The Alchemist in the Shadows

2

Cardinal Richelieu was preparing to take his leave with the other members of the Council when King Louis XIII called him back:

'Cardinal.'

'Yes, Sire?'

'Stay for a moment.'

Lifting a red-gloved hand to his chest, Richelieu indicated his obedience with a silent nod and drew away from the door through which ministers and secretaries of state were departing. They passed one by one, without lingering or looking back, almost cringing as if they feared the sudden touch of an icy breath on the back of their necks.

Draughts were not uncommon in the Louvre, but in this warm month of June 1633 the only ones to be truly feared were the result of a royal cold spell. Such cold spells did not cause noses to drip, aggravate rheumatism, or force anyone to stay in bed, but they could provoke an illness serious enough to ruin destinies and finish careers. The members of the Council were well aware of this and were particularly wary of contagion. And they had all felt a distinctly wintry blast this morning when His Majesty had joined them with a brisk step and, upon sitting down and without greeting anyone present, curtly demanded that the order of the day be read.

The king held his Council every morning after breakfast and did not hesitate to summon its members again later in the day if the affairs of the realm warranted further attention. In this he followed the example of his father. But in contrast to Henri IV, who conducted his meetings so freely that they sometimes took place during strolls outside, Louis XIII —

more reserved, more cautious, and more attached to proper etiquette — required formal deliberations, around a table and behind closed doors. At the Louvre, the Council met either in the chamber on the ground floor traditionally reserved for its use, or — as today — in the Book Room.

This was no less formal a setting than the Council chamber but, as Richelieu had noticed, the king preferred its use whenever he was anxious to ensure the complete confidentiality of debates or foresaw the need for a discreet one-to-one conversation at the conclusion of the Council's session.

Then he only needed to detain the person with whom he desired to speak for a few moments, and everything could be said in the time it took the other Council members to reappear in public.

The cardinal had therefore guessed that something was in the air when he arrived at the Louvre and was directed to the Book Room. The slight delay in His Majesty's arrival, and his manifest dissatisfaction during the meeting, had confirmed his suspicions and forced him to ponder. He was obliged to pay careful heed to the moods of the man who had raised him to the heights of power and glory, as the same man could just as easily precipitate his fall. No doubt Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal Richelieu, deserved to exercise the immense responsibilities that Louis XIII conferred upon him. And no doubt he had demonstrated his exceptional abilities as a statesman over the past ten years since his recall to the Council and appointment as chief minister. But personal merits and services rendered counted for little without royal favour, and the cardinal could not afford to let the favour he enjoyed run cold. He had far too many enemies for that — ambitious rivals who were jealous of his influence and adversaries hostile to his policies alike — and all of them, in France and elsewhere, were eager to see his star wane.

To be sure, the king's esteem and affection for his chief minister were not likely to disappear overnight. As close as the Capitol might be to the Tarpeian Rock, Richelieu did not believe himself likely to fall victim to a royal whim. Nevertheless, Louis XIII was a grim, temperamental, and secretive monarch, who suffered from an inability to express his emotions and was often difficult to understand. The cardinal himself was often forced to make concessions to appease his authoritarian master whose reactions could still surprise him on occasion. Taciturn by nature, the king would spend much time ruminating over his decisions which he would then divulge suddenly and without explanation, or else explain badly. He was also rancorous in more private matters. Sensitive, he never forgave a slight completely and would nurse grudges that ripened, quietly and patiently, without the knowledge of those close to him. Then came the clumsy word, the indelicate gesture, the ingratitude, or some other small fault that finally proved too much for him to bear. When this occurred, Louis XIII gave way to cold angers which he expressed by way of stern reproaches, cruel humiliations, or even brutal punishments and disgraces.

It was one of these angers that the members of the Council sensed was imminent, and which —

despite being great lords and high officials of the Crown for the most part — they had each dreaded they would bear the brunt of, right up until the moment when, to their immense relief, His Majesty had finally released them.

All in all, notwithstanding the king's awful mood, the Council meeting had proceeded almost as usual. Louis XIII had sat alone at the head of the long rectangular table around which the others had taken their places, ready to explain official business or read dispatches. Then the moment had arrived for debate and deliberations, during which each member had to defend or justify his advice.

These deliberations were often fairly free discussions, which would become lively when views diverged, with the king insisting that everyone should express their convictions within his Council.

This morning, however, no one really desired to stand out, to such a degree that Louis XIII soon became irritated and, wishing to have an opinion on a precise point, he questioned one secretary of state rather sharply. Muddling his papers in surprise, the man had stammered out a confused answer that the king had received with arctic coldness: he himself was afflicted with a slight stammer that he controlled by force of will. At that

V

instant, all those present believed that the king's wrath would fall unjustly upon the poor man, but nothing ensued. After a long silence, a semblance of debate resumed and the king dismissed the Council an hour later.

But not before asking the cardinal to remain behind.

If Richelieu had only lent a distracted ear to the actual debates, he had been observing the proceedings closely, waiting to see which matter, when it was presented, would provoke a reaction

— however restrained or disguised — from the king.

In vain.

Yet there was no lack of reasons for concern. There was the war being prepared against Lorraine, the hegemonic ambitions of Spain and its Court of Dragons, the intrigues of England, and the string of military successes by Sweden in its campaign within the Holy Roman Empire which risked upsetting the fragile balance of power in Europe. Within France's borders there were rumblings from the people due to the crushing weight of taxes, the Catholic party showed no signs of disarming, several Protestant towns were demanding the same privileges as La Rochelle, which the city had only obtained by victoriously withstanding a siege five years earlier, and plot after treasonous plot continued to be hatched, even in the very corridors of the Louvre. Lastly, in Paris itself, churches were burning and there was an increasing threat of rioting against the Huguenots and the Jews, who were blamed for starting the fires.

But none of the foreign or domestic affairs that the Council had discussed appeared to be the cause of the rage Louis XIII was struggling so hard to contain. Since the king was very pious, could it be those reports, still confidential, indicating a disturbing revival of sorcerous activity in the capital?

Did the king know something that his chief minister did not? The very idea was enough to worry the cardinal, who endeavoured to know everything in order to foresee everything and, if necessary, to prevent anything from happening.

