The Alchemist in the Shadows

1

The meeting took place at nightfall, on the road to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, in a hostelry whose old sign depicted a hart's head in yellow, flaking paint. The establishment had seen better days. Once a thriving business, it had suffered since a bridge had been built at Chatou to replace the ferry —

which had previously been the only means of crossing the Seine in these parts. Although the bridge did not change the itinerary of those travelling back and forth between Paris and Saint-Germain, it did save time and make the stop at The Golden Hart less necessary.

The riders arrived at dusk.

There were four of them, all wearing great dark cloaks, wide felt hats, riding boots and carrying swords at their side. One of them was Cardinal Richelieu, riding incognito between two of his most loyal gentlemen and following the new captain of his Guards, monsieur de La Houdiniere. On this expedition, however, the latter was not wearing the prestigious scarlet cape with its distinctive cross and white braid beneath his cloak. He dismounted in the courtyard, knocked on the door according to the agreed code — three times, once, then three times again — and looked around him as he waited for a response.

A wyvern screamed in the distance. Perhaps a wild one, although they were rarely found in France except in the most out-of-the-way corners of the kingdom. More likely a trained wyvern, being ridden by a royal messenger or a scout from one of the regiments assembling around Paris before setting off for Champagne, in preparation for the forthcoming campaign against Lorraine.

Someone, at last, opened the door a crack.

It was Cupois, the hosteller, who presented an anxious face with a sallow complexion, topped by a crown of red hair.

'Is everything ready?' La Houdiniere demanded.

'Yes, milord.'

The hosteller had no idea who he was addressing, although he was sure he was dealing with a great lord involved in some dangerous intrigue. That, of course, worried him. But the lure of gold proved stronger than his misgivings when La Houdiniere - without saying who he was or whom he served -

had come by shortly before noon to inspect the place, giving strict instructions and leaving a handsome sum in advance. Cupois only knew that The Golden Hart had been chosen for a meeting that was at least confidential, if not clandestine, in nature.

'There are some gentlemen already waiting for you,' he said. 'They are upstairs in the largest of my rooms, where, according to your orders, I have placed a table and chairs.'

La Houdiniere entered, examined the common room which was plunged into half-light and listened closely to the silence that reigned within the hostelry.

'Did they have the password?' he asked, to set his own mind at rest.

'Of course,' replied the hosteller, peeking outdoors. 'Without it, I would not have allowed them to enter.'

The captain of the Cardinal's Guards could not refrain from smiling at the notion of Cupois trying to prevent La Fargue from entering anywhere.

'Good,' he said. 'Go join your wife in your chamber and don't come back out.'

'I prepared a light meal and I—'

'No need. Go to your bed, monsieur Cupois.'

His tone was courteous, but firm.

'They're coming,' said Almades, interrupting a conversation between La Fargue and Laincourt.

Standing at the window, but at a discreet distance, he kept watch on the surroundings of The Golden Hart. Laconic as always, he added:

'Four riders. One of them comes in advance as a scout. I cannot make out his face.'

'Rochefort,' surmised the captain of the Blades. 'Or La Houdiniere.'

'La Houdiniere. He has just dismounted,' said the Spanish fencing master.

Laincourt joined him to take a look outside.

'The cardinal is waiting on his horse,' he reported. 'The other two are gentlemen from his entourage.

I have met them before at the Palais-Cardinal—'

'So, no sign of Rochefort,' La Fargue concluded.

As usual he was wearing a sleeveless black leather vest over a doublet of the same red as the sash that was tied about his waist, with his Pappenheimer at his side. His close-cropped white beard was neatly trimmed, but his face was drawn, betraying the strain of the recent fight at La Renardiere and his desperate fall from the window. Although he tried not to let anything show, he still experienced some pain when he moved.

'No,' confirmed Laincourt. 'No sign of Rochefort.'

'We serve the same master, he and I. And yet I must confess I always feel more at ease when I know where he is and what he is doing. He is a little like a ferocious dog. I do not like to imagine him roaming about freely in the garden . . .'

Arnaud de Laincourt nodded and then turned his head towards Saint-Lucq when the latter said:

'Perhaps Rochefort is too busy with La Donna . . .'

