marciac, you’ve earned the right to rest for a bit.”

Since it went without saying that wherever Agnes was, one would also find Ballardieu, it only remained to assign Leprat. For a brief moment, out of respect, La Fargue tried to think of a task for him. But the former musketeer came to his rescue: “Don’t trouble yourself, captain. I know that I’ll be useless until this blasted leg is healed. Let’s just say that I am holding the fort in your absence.”

Everyone nodded, slightly embarrassed, before heading off on their various errands.

As preparations were being made, La Fargue went to his room and wrote a short letter which he carefully sealed. Agnes saw him a little while later, scratching at the door to Cecile’s room and exchanging a few words with Nais through the narrow opening, before giving her the missive. The baronne slipped away unnoticed and went to find Ballardieu.

“Get ready,” she said, once she was sure they were out of earshot of the rest of the company.

“For what?”

“Nais will be going out, no doubt after the captain and the others have left. I want you to follow her.”

“Nais? Why?”

“You’ll see.”

“Ah… right.”