The last Council member to leave was the marquis de Chateauneuf, Keeper of the Seals. Carrying with him the finely wrought casket containing the kingdom's seals which he never let out of his sight, he bade farewell to Richelieu with a respectful nod of the head.

A footman shut the doors behind him.

Agnes de Vaudreuil returned from her morning ride in the outskirts of Paris at around ten o'clock.

Travelling along rue du Chasse-Midi at a fast trot, she barely slowed when she reached the Croix-Rouge crossroads, despite the fact that it was very busy at this hour. The young baronne expected people to make way for her and make way they did, sometimes grumbling and more often railing after her. She followed rue des Saints-Peres as far as rue Saint-Dominique and — now in the heart of the faubourg Saint-Germain, a few streets away from the magnificent abbey which gave it its name — she turned into the very narrow rue Saint-Guillaume. Here she was finally forced to slow her horse to a walk to avoid bowling over some innocent passerby, street hawker, trader at his stall, goodwife haggling over the price of a chicken, or miserable beggar shaking his bowl.

People watched as she came to a halt before the Hotel de I'Epervier. She had a wild, austere beauty that was striking to behold, with a slender figure, a proud bearing, a pale complexion, green eyes, full dark lips and long black hair whose heavy curls inevitably escaped from her braid. But the observers were even more surprised by her thigh boots, black breeches, and the red leather corset she wore over a white shirt. It was a daring outfit, to say the least. And not content with publicly displaying herself in this manner, without even covering her head, she also wore a sword and rode her horse like a man. It was scandalous . . .

Indifferent to the discreet commotion she was causing, Agnes swung down from her horse and into the noxious mud that covered the streets of Paris. She would have liked to spare her boots this indignity, but that meant ringing the bell and waiting for someone to come open up one of the great studded doors of the carriage gate. She preferred to push open the smaller, inset pedestrian door that was only locked at night and, leading her horse by the bridle, entered the paved courtyard where the iron-clad hooves clattered and echoed like musket shots.

Coming from the stable, Andre hurried to greet the baronne de Vaudreuil, respectfully taking the reins from her hands.

'You should have rung the bell, madame,' said the stableman. 'I would have opened for you.'

There was a touch of both reproach and regret in his voice.

A very dark-haired man who was going prematurely bald on the top of his head, although sporting a tremendous moustache on his upper lip, he had the frustrated look of someone who was prevented from doing the right thing but had decided to bear with this in silence.

'It's quite all right, Andre . . . Thank you.'

While Andre took her tired, muddy horse to the stable, Agnes removed her gloves and looked at her surroundings with a resigned air.

She sighed.

The Hotel de l'Epervier was a decidedly sinister place. Austere and uncomfortable, it was a vast residence with thick walls and narrow windows which had been built for a Huguenot gentleman after the Saint-Barthelemy massacre. Now it served as headquarters for the Cardinal's Blades, a clandestine elite unit commanded by Captain La Fargue under direct orders from Cardinal Richelieu. Agnes de Vaudreuil didn't like this mansion, where the nights seemed longer and darker than elsewhere. But she had no choice. Lacking lodgings of her own in Paris, she was obliged to live here, immediately available for the service of His Eminence. An order for an urgent mission could arrive at any time from the Palais-Cardinal.

Ballardieu, coming out onto the front steps of the main building, interrupted Agnes's train of thought. Massively built, with greying hair, he was a former soldier who had put on weight over the years thanks to his fondness for food and drink. His cheekbones were reddened by broken veins but his eye remained sharp and he was still capable of felling a mule with one blow of his fist.

'Where on earth have you been?' he demanded.

Restraining a smile, Agnes walked up to him.

Having raised her as best he could, dandled her on his knee, and taught her how to use her first rapier, she was always prepared to forgive Ballardieu's tendency to forget that she was a baronne and no longer eight years old. She knew he loved her, and that he was still awkward when it came to showing his affection. She also knew that he disliked it if she was absent for too long and fretted until she returned. As a child she had once disappeared for several days in troubled circumstances she no longer recalled, but it was an incident which had evidently marked Ballardieu for life.

'I went as far as Saint-Germain,' she explained nonchalantly as she passed him and went into the front hall. 'Any news from La Fargue?'

'No,' replied the old man from the porch. 'But it might interest you to hear that Marciac has returned.'

She halted and turned round, now wearing a radiant smile.

Marciac had been sent off alone on a mission to La Rochelle three weeks earlier and had stopped sending news soon after. The Gascon's silence had been worrying her for several days now.

'Really?'

'God's truth!'

Marciac was bent over a basin of cold water, splashing his face and neck with both hands, when he heard a voice behind him:

'Good morning, Nicolas.'

He interrupted his ablutions, blindly grabbed a towel, then stood up and turned towards Agnes as he dried his cheeks. She stood on the threshold of his bedchamber, with her arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the wall, eyes shining and a faint smile on her lips.

'Welcome home,' she added.

'Thank you,' Marciac replied.

He was still wearing the boots and breeches in which he had ridden, but he had stripped down to his shirt and rolled up his sleeves in order to wash. His doublet — an elegant blood-red garment cut from the same embroidered cloth as his

breeches — lay on the bed next to an old leather travelling bag. His hat was hanging on the wall, along with his rapier in its scabbard and his baldric.

'How are you?' asked Agnes.

'Exhausted.'

And as if to prove these words, he fell into an armchair, with the towel still around his neck and damp locks clinging to his brow. He did seem tired.

But delighted nonetheless.

'I was in such a hurry to get here,' he explained, 'that I barely slept three hours last night. And the sun! The dust . . . ! Lord, I'm dying of thirst!'

At that very moment, sweet, timid Nai's arrived from the kitchen bearing a platter, a jug of wine, and two glasses. Agnes had to step aside to let her pass. Seeing the servant girl, Marciac joyfully leapt to his feet.

'It's a miracle. Nai's, I adore you. Will you marry me? Do you have any idea how much I thought of you, during my exile?'

The young woman set down her platter, and eyes cast downward, asked:

'Would you like me to make up the bed, monsieur?'

'How cruel! Asking me that, when I dream only of unmaking it with you . . .'