The half-blood was lying stretched out on the bed away from the others, in the shadows. Remaining perfectly still, hat over his eyes and fingers crossed on his chest, he had appeared to be napping until now. With Laincourt and Almades to accompany La Fargue, his presence here was useless and he knew it. But the cardinal had specifically asked that he came. He did not know why.

At the mention of the Italian lady spy, La Fargue pursed his lips doubtfully.

The Blades had been without news of Alessandra since Saint-Lucq had laid hands on her once again. They only knew

that she had since been incarcerated in the Bastille and later transferred elsewhere. If monsieur de Laffemas was still interrogating her, he was no longer doing so at Le Chatelet.

'You can be certain,' said Laincourt in a grave voice, 'that La Donna has not spent more than two or three nights in a gaol cell. And if the cardinal is keeping you in the dark as to where she is being detained, it may be because she is no longer being detained anywhere.'

Saint-Lucq sat up suddenly and pivoted to perch on the edge of the bed.

'Are you saying that she is now free?' he asked in surprise, pushing his red spectacles up to the bridge of his nose.

'I'm saying I would not be too surprised to learn that she was . . .'

'And how the devil—?'

Laincourt admitted his ignorance with a shrug. But then he added:

'La Donna never plays a card without having another one up her sleeve. By returning to Paris after her escape from La Renardiere, thanks to the drac attack, she knew she risked being recaptured.

And no doubt she made some arrangements to protect herself in this event.'

La Fargue and Saint-Lucq exchanged a look while the cardinal's former spy remained deep in his own thoughts. As for Almades, he continued to keep his silent vigil upon the courtyard.

'They're coming inside,' he announced.

Then he looked out at the horizon where clouds darker than night were massing. He saw the first flickers of lightning from the storm which was now looming over Paris.

Leaning from a third-storey window, Marciac twisted himself around in order to expose his face to the welcome rain which, after a prolonged heat spell, was now pouring down upon the capital. Eyes closed, he smiled and breathed in deeply. The blowing wind and rumblings of thunder did not bother him in the least.

'Great God, that feels good!' he exclaimed; 'Sometimes there's nothing better than a storm . . .'

'A powerful thought,' retorted Agnes, hauling him back inside by the collar. 'Now, if you could just avoid revealing yourself to the whole world . . .'

She closed the window.

'No need to worry on that account,' said the Gascon wiping his face with a hand. 'The hosteller swore to me our man would not be back till midnight.'

He was soaked, dishevelled and delighted.

And how does he know that, your hosteller?' asked the baronne de Vaudreuil.

Marciac shrugged blithely.

'I didn't think to ask,' he confessed. 'But he seemed particularly sure of himself on this point.'

Agnes rolled her eyes and shook her head. She was dressed like a horseman, as usual — boots, breeches, white shirt, cinched red leather corset — and had tied her thick black hair back into a long plait. At her side hung a rapier whose handsome elegance had often reserved deadly surprises for her enemies.

The thunder rolled above them, causing the window panes to rattle and the whole building's frame to creak. They were in the attic.

'There's Ballardieu too,' insisted the Gascon. 'He's watching from the street below, isn't he?'

The young woman was forced to agree:

'Yes. Ballardieu is keeping an eye on things below . . . But let's complete our task here and return to the mansion as quickly as possible, all right? In fact, we should already have finished by now.'

'Very good, madame la baronne.'

Pretending not to see Marciac's mocking bow, Agnes slowly swept her candleholder from side to side before her, surveying the bedchamber into which they had discreetly introduced themselves after bribing the owner. The room was rather shabby, as was the rest of the establishment, a very modest hostelry in the faubourg Saint-Jacques. It contained a bed, a chest, a table and a stool. Its legitimate occupant had also left behind a large leather bag.

Each of them holding a light, Agnes and Marciac got to work without conferring or hindering one another. Their mission consisted of verifying one of the few, rare pieces of intelligence that La Donna had provided to monsieur de Laffemas. According to her, an emissary of the queen mother -

a certain Gueret — was in Paris to hand sensitive documents over to the duchesse de Chevreuse.

