The Cardinal's Blades

16

The coach picked Rochefort up at Place de la Croix-du-Trahoir and, after a short conversation with the comte de Pontevedra, it left him in front of the scaffolding covering the facade of the Palais-Cardinal. The ambassador extraordinary of Spain had demanded this discreet meeting urgently. He had promised that he had important news and he had not been lying.

La Fargue and Saint-Lucq were waiting in an antechamber of the Palais-Cardinal. They were silent and pensive, aware of what was at stake during the interview His Eminence was about to grant them. Their chances of rescuing Agnes lay with Malencontre, a man Richelieu was keeping locked away and was not likely to give up to them easily-and they had no guarantee of success if he did.

After some considerable hesitation, Saint-Lucq rose from a bench and went to join La Fargue, who stood gazing out a window.

“I found this at Cecile’s house,” he said in a confidential tone.

He held out an unsealed letter on a yellowed piece of paper.

The old gentleman lowered his eyes to the missive and finally took it with a doubtful air.

“What is it?”

“Read it, captain.”

He read, looking stiff and grim, haunted by old torments that he refused to show on his countenance. Then he refolded the letter, slipped it into his sleeve, and said: “You also read this.”

“It was open and I had no way of knowing its contents.”

“Indeed.”

“I haven’t said anything to the others.”

“Thank you.”

La Fargue resumed looking out at the cardinal’s gardens, where workers were finishing digging the basins. Trees rooted in large sacks of earth were arriving in carts.

“Captain, did you know you had a daughter?”

“I knew it.”

“Why did you hide it?”

“To protect her and safeguard her mother’s honour.”

“Oriane?”

Oriane de Louveciennes, the wife of the man who-until his act of treason at the siege of La Rochelle-had been La Fargue’s best friend.

Saint-Lucq nodded, impassive behind his spectacles’ round, red lenses.

“Why do you think Oriane wrote this letter so many years ago?”

“No doubt so that Anne might one day know who her real father was.”

“Perhaps your daughter came to Paris in the hope of meeting you.”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

A door creaked and Rochefort passed through the antechamber with a quick step without seeming to pay them any notice. Unlike them, he did not have to wait before being received by the cardinal.

“I don’t like the look of that,” said the half-blood.

In his large and luxurious study, Richelieu was discussing matters with Pere Joseph when Rochefort entered and interrupted them. They were speaking of Laincourt, of whom they had heard nothing.

“Please forgive my intrusion, monseigneur. But I have some important news.”

“We are listening.”

“The comte de Pontevedra has just informed me that the chevalier d’Ireban is in Madrid. Although he was thought to have disappeared here in France, in fact he decided to return to Spain by his own means and without letting anyone know.”

The cardinal and Pere Joseph exchanged a long look: they did not believe a word of what they had just heard. Then Richelieu settled back into his armchair with a sigh.

“Whether it’s true or not,” said the Capuchin monk, “the mission entrusted to your Blades no longer has any reason to continue, monseigneur…”

Richelieu nodded thoughtfully.

He nevertheless took time to reflect before declaring: “You are right, father. Have Captain La Fargue come in.”