Blushing, Nai's giggled, curtseyed, and quickly withdrew.

'Keep on singing, you handsome blackbird!' Agnes said mockingly. 'You shall never pluck that fruit . . .'

Marciac was indeed handsome, fair-headed and full of charm. His hair was always in need of a comb, his cheeks could benefit from a razor, but he was endowed with a natural elegance that was perfectly suited to such neglect. He was more or less Gascon, more or less a gentleman, and more or less a physician. Above all, he was a formidable swordsman, an inveterate gambler, and an unrepentant seducer; a man who had lost count of his duels, his debts, and his conquests.

Shrugging his shoulders, he filled the glasses and handed one to Agnes. They clinked to mark their reunion.

Then Agnes perched on the window ledge while Marciac

returned to his armchair. He would have offered his seat to any other woman, but the baronne de Vaudreuil did not expect such attentions from her brothers-in-arms.

'Now, tell me everything that's happened here,' said the Gascon. 'First off, who's the fellow who took my horse on my arrival? I go away for a few days, and there are new faces when I get back.'

'That's our new groom, Andre. Formerly of the Picardy regiment, I believe.'

'I suppose we've made quite sure that—'

'Yes,' interrupted Agnes. 'The man is quite trustworthy. He was a stableman at the Palais-Cardinal before he was . . . recommended to us.'

'Good . . . And whafabout the others?'

'Others?'

'La Fargue, Saint-Lucq, Leprat . . . You remember them? We all formed a band before I left. Damn!

Have I been gone even longer than it seems?'

Since the jest was deserved and good-humoured, the young woman accepted it with good grace.

'Leprat is in Paris,' she informed him, 'but he tends to spend his mornings at monsieur de Treville's house. As for Saint-Lucq and Almades, they are off on a mission with La Fargue. If all goes well, they should be back today.'

Marciac merely cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at this news.

Agnes rose to close the chamber door, leaned against it for a moment, and then in a hushed tone she said:

'Lately, someone has been sending a few discreet signals to the cardinal. This individual claims to have very valuable information and proposed a meeting to discuss how this information might be—'

'Sold?'

'Negotiated.'

'And His Eminence assigned La Fargue to meet this mysterious person.'

'As a matter of urgency.'

'My word, this individual must really be someone. Who are we talking about, exactly?'

' "La Donna".'

'Ah . . . now I understand.'

La Donna was the nickname given to an adventuress well known in all the courts of Europe. A clever schemer, a mercenary spy and an expert seductress, she made her living from the secrets she discovered for her own benefit or on behalf of others. Beyond her beauty and intelligence, she was best characterised by her lack of scruples. She was venal, and her excellent services came at a high price. She always had several irons in the fire and was adept at playing them off against one another, making hers an exciting but highly dangerous existence. All those who became acquainted with this woman predicted a violent, premature death for her, but these same people did not hesitate to call upon her talents when needed. It was murmured that her ultimate loyalty lay with the Pope.

Others claimed she belonged to a secret society of dragons. All such surmises, however, overlooked her independent spirit and appetite for personal gain.

'But doesn't the cardinal have some grievance against her?' Marciac wondered aloud upon reflection. 'Remember that business at Ratisbon ... ?'

Agnes shrugged. Putting her hand on the doorknob, she said:

'What do you want me to say? There are some cases in which a grievance might be more harmful to the one who nurtures it than to the one who causes it . . . Well, I must go now.'

Out of politeness, the Gascon rose from his chair. The young baronne was about to leave the room when, without warning, she went over and took him in her arms.

Not knowing the reason for this sudden display of emotion, Marciac let her embrace him.

'We were worried,' she murmured in his ear. 'Don't expect the others to tell you so, but you frightened us all. And if ever again you leave us for so long without sending news, I'll scratch your eyes out. Understood?'

'Understood, Agnes. Thank you.'

She left him standing there, but from the stairs she called back:

'Get some rest, but come down as soon as you're ready. I'm sure Ballardieu has planned a feast in your honour.'

With a smile, the Gascon closed the door.

He remained thoughtful for a moment, then gave a huge yawn and turned longing eyes towards the bed.

A slender, nimble, forked tongue woke Arnaud de Laincourt by tickling his ear. The young man groaned, weakly pushing the scaly snout away, and turned over in his bed. But the dragonnet was stubborn.

It switched ears.

Come on, boy . . . You know him well enough by now to realise that he isn't going to leave you in peace . . .

Giving up on sleep, Laincourt sighed heavily and opened his eyes.

'All right, Marechal. All right

Pushing back the sheet, he rose up on his elbows and gave the gaunt old dragonnet an unhappy look. Sitting there with its wings folded and its tail wrapped around its feet, the small reptile seemed to be waiting for something.

He's hungry.

Of course he's hungry, Laincourt replied without speaking. He's always hungry. In fact, I'm starting to wonder how it is that he eats so much and yet remains so thin.

Then out loud, he told Marechal:

'Do you know what a sorry sight you are?' The dragonnet tipped its head to the left. 'Yes, you are . . .'

Laincourt looked over at the big cage with bars as thick as fingers that sat in a corner of the room. It was standing open, as it was every morning, even though he had locked it before going to bed, as he did every evening.

He sighed again.

'Back in your cage!' the young man ordered, clapping his hands. 'Go on! You know the rules! Into your cage!'

Don't be too hard on him . . . When he was mine, he was never locked up.

Slowly, and with obvious reluctance, Marechal turned around and waddled away. Then with a hop and a flap of his wings, he returned to his prison, closing the door with an insolent swipe of one clawed foot. As it clanged shut, the latch fell into place. The old dragonnet did not appear to be worried by this. Laincourt couldn't help smiling.

He was a thin brown-haired young man, with crystalline blue eyes. He was intelligent, cultivated, calm and reserved. Some found him to be distant, as he was in some ways. Others judged his reserve to be a sign of arrogance. They were mistaken. The truth was that, while Laincourt looked down on no one, he simply didn't much care for his contemporaries, asking only that they leave him peace and feeling no need to please them. He detested hollow platitudes, conventional opinions and polite smiles. He disliked being forced into conversation. He preferred silence to small talk and solitude to futile company. When confronted with someone he found tiresome he smiled, nodded, said nothing, and excused himself as quickly as possible. For him, politeness consisted in saying

'good day', 'thank you', 'goodbye', and enquiring only about the health of those he truly cared for.