Based on the spy's information, the Blades thought they could unmask this Gueret, but first they had to confirm his identity.

'What are we searching for, exactly?' asked the Gascon, kneeling before the clothing chest he had just opened.

There was more rumbling from the storm outside and the sound of the rain spattering down on the tiles of the roof resounded in the chamber. Already, drops were falling from a crack in the ceiling.

'Letters,' answered Agnes. 'Papers. Anything that proves we have located the right person. But without taking or disturbing anything. The man must not have the slightest reason to suspect that we have our eye on him . . .'

'Oh dear!' said Marciac in a strangely toneless voice, I'm afraid that particular cat is already out of the sack.'

Busy examining the contents of the leather bag, the young woman had only been lending him a distracted ear.

'Pardon?' she said, after a moment.

Raising her head, she saw the Gascon leap in pursuit of someone in the corridor. The chamber's legitimate occupant, no doubt. Whoever he was, they had not heard him coming over the sound of the storm and, for a few heartbeats, Marciac and the man had stared at one another in mutual disbelief . . .

. . . just before a clap of thunder broke the spell and precipitated the chase.

Recovering from her surprise, Agnes cursed, climbed over the bed and dashed out of the room in pursuit of the two men.

*

Having entrusted his cloak and hat to La Houdiniere, Cardinal Richelieu — in high boots, breeches and a doublet made of grey cloth — removed his gloves and announced:

'I must be at the chateau de Saint-Germain within the hour, where I will be joining the king and his court. So let us be brief, monsieur de La Fargue. My escort is waiting for me in the woods a quarter league from here.'

Almades and Saint-Lucq having gone downstairs to join the two gentlemen belonging to His Eminence's suite, only four men — the cardinal, La Fargue, La Houdiniere, and Laincourt —

remained on the upper floor of The Golden Hart, in a strangely quiet and desolate room that smelled of old wood and dust. A few candles placed here and there made the shadows dance and h611owed the faces of those present. Richelieu looked even more emaciated than usual and his glance seemed more penetrating.

'What news of this plot that La Donna claimed to denounce?' the chief minister asked. 'Is there any evidence of it, according to you? And if so, what can you tell me about it at present?'

La Fargue cleared his throat before replying.

'If there is one point on which La Donna has never wavered, monseigneur, it is this one. There is a plot, and it threatens the French throne.'

'And what is its nature?'

'We still don't know. But we believe that the Black Claw is behind it.'

The cardinal gathered his fingers into a steeple before his thin lips.

'The Black Claw, you say?'

'Yes, monseigneur.'

'With the complicity of other parties?'

'Yes. That of the duchesse de Chevreuse. And of the queen, monseigneur.'

Having said his piece, La Fargue fell silent.

A hush settled around the table as Richelieu stared at him for a long moment. Laincourt tried to remain as impassive as the

captain of the Blades, but the effort cost him and he detected signs of a similar struggle going on within La Houdiniere.

However indirectly, La Fargue had just accused the queen of treason.

'Do you have proof of this claim?' the cardinal finally enquired. 'Not proofs concerning these complicities, but of the plot itself?'

'Not as such, monseigneur. Only the documents delivered to us by La Donna which attest to—'

'Those documents do not attest to much, captain,' Richelieu interrupted in a severe tone of voice.

'Teyssier has given me a preliminary translation to read. The documents are incomplete and very vague, even supposing that they are authentic'

'La Donna can testify to that. Let her be interrogated.'

'Impossible.'

'Impossible, monseigneur? What do you mean?'

'The woman is no longer in our power,' said the cardinal in a voice that was too calm not to be worrying. 'After she escaped from you, during the few hours of liberty she enjoyed before being recaptured, she managed to communicate her situation to certain individuals who are very well-disposed towards her . . .'

As Richelieu spoke, La Fargue recalled Laincourt's prediction and, out of the corner of his eye, he watched for a reaction from the younger man. He was not the sort to say 'I told you so', implicitly or not. But nevertheless it appeared he had foretold matters correctly and, according to the cardinal, on the very day that Saint-Lucq had retaken La Donna into custody, an emissary from the Pope had demanded an audience with His Eminence to discuss the case of the beautiful lady spy.

'The threat was scarcely veiled,' said Richelieu. 'She was to be liberated at once, or else accused and presented to her judges. That is to say: the very members of the Parlement who would have insisted on asking questions and expressing loud protests concerning La Donna for reasons of which you arc already aware. Therefore, since it was not in the interests of the king to allow a scandal, and since the support of

His Holiness could be useful to the kingdom in the near future . . .'

La Fargue nodded with a sombre face. France was merely waiting for a pretext to invade Lorraine, a Catholic bastion at the very gates of the Holy Roman Empire, which was itself being torn apart by war.

'But all this matters little in the end,' the cardinal pursued. 'Madame de Chevreuse is part of this plot, you say? Very well, there will soon be no worries on that score. In fact I can tell you that the duchesse will shortly be placed under arrest, and for proven motives.'

'Which are, monseigneur?'

'Treason,' indicated Richelieu, with a gesture of his hand to indicate that he would say no more on this subject. 'Others, just as prestigious as La Chevreuse by their birth, rank, or fortune, will be similarly inconvenienced. Special trials will be held. Sentences will be pronounced. And heads will roll.'

La Fargue frowned. He feared he was beginning to understand where all this was leading.

'Are you ordering me to give up this mission, monseigneur?'

'Nothing can be allowed to compromise the success of the matter I have just mentioned.'

'But, monseigneur—'

'It is an affair of State, captain.'

'And a plot against the king is not?'

'It is a shadowy plot, at best.'

'A plot of which the Alchemist himself is the mastermind!' exploded La Fargue.

Silence fell, heavy as an executioner's axe.

La Fargue had raised his voice and, despite being willing to pardon the old gentleman many things, the cardinal had frozen, his eyes suddenly blazing with anger. Laincourt held his breath and saw the captain of the Blades, embarrassed, inhale deeply.

'I . . . I humbly beseech Your Eminence to forgive my outburst.'

Richelieu paused until his gaze grew more peaceful and then he finally said:

'The Alchemist, yes, of course . . . That name must bring some very bad memories to mind, captain .

. .'

'Indeed.'

'I therefore understand your . . . lapse. And I forgive it.'

'Monseigneur, said La Fargue in a more composed voice, 'thwarting this plot is above all a matter of protecting the king. But it is perhaps also a means of inflicting a terrible blow against the Black Claw by killing or capturing the Alchemist.'

'And it also risks compromising the fruits of some long, patient investigations into some of most eminent personages in the kingdom. All this may yet fail if you disturb the duchesse or her accomplices with your operations.'

'It is a question of neutralising the Alchemist, monseigneur. A similar opportunity may not present itself for a long time to come.'

'I am well aware of that. But you are hunting with hounds and have only just set off in your pursuit, whereas I have been laying my snares for some time now. Although you and I are not hunting exactly the same prey, you could very well end up frightening mine by tracking yours. And, to top it all, you may only be hunting a shadow.'

La Fargue was silent. What other argument could he make? Richelieu knew all the facts, all that was at stake, all the risks, all the secret realities which would lead him to take, alone, a decision that would no doubt have heavy consequences.

The cardinal granted himself another moment of reflection and then said:

'Very well, captain. Since the life of the king may depend on it, endeavour to foil this plot that threatens him. It may, possibly, lead you to the Alchemist, who is an enemy of France. If it does, you must neutralise him . . .'

The captain of the Blades wanted to thank him, but Richelieu raised his index finger to signal that he had not finished yet.

'However, I am aware that this enemy of France is also your own since the tragic events at La Rochelle. Do not let that obscure your judgement. Be prudent and discreet. Forbid yourself the slightest false step. Do not act lightly, and above all, do not commit some mistake that might irretrievably wreck the trials we are now preparing . . .'

La Fargue nodded. The cardinal, however, continued:

'That being said, I set two further conditions. The first is that you keep me informed of your projects, and of your successes as well as your failures.

'Certainly, monseigneur.'

'The second is that you transfer Saint-Lucq to my service.'