As soon as he got out of bed and had pulled on his breeches, Laincourt went to close the window of his bedchamber. He had left it open to enjoy the night's cool breeze, but now it was letting in the heat as well as the stink and noise of Paris.

You've slept late again, boy.

So it seems.

That's a bad habit you've picked up since you've been idle and spent your nights reading.

Reading is not the same as being idle.

You are no longer employed.

I no longer have a master.

You will soon be in need of money.

Laincourt shrugged.

He lived on the second floor of a house in rue de la Ferronnerie, not far from the Saints-Innocents cemetery, between the neighbourhoods of Sainte-Opportune and Les Halles. Barely four metres wide, this street was very busy since

it prolonged rue Saint-Honore and crossed rue Saint-Denis at a right angle, thus linking two of the principal traffic routes in Paris. The flow of passers-by, traders, horse riders, sedan chairs, carts, and coaches went by without interruption from morning till night.

Do you see him, boy?

Laincourt glanced out at the street.

At the entrance to a narrow passage between two houses, a gentleman dressed in a beige doublet was waiting, one hand holding his gloves and the other resting on the pommel of his sword. He was calm and did not appear to be hiding. On the contrary, Laincourt had the impression that he wished to be seen, and recalled having previously noticed his presence, here and there, in recent days.

Of course, he replied to the invisible presence.

J wonder who he is. And what he wants.

I couldn't care less.

A month ago, he would have cared.

A month ago, he would have immediately taken steps to have the man in the beige doublet followed, identified, and no doubt neutralised. But he no longer belonged to the Cardinal's Guards.

At the end of a mission that had cost him his red cape and his rank as an ensign, he had turned the page on secrets, intrigues, lies, and betrayals in the service of His Eminence.

After washing with the remaining water in the pitcher, Laincourt dressed and found something in the pantry to calm Marechal's hunger. Then he decided to go out and have a bite to eat himself. He would then visit his bookseller, Bertaud, in order to return two books for the price of one.

He had just put on his baldric and hung his sword from it when he saw that the old dragonnet had once again escaped from his cage and was now standing near the door, holding his collar and chain in his mouth. The young man promised himself that he would buy a padlock on his way to the bookseller but, being a good sport, he extended his fist to Marechal.

'All right,' he said. Til take you, too.'

Outside in the street, the gentleman in the beige doublet had vanished.

*

The comte de Treville, captain of the King's Musketeers, stood at his office window and sought to distract himself by looking out over the courtyard of his house on rue du Vieux-Colombier in the faubourg Saint-Germain. It provided a picturesque spectacle which he enjoyed, arousing nostalgia for the time when he was still a companion-in-arms to Henri IV. As usual, several dozen musketeers were to be found loitering on the cobbled courtyard strewn with fresh straw. Not all of them wore the cape - blue with a silver fleur-de-lys cross — as some were not on active duty. But all of them had their sword at their side and were ready for any opportunity to draw it. They walked or stood about, talking, laughing, playing dice or cards, demonstrating various fencing techniques, reading the gazettes together and commenting on the latest news, while keeping a watchful eye on the comings and goings on the great staircase and in the antechambers, which they also occupied.

'D'Artagnan!' Treville suddenly called out in a loud voice.

Almost immediately, a door opened behind him . . .

'Monsieur?'

'Tell me, d'Artagnan, isn't that the chevalier d'Orgueil I see near the stables?' Treville asked without turning round.

The musketeer approached in order to peer over his captain's shoulder.

'It is indeed, monsieur.'

'Ask him to come up, please.'

'Monsieur, they're already queuing at your office door . . .'

In fact, starting in the early hours of the morning, Treville's days were marked by the unceasing flow of visitors he received at his mansion, when the king's service did not demand his presence elsewhere.

'I know, d'Artagnan, I know . . . Tell my secretary to have them wait, will you?'

As you command, monsieur.'

'Thank you, lieutenant.'

Alone once again, the captain of the Musketeers uttered a sigh and, regretfully turning away from the window, sat down

at his desk. The sheets and ledgers piled there drew his tired glance. Useless paperwork . . . Treville picked up a small box, opened it with a little key, and drew out an unsealed letter that he placed before him.

Then he waited.

'Come in!' he called, as soon as he heard a knock at the door.

A gentleman entered, wearing a crimson doublet with black buttons and slashes. He was tall, carried himself with impeccable posture, and advanced with a firm step. It was easy to see that he was — or had once been — a military officer. He was thirty-five to forty years of age, with sharp features and the confident gaze of someone who knows they have not faltered, and never will, in fulfilling their duties. He was armed with a rapier that had become famous. Entirely white, made of ivory, it had been carved from tip to pommel from a single dragon's tooth. He wore it on his right side, being left-handed.

Antoine Leprat, chevalier d'Orgueil and a former member of the King's Musketeers, removed his hat to salute the captain.

Treville welcomed him with a smile.

'Good morning, Leprat. How are you?'

'Very well, monsieur. Thank you.'

'And your thigh?'

'Completely healed, monsieur.'

It was a somewhat excessive claim. But in the King's Musketeers men quickly acquired the habit of minimising the gravity of a wound and exaggerating the speed of their recovery, out of fear of being passed over when the next mission was assigned.

'But it was a rather nasty wound . . .'

'It wasn't before I hit on the notion of jumping out of a window,' Leprat replied with a smile.

'And what a strange notion that was . . .'

'Indeed.'

The two men, separated in age by more than fifteen years, exchanged an amused, knowing glance.

But Treville's expression became clouded.

'Yesterday,' he said, 'I received a letter from your father.' He pointed to the missive he had placed on the table before Leprat entered. 'He is worried about you. He has become anxious since he heard that you left the Musketeers.'

'My father the comte fears, above all else, that I will harm his reputation. By meeting an ignoble death while carrying out a clandestine mission, for example. I would be a source of pride to him if I died on the field of battle, wearing the cape of a true Musketeer, monsieur. But as far as posterity is concerned, there is nothing for him to gain if I serve under the orders of Captain La Fargue . . . The comte's only concern is for the glory attached to his name,' Leprat concluded.