Although it left La Fargue unperturbed, this request — which was in fact an order — surprised Laincourt. But it confirmed in his mind the half-blood's unique status within the Blades. Did he really belong to them? The others seemed to consider him one of their best. However, where they willingly expressed their pride at serving under La Fargue, Saint-Lucq set himself apart and adopted the pose of an exceptional mercenary who remained with the Blades by choice, but who could leave tomorrow. Moreover, Laincourt knew that when the Blades had been disbanded, Saint-Lucq was the only member the cardinal had continued to employ on secret missions. That could not be insignificant.

'All of the Blades serve at Your Eminence's discretion, monseigneur,' said La Fargue.

'Good,' replied Richelieu, rising and accepting La Houdi-niere's aid in donning his cloak. 'I'm relying on you, La Fargue. But you should know that you don't have much time. The duchesse de Chevreuse will be hosting a great ball at Dampierre. The morning after this ball she shall be placed under arrest, as will all those who are implicated in her schemes, throughout France. The king desires this, so that her fall immediately follows her moment of triumph.'

The cardinal paused here, thinking to himself that this decision corresponded well with the character, at times cruel and devious, of Louis XIII. Calmly, he put on his gloves.

'One last thing, captain. The king is very attached to the success of this . . . Chevreuse affair. He has been following its slow development closely for several months now and is growing impatient. He will not tolerate seeing the duchesse

escape from the arm of his justice, even if it were to occur in the course of protecting His Majesty from a plot . . .'

Before putting on his hat, Richelieu fixed La Fargue with his steely gaze and added:

'Do you understand me, captain? And are you fully aware how ungrateful kings can be?'

'Merde!' Marciac snarled, seeing the runaway jump from one roof to another across an alleyway.

Not knowing whether Agnes was following him closely or not, he did not slow down, took the same leap in turn and, in the dark and the wet, landed as best he could on the other side.

He swore again as he almost lost his balance.

'Merde!'

And then he resumed the pursuit under the pouring rain . . .

. . . hoping mightily that he was in fact chasing Gueret, the agent that the queen mother had sent to the duchesse de Chevreuse. Provided La Donna hadn't lied. Provided they had not been mistaken about the room at the inn or its occupant. Nothing was certain. On discovering two strangers searching his belongings the other man, to be sure, had not raised a hue and cry but had instead immediately taken to his heels. And now he was still fleeing as if he had the Devil on his trail, over rain-slicked rooftops in the middle of a stormy night, at the risk of breaking his neck. Frankly it was not the behaviour of a man with a clear conscience. Nevertheless. If this fellow was not Gueret, then Marciac was making a huge mistake . . .

Out of breath, soaked to the skin, his face spattered by volleys of fat, stinging raindrops, he slowed down for an instant and sought to catch a glimpse of his fugitive. He spotted his silhouette thanks to a flash of lightning. The loolhardy man had not weakened. He continued running and appeared to be taking a giant leap over a major obstacle. Feeling anger grow within him, the Gascon resumed the chase and discovered, by almost falling into it, the nature of the obstacle in question. He managed to halt himself at the last minute on the verge of empty space. This time, it was not a matter of crossing a narrow alley. Or even a street. He looked down into the shadowy well of a small courtyard.

'Merde de merdeP exclaimed Marciac furiously.

Going around would mean letting the other man escape. But so would waiting here for much longer.

The Gascon hesitated. He backed up a few steps, all the while cursing himself, his contrary fate, and imbeciles who scarpered over roofs during a deluge in the middle of night. He took a deep breath.

Cursed some more.

And launched himself into thin air.

Windmilling his arms and kicking his legs, Marciac's leap was not a beauteous thing to behold. But it propelled him across five metres of cavernous darkness to land on the ridge of a sloping roof.

After that, things took a turn for the worse.

The roof was not only sloped but also streaming with water, that is to say,, it was extremely slippery. And most of its tiles were just waiting to be dislodged.

Like a high wire artist in a gale, Marciac teetered, waving his arms, shifting from one leg to the other . . .

'Oh, merde . . .'

He fell onto his arse and slid down the slope, faster and faster, preceded by a cascade of tiles which came loose beneath his heels.