'Perhaps he is also worried about the glory attached to yours . . .'

The former musketeer smiled bitterly.

'If the comte were to hear my body had been found lying in the gutter, my death would bother him less than the state of the gutter.'

Saddened, Treville rose and returned to the window.

He remained there for a moment, hands behind his back, silent and troubled.

'All the same, chevalier, you will always be free to rejoin the Musketeers. As you know, you are only on leave of absence. Unlimited leave, to be sure, but a leave of absence nonetheless. Say the word, and I will reinstate you.'

'Thank you, monsieur.'

Treville turned his back to the window and looked directly into Leprat's eyes.

'You know the esteem in which I hold Captain La Fargue. I have no wish to force you to choose between two loyalties. But you would also be serving the king by wearing the Musketeers' cape. So please keep yours, chevalier. And think on the matter. There will always be time and opportunity to change your mind.'

Cardinal Richelieu emerged, extremely preoccupied, from his interview with Louis XIII. But he did not let his feelings show and decided to make an appearance in the Great Hall of the Louvre, where ministers and courtiers, officers and parasites, beautiful ladies and great lords were all gathered together. He seemed unruffled, smiled, engaged in conversation, and patiently endured the demands of his hangers-on, supplicants, and flatterers. To complete his pretence of normality, he envisaged paying a visit to the queen in her apartments. But was that a wise idea?

It was vital that he allayed the suspicions of anyone who was already worried, or would soon be, over why the king — in an extremely ugly mood, moreover - had detained his chief minister at the end of the Council meeting. The decisions that Louis XIII had made and the irrevocable orders he had issued during their tete-a-tete could put the kingdom to fire and to the sword. When the moment came they would have to strike quickly, forcefully, and accurately — and without showing so much as an ounce of mercy. That moment was fast approaching. But until it came, the only way to avoid a fatal conflagration was to keep the king's plans an absolute secret. And a secret was best preserved when everyone remained unaware of its importance.

Hence the cardinal would try to behave as if nothing was amiss. Today he planned to attend all of his meetings and ensure that the number of messengers leaving the Palais-Cardinal did not significantly increase. To all appearances, he would keep to his ordinary routine.

Richelieu knew he was being watched.

His role as a statesman meant that even the least important of his visits - those he paid and the ones he received — were noticed, reported, and discussed. There was nothing extraordinary about this.

He was a public figure, after all. But amongst those who took an interest in his activities there were some who harboured sinister projects. The cardinal had many enemies. First there were the enemies of the king, not all of whom were foreign. Then there were the enemies of his policies, including the Catholic party. And lastly there were his personal enemies, who hated him because they envied his success or were jealous of his influence on Louis XIII, an influence that was greatly exaggerated but whose legend

conveniently permitted the minister to be blamed for the faults and violent acts of his king.

There were two women to be found among Richelieu's most bitter personal opponents. The first was the queen mother, Marie de Medicis, Henri IV's widow: humiliated and unable to forgive her son for preferring to entrust the conduct of the kingdom's affairs to the cardinal rather than to her, she continued to hatch schemes from her refuge in Brussels, and stoked the fires of every revolt that took place in France. The second woman was the beautiful, intelligent, urbane, and very dangerous duchesse de Chevreuse who, for the last fifteen years, had taken a hand in every plot, but was protected by her birth, her fortune, and her friendship with the queen, Anne d'Autriche.

These two women never disarmed, even if at times they were only accomplices of the cabals that were invented and led by other enemies of the cardinal. Enemies who might be Catholic or Protestant, Frenchmen or foreigners, humans or dragons, but who all had eyes and ears inside the Louvre, and none of whom could be allowed to get wind of what was now being set in motion.

Let us not give these people any cause for concern, Richelieu thought to himself.

And so he resolved, in the end, to go and present his respects to the queen.

Marciac awoke still dressed. He had barely found the strength to remove his boots before lying down and had immediately gone to sleep. Rising up on his elbows, he looked around his chamber with bleary eyes and yawned. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, stretched, yawned again, and scratched his neck while at the same time rubbing his belly, realising that he was famished And thirsty. He was thirsty, too.

How long had he been asleep?

Not long enough to ease the stiffness after his swift and arduous ride from La Rochelle, in any case.

By coach the journey took at least eight days. The Gascon, on horseback, had completed it in less than five, which could not be accomplished without some sore muscles . . .

Grimacing, Marciac stood up and, with a heavy step, went to the window. It was open but the curtains were drawn shut. He spread them apart and then squinted, his eyes dazzled by the sun that was beginning to descend in the sky.

It was already the afternoon, then.

Still muzzy from sleep, the Gascon enjoyed the view for a moment. His bedchamber was on the second floor of the Hotel de l'Epervier. Oriented towards the east, it offered a vantage point over the roofs of the Charite hospital in the foreground, and behind it the splendid abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. With its abundant greenery, fresh air, and scattering of elegant buildings, the faubourg Saint-Germain was definitely a very pleasant neighbourhood.

The ringing of a bell tower succeeded in dragging Marciac out of his daydreaming and informed him of the time.

It was two o'clock.

He turned away from the window and went to wash, wetting and rubbing his blond locks over the basin. Finally feeling refreshed, he addressed a wink at his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. He pulled on his boots, grabbed his hat and his baldric in case of an emergency, and went downstairs with his shirt hanging outside his breeches and his hair still damp.

One of the rare advantages of living in the Hotel de l'Epervier was that the house was cool in summer. Otherwise it was a particularly sombre and austere place. On the ground floor, Marciac almost knocked down monsieur Guibot who was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Small, thin, and scruffy-looking, the old concierge hobbled about with a wooden leg. He had bushy eyebrows and the bald top of his head was surrounded by a crown of long dirty blond hair. Guibot had served the Blades before they were disbanded and he had kept a jealous watch over their headquarters, which he inexplicably adored, until their return.

While Marciac barely avoided colliding with him in the

front hall, the old man was busy clearing a path for two kitchen boys, dressed in pumps, white stockings, breeches, shirts, and aprons, who were arriving in the courtyard carrying a litter which held a large pate in a circular pastry crust whose little chimney still steamed and filled the air with an appetising fragrance.

'Good afternoon, monsieur Marciac . . . Make way, please . . . Begging your pardon . . . Watch the step, you two! And mind the door . . . ! There . . . Gently, gently . . . It's this way . . .'

His mouth already watering, the Gascon followed the procession through the house and out into the garden.

The garden was in fact merely a square of nature which, left untended, had reverted to its wild state.

The grass was high and brush had accumulated at the foot of the walls. A chestnut tree offered some welcome shade. At the rear, a little door opened onto a narrow alley. And right in the middle, beneath the tree, was an old wooden table that was never taken inside. It had gone white from weathering and some intrepid bindweeds climbed up its cabled legs.

Sitting at one end of this table on mismatched chairs, Leprat, Agnes, and Ballardieu were joking and laughing over glasses of wine, sometimes getting up to replenish their drinks from one of the bottles left to cool in a tub of water, or to scrounge a bite to eat from a plate. Absorbed in their amusement, they paid little attention to shy Na'is who was busy setting out dishes on a tablecloth already loaded

— in addition to the tableware — with cold meats, a roast goose, cheese, a pie, and a fat round loaf of bread. But the young servant girl always seemed to be forgetting something, forcing her to make further trips back and forth between the garden, the kitchen, the pantry and the cellar. And each time, she scolded herself in a soft voice.

'Useless girl, do you have nothing but sawdust for brains?' she groused as she hurried past Marciac.

'Ah! At last!' cried Ballardieu when he saw who and what was arriving.

Then the old soldier spied Marciac and welcomed him with equal enthusiasm.

Space had to be made for the steaming pate. Monsieur Guibot wanted to direct the manoeuvre, but Ballardieu, domineering, promptly took control of operations. The pate left its litter undamaged and the two boys were sent off to the kitchen to have a drink before returning to their master, a pastry cook in rue des Saints-Peres.

'Slept well?' Leprat asked.

'Wonderfully,' replied Marciac as he sat down.

'I'm glad to see you again, Marciac'

'I'm glad to be back. The captain hasn't returned?'

'Not yet. Nor have Saint-Lucq and Almades, of course.'

'Here,' said Agnes, passing a glass of wine to the Gascon. 'Your health, Nicolas.'

Marciac was touched by the gesture and he smiled.

'Thank you very much, baronne.'

'You're welcome.'

Nai's returned with a bowl of butter, which at first she didn't know where to put on the crowded table.

'Nai's,' Ballardieu called to her. 'Is there anything missing, would you say?'

The old soldier was no ogre, but his deep voice and red face caused the young servant girl to become flustered. She thought it was a trick question and hesitated, looking around the table several times with a panic-stricken look on her face.

'I—'

'Well, I say there's nothing missing,' Ballardieu answered for her. 'You can therefore come and sit down.'

Nai's did not understand. Was she being invited to sit at the masters' table?

'I beg your pardon, monsieur?'

'Sit down, Na'is! And you too, monsieur Guibot . . . Come on, hurry up! The pate is growing cold.'

The concierge did not need to be asked twice.

The servant girl, on the other hand, sought further advice. She looked to Leprat, who nodded in approval to her. That reassured her. Leprat was a gentleman, and moreover a former member of the King's Musketeers. And the baronne de Vaudreuil seemed not to care at all.

So, if they saw no impediment to her sitting at the table . . . Her nervousness settling somewhat, she timidly placed one buttock on the edge of a rickety stool, praying that they would all forget she was present.

'And Andre?' Ballardieu persisted. 'He should share in this feast, shouldn't he? Somebody should tell him to come. Guibot, go fetch him, would you?'

The concierge, who was already holding out a plate, grumbled under his breath but obeyed willingly enough. He went off on his wooden leg, avoiding the molehills.

Leprat passed a hunting dagger to Marciac.

'Go ahead,' he said. 'Do the honours.'

The Gascon rose before the enormous pate en croute and looked around at the company seated at the table. Some of his best friends were here and had arranged this meal for him. He felt good, happy inside.

He was even in the mood to say a few words expressing his feelings.

Agnes guessed as much.

'Marciac,' she said, 'if the next thing you say isn't: "Who wants this handsome slice?" I swear I shall make mincemeat out of you.'

He burst out laughing and planted the blade in the golden crust.

The three riders arrived in Paris by the Montmartre gate.

Weariness from their travels had left them with drawn faces and great rings under their eyes. And they were all dirty and in need of a shave. They still wore the same clothing they had on when leaving Paris the previous day, having ridden more than forty leagues in under twenty-four hours to meet La Donna and then return as quickly as possible. Indeed, only the fear of killing their mounts had kept them from galloping the whole way back.

They soon parted ways.

While Saint-Lucq continued straight ahead down rue

Montmartre, La Fargue and Almades took rue des Vieux-Augustins instead and then rue Coquilhere, before almost immediately turning left. At last, not far from the palace Cardinal Richelieu was having built for himself, they halted before a tavern in rue des Petits-Champs.

Its sign boasted an eagle daubed in scarlet paint.

The tavern's facade was set back from those of the other buildings on the same street, behind a mossy stone archway and a few feet of uneven paving. There were men occupying this space, glasses in hand, some of them standing around three barrels which served as a table, others leaning beside the tavern's wide-open windows conversing with those inside. Almost all of them were dressed as soldiers, wearing swords, striking dashing poses and bearing scars that left no doubt as to their profession. Moreover, they addressed one another as much by rank as by name, and even the names were often a nom de guerre.

Having dismounted, La Fargue entrusted the reins of his horse to Almades and went inside.

The Red Eagle was one of the places in Paris most frequented by the musketeers serving His Eminence. Two companies of soldiers served the cardinal directly: the Guards on horseback and the musketeers on foot. The Guards wore the famous red cape. They were all gentlemen, protected His Eminence's person, and accompanied him everywhere. As for the musketeers, they were commoners. Ordinary soldiers, they only signed up for three years and carried out less prestigious duties. Still, they were excellent fighters and were bound together by a strong esprit de corps. The best of them could have joined the Guards if they had been of more noble birth.