'Merde-merde-merde-merde-merde-merde-merde . . .'

And then there was only empty space.

'Meeeeeeeeeeerde!'

Some worm-eaten planks slowed his fall with a crash, a thick layer of straw then cushioned it further and finally a hard bump on the floor of a stable brought matters to a conclusion. Marciac felt pain, swore in his usual manner and still very angry, rolled over on his side, grimacing.

Which he probably would not have done if he had known he was about to put his nose in a pile of . .

.

'Merde.'

Agnes's heart leapt in her chest when she saw Marciac fall.

'Nicolas!'

She too jumped across the small courtyard, landed with more aplomb than the Gascon and cautiously succeeded in reaching the edge of the roof.

'Nicolas!' she called out in an anxious voice. 'Nicolas!'

'I'm down here.'

'Anything broken?'

'Don't think so, no.'

'How are you?'

Displaying a definite sign of good health, Marciac's boiling temper rose to the surface.

'Admirably well!' he shouted sarcastically. 'No Gascon

HAS EVER SPENT A BETTER EVENING! So HOW ABOUT GOING AFTER THAT OTHER

ACROBAT, HMM?

Reassured, Agnes withdrew from the edge of the roof and stood up. Beneath the storm and making use of the flashes of lightning she scanned the rooftops around her, but did not see the runaway and finally picked a direction at random. She doubted she would ever be able to catch him. Even if she knew which way to go, the man now had too great a lead.

A little further on, coming around an enormous chimney, Agnes found herself looking out over a wide crossroads. The person she was looking for was not visible on any of the surrounding rooftops.

It was the end of the chase.

Regretfully, she was about to turn back when her glance fell onto the street below.

And there, dimly lit by one of the big lanterns that were left burning all night in a few scattered places in the capital, she saw the man lying unmoving on the pavement five storeys down, surrounded by a dark puddle riddled by the falling raindrops.

They rode at a walk, through the night, along the road towards Paris and the storm. La Fargue and Laincourt went ahead. Almades followed, quiet and attentive. The old gentleman had not said a word since they had left The Golden Hart shortly after the cardinal's departure with his escort and Saint-Lucq. He seemed absorbed in his thoughts and Laincourt chose to respect his silence. Besides, he was fairly preoccupied himself.

Around them, the darkness seemed immense and the storm rumbled in the distance like the anger of some ancient god.

'It was at La Rochelle,' La Fargue said suddenly, without taking his eyes off from the path ahead.

'Five years ago, during the siege of 1628. We were there, some of the Blades and I, the others being busy in Lorraine. We had infiltrated the besieged town in order to carry out the kind of missions that you might expect . . .'

'Captain, I—'

'No, Laincourt. It's important that you understand. And I know you are the sort of man who can keep a secret. So don't interrupt me, will you?-J

'Very well.'

'Thank you . . . For the most part, it was a matter of collecting intelligence and, by night, taking it back to our own lines. The cardinal was thus kept informed of the state of La Rochelle's defences, of the imminence and scale of relief from the English, of the true severity of the food shortages caused by the blockade, of the shifting opinion among the population and the difficulties encountered by the town's leaders. We also carried out, on occasion, acts of sabotage. And, more rarely, we eliminated traitors and foreign agents.'

La Fargue turned to Laincourt and asked him:

'But you already know all that, don't you?'

'Yes.'

Nodding to himself, the captain of the Blades shifted his position in the saddle slightly to ease the pain in his back.

'We were doing what we do best. Meanwhile, the siege was turning in favour of the royal armies after the cardinal ordered a dike built to prevent ships reaching or leaving the port . . . Then one evening, when I secretly met with Roche-fort, he told me the Alchemist was in La Rochelle. Why was he there? My new mission was precisely to learn this and, if possible, to seize him. I endeavoured to do so with zeal because the Alchemist's renown, as well as the mystery surrounding him, was already immense. He was an enemy of

France and his arrival in La Rochelle had to be significant: something important was afoot . . .'

La Fargue paused in his recital of the tale and, holding back a grimace, rotated an aching shoulder.