From the threshold, La Fargue caught the eye of the person he knew to be the owner of the establishment, a tall redheaded man who was still relatively fit despite the incipient bulge of his belly. His name was Balmaire and he walked with a slight limp ever since a wound had forced this former cardinal's musketeer to hang up his sword. He wore an ample shirt, brown breeches, and had an apron tied around lus waist. But instead of the usual white stockings and pumps he wore a pair of worn funnel-shaped boots, indicating that his role as tavern keeper did not define him entirely.

Recognising La Fargue, Balmaire addressed a silent salute to him from afar. The old captain responded in the same fashion and went across the taproom to a door giving onto a corridor and a narrow staircase. He climbed the stairs and, upon reaching the first landing, entered a dusty room with peeling walls, cluttered with some crates, old furniture and chairs in need of repair.

Leaning forward, a tall, thin gentleman was gazing out the window at the street. The small, diamond-shaped panes of glass were filthy and had in places been replaced with pieces of carton, so that they blocked more light than they let through.

'You're late,' said the comte de Rochefort without looking around. He stood up straight and slowly turned away from the window. He was close to fifty years of age. He had a haughty face with a pale complexion, dark eyes, and a penetrating gaze. There was a small scar decorating his temple, where he had been grazed by a pistol ball.

'I've come all the way from Artois,' La Fargue retorted. 'And you?'

The old captain waited, silent and impassive.

'I was about to leave,' Rochefort lied.

'I need to see the cardinal.'

'When?'

'As soon as possible. Today.'

Rochefort nodded as if he were weighing up the pros and cons of this request.

It was said of Rochefort that he was His Eminence's damned soul. In fact, he was the henchman who took charge of the cardinal's dirty work and was therefore feared and hated. But he was perhaps Richelieu's most loyal servant and he was certainly the least scrupulous. A man who obeyed his master blindly and did not burden himself with moral considerations. Thus, while he would sometimes commit unspeakable acts when ordered to do so, he would only do so upon receiving the order.

'Did you meet with La Donna, captain?'

'Yes. Last night.'

'And?'

'And now I need to see the cardinal.'

The glances of the two men clashed for a moment, before Rochefort smiled joylessly and said:

'We don't like one another at all, do we?'

'No.'

La Fargue and Rochefort despised one another. Unfortunately the service of the cardinal forced them to work together once again, now that the Blades had reformed. The captain only took his orders from Richelieu. And he answered to him alone for his actions. But the comte was a necessary intermediary.

'I can't guarantee,' Rochefort said, adjusting his baldric, 'that the cardinal will reeeive you soon.'

He donned his hat, preparing to depart.

'La Donna claims to know something of a plot against the king,' La Fargue revealed.

Rochefort raised an eyebrow.

'Well, now . . .'

'And she is willing to reveal the details if certain of her demands are met.'

'So La Donna is making demands . . . What are they?'

'She asks for His Eminence's protection.'

'Nothing else?' the cardinal's henchman said with amusement.

'What does it matter, if she's telling the truth?'

'No doubt, no doubt . . . But do you believe that she is?'

La Fargue shrugged.

'Who knows? But she gave me something that will perhaps help the cardinal form an opinion.'

The old captain held out a stained and dog-eared letter that seemed to have got wet at some point. It was the letter La Donna had entrusted to him before fleeing into the storm on the back of her wyvern.

'This comes from La Donna?' Rochefort enquired.

'Yes.'

He took the document and examined it with a casual air. Then he placed it in his pocket and walked to the door.

'I'm expected at the Palais-Cardinal,' he declared from the threshold. 'Then I will join His Eminence at the Louvre.'

'Very well,' replied La Fargue, who himself went over to glance out the window. 'But time is running short. La Donna promised to make contact this evening and before I meet her again I need to know what the cardinal has decided with regard to her. Moreover, she is being pursued by a band of dracs who I'm sure will give her no respite. And if they find her before we do—'

'Dracs? What dracs?'

'Black dracs, Rochefort. Mercenaries. Judging by the markings on their leader's face, I would swear they are former soldiers from the Irskehn companies.'

In the drakish tongue, Ir'Skehn meant black fire, and the Irskehns were cavalry companies levied by Spain and composed solely of black dracs. Although they were unreliable on a battlefield due to their inability to control their fury, these cavaliers had no equals when it came to marauding, harassing, and plundering. They were held responsible for several particularly horrible civilian massacres. The mere rumour of their arrival was enough to empty whole areas of the countryside.

Rochefort's eyes narrowed as he took this detail into account.

'And who else would privately hire Irskehns—' he started to say.

'—other than the Black Claw,' La Fargue concluded for him.

Gripping the back of the chair and craning his neck, Marechal was leaning far over his master's shoulder to observe the trictrac board. The old dragonnet was keeping a rapt eye upon the dice, which he loved to see roll across the flat surface. As for Laincourt, he sat unmoving with a blank gaze, his mind elsewhere.

'Come now, Arnaud! Are you going to play?' The young man raised his head, forcing Marechal to straighten up, and looked over at his opponent in bewildered surprise. Amused, the other man smiled at him, arms crossed,

in a slightly mocking fashion but with an affectionate gleam in his eye. He was a bookseller called Jules Bertaud, about fifty years old. He'd known Laincourt for almost a year now, and already nurtured paternal feelings for him. They shared a taste for knowledge, for books, and more particularly, for treatises on draconic magic which were a discreet speciality of Bertaud's bookshop.

Lastly, they were both from Lorraine, which had helped to forge a bond between them.

'It is your turn, Arnaud . . .'

Once a week, Laincourt and Bertaud convened at the latter's establishment to talk and play trictrac.

Since the weather was fine today, they had installed themselves in the pleasantly sunlit rear courtyard of the bookshop, which was located on rue Perdue in the neighbourhood surrounding Place Maubert, where booksellers and printers abounded.

'Oh yes . . .' said Laincourt, returning to the game. 'It is my turn, to be sure. I need to roll, don't I?'

he asked as he seized the dice cup.

His gesture immediately drew Marechal's full attention.

'No,' Bertaud replied impatiently. 'You've already rolled—'

'Really?'

'Really!' called another voice.

In addition to the gaunt old dragonnet, the match had acquired another spectator: Daunois, a ruddy-faced man in his forties, with the physique of a stevedore and a rather sinister-looking face. In his case, however, appearances were deceiving. A printer by trade, Joseph Daunois possessed a fine wit that was intelligent, cultivated, and sometimes cruelly ironic. He and Bertaud were good friends who nonetheless could never resist trading barbed insults with one another.

The printer stood at the threshold of his workshop, and behind him one glimpsed workers busy with their tasks. But above all, one heard the creaking of the big hand presses and smelled the paper and fresh ink which rather effectively countered the city stinks that had worsened in the hot weather.

'Yes, really,' Bertaud confirmed. 'And you rolled a seven.'

'Seven,' repeated Laincourt.

'Yes, seven.'

'Since he's telling you so!' interjected Daunois as he came over to join them.

His massive body cast a shadow over most of the small square table.

'Just give me a few moments to think,' Laincourt begged, leaning over the trictrac board.

He said nothing, but it took him a few seconds to recall that his pieces were the white ones.

And to discover that he was in serious difficulty.

'That's right,' the printer said jokingly. 'Think it over . . . We wouldn't want to you to make some hasty mistake—'

'You know,' added Bertaud, 'it's no good having me abandon my bookshop and customers to play with you if you take no interest in the game . . .'

The young man made to reply, but Daunois beat him to it, in a sarcastic tone:

'Yes, because don't you know, Arnaud, that Bertaud's bookshop is positively packed? There's an impatient mob milling at the door and threatening to break through the windows. They're beating them away with sticks, riots are breaking out, and the city watch will soon be turning up to restore order. It's a right state of panic—'

The truth was that, even if Bertaud was not facing financial ruin, his shop was not well patronised.

'Have you already spoiled all the paper delivered to you this morning?' retorted the bookseller.

'Don't you have some handsome inkblots to inspect? Some botched print you need to perfect? But perhaps I'm being a trifle unfair, seeing as in your shop, you press more fingers than pages . . .'

He had risen as he spoke and, since he was rather small, did not make nearly as impressive a figure as Daunois standing before him. But he held himself firm and his gaze did not waver.

'Your witticisms only amuse yourself, bookseller!' replied Daunois, swelling his chest.

'And you, printer, bore everyone with your remarks!'

Their voices rose while Laincourt, not paying the slightest heed to their altercation, studied his pieces, wondering how to obtain as many points as possible. A trictrac board closely resembled that used for backgammon, with the same division into two sides and the same series of twenty-four black and white long triangles along which one moved the counters. But trictrac was a game with complex rules, where the aim was not simply to remove your counters as quickly as possible. Instead, players earned points as they progressed in order to accumulate a pre-determined score.

Laincourt lent an ear to the discussion just as Daunois was growling:

'Is that so? Is that so?'

'You heard me!'

'So how is it, then, that people say what they do?'

'And what, pray, are people saying?'

'Quite simply, that—'

'Papa?'

A pretty girl of sixteen, with dark hair and green eyes, had just opened the door leading to the room at the rear of the bookshop. The quarrel immediately ceased and its cause was forgotten.

'Good afternoon, Clotilde,' said the printer with a kind smile.

'Good afternoon, monsieur. And good afternoon to you, monsieur de Laincourt.'

'Good afternoon. How are you?'

'Very well, monsieur,' the girl answered with a blush.

'Well, my girl?' queried Bertaud. 'What is it?'

The bookseller's only daughter said in a faint voice:

'There is someone in the shop, papa. A gentleman.'

Bertaud, who had leaned down to listen to Clotilde, straightened up triumphantly.

'Excuse me,' he said, his words directed so ostensibly at Laincourt that he could only be in fact aiming them at Daunois, 'but I must attend to my business. Unlike some, I cannot spend all day idling about while others do my work for me.'

Daunois, of course, could not let this pass by unanswered:

'Allow me to bid you good day, Arnaud. I must return to my workshop, where there are some delicate operations awaiting that cannot be carried out without my supervision.'

And thereupon, the printer and the bookseller, both draped in a theatrical air of dignity, turned on their heels and went their separate ways. Pretty Clotilde, however, did not follow her father back inside. She lingered for a moment within the frame of the doorway until, embarrassed when the eyes of the former Cardinal's Guard did not shift from the trictrac board, she finally withdrew. No doubt any man other than Laincourt would have perceived the sentiments she felt for him. But this young man, so skilled at detecting lies and dissembling in a thousand different clues, was unable to read the heart of a young girl in love.

Bertaud returned after a few minutes.

He sat back down, observing with pleasure that his opponent had finally made his move.

'So?' asked Laincourt. 'This customer?'

'Bah! He only came in to browse. He didn't even know what he was looking for . . .'

The young man nodded knowingly.

'Slender, elegant, with a blond moustache?' he guessed.

'Yes,' the bookseller replied in astonishment. 'But how—?'

'And wearing a beige doublet?'

'Precisely! Do you know him, then?'

'Slightly,' said Laincourt, holding out the dice cup. 'It's your turn, Jules. This game is certainly dragging on.'

Upon leaving the Red Eagle, following his interview with Rochefort, La Fargue rejoined Almades and together they returned to the Hotel de l'Epervier on their exhausted mounts.

They chose the shortest route, which is to say, they took the Pont Rouge. Thus named because of its coating of red lead paint, the wooden bridge had been built the previous year. Like the Pont Neuf, it allowed Parisians to cross the Seine river directly, but there was a toll to be paid, making it less popular.

On the Left Bank, La Fargue and the Spaniard rode up rue de Beaune, through a neighbourhood that had only recently sprung up from the ground in the Pre-aux-Clercs, the former domain of Queen Marguerite de Navarre. Beyond it, they finally reached the faubourg Saint-Germain. Rue de la Sor-bonne led them to the right-angled crossing with rue des Saints-Peres, which they followed alongside the facades of La Charite hospital before passing in front of Les Reformes cemetery and turning into the small rue Saint-Guillaume.

They arrived at their destination and, despite the questions about La