After his fall into the moat at La Renardiere, Marciac — who had once almost become a doctor —

examined him and determined that nothing was broken. But the captain of the Blades, as solid and tough as he was despite his age, was not indestructible and had increasing difficulty recovering from the physical ordeals he inflicted upon himself in the line of duty.

'I soon learned that the Alchemist was supposed to attend a meeting. With whom, I did not know.

But I knew where and when, so I prepared an ambush. And in doing so, I walked straight into the trap that the Alchemist had set for us.'

La Fargue's glance was lost in memory for a moment.

hie resumed his account:

'I am convinced, now, that the Alchemist's mission was in fact to unmask us and remove us as an effective unit in the conflict.'

'Were you under suspicion?'

'No. But the blows we struck against La Rochelle's forces would have indicated that a clandestine enemy unit was operating within the town walls . . .'

'So the Alchemist arranged for the cardinal's men to learn he was in La Rochelle, is that it? So that you would be informed in turn and make every effort to capture him.'

'Yes, that's my belief. Aware of his own value, he made himself the bait to flush us out, which he managed without difficulty. A simple, effective plan. A brilliant plan. Often, the real t rick consists in making your opponent believe he's calling the tune . . .' The old gentleman slowly shook his head, as if the years had suddenly caught up with him. 'It was a disaster. One of us, Bretteville, perished during the ambush. And another, Louveciennes—'

—betrayed you and fled. Today he lives in Spain, as the wealthy comte de Pontevedra.'

The captain of the Blades nodded gravely before adding:

'That same night, the dike gave way. Soon English supplies and relief forces arrived in La Rochelle by sea. The king realised that he could no longer win by force of arms alone, not without beggaring the kingdom, and he commanded the cardinal to open negotiations. Richelieu disavowed us to avoid having to justify our activities during the siege; he affirmed that we were acting without orders and that he was not even aware of our existence. For the Blades, it meant disgrace. And soon the end, since the cardinal dismissed us from his service.'

'Until recently.'

'Yes. Until recently.'

La Fargue fell silent.

Laincourt followed suit, but one question continued to haunt him. A question he did not dare to ask, but which the captain of the Blades was able to guess:

'Ask it.'

'I beg your pardon, captain?'

'Your question. Go ahead, ask it.'

The young man hesitated, and then:

'How can we ever know for sure?' he heard himself wonder aloud. 'How can we know if you're pursuing this mission to avenge yourself upon the Alchemist or not? How can we know if you prefer seeking justice for yourself to serving the king and France?'

Behind them, Almades pricked up an ear.

La Fargue smiled sadly.

'You can't,' he replied.

In the faubourg Saint-Jacques, Agnes was making her way back towards the hostelry under the continuing downpour, through deserted streets sporadically lit by flashes of lightning. The young baronne, soaked and furious, walked briskly, a curl of hair dangling in front of one eye.

She soon met up with Marciac and Ballardieu. They were going in the same direction, the old soldier supporting the limping Gascon.

Ballardieu lowered his eyes upon seeing Agnes.

'Well?' she asked, directing her words at Marciac.

'Sprained ankle. Very painful . . . And the other man? Did you lose him?'

'Dead.'

'You killed—?'

'No! He fell and broke his skull.'

'So we have a problem.'

'As you say.'

The young woman turned to Ballardieu and told him in a frosty tone where he could find the body.

Then she ordered:

'Dump it in the Seine. But strip it first and make sure it's unrecognisable. And keep all the clothing.'

'Yes, Agnes.'

The old soldier went about his tasks without further ado.

Taking his place, Agnes propped Marciac up and slowly, because the Gascon was heavy and could only hobble, they made their way back to the inn.

'He may not be to blame,' said Marciac.

Agnes knew he was referring to Ballardieu and replied:

'He should have warned us the man was coming. That was his job. And I'm convinced he's been drinking . . .'

The Gascon could find nothing to say in response to this.

But after a few more metres in the rain, he said:

'La Fargue isn't going to be happy, is he?'

'Not in the least bit.'

They had just lost the only lead likely to take them to the duchesse de Chevreuse, to the Alchemist and to the plot against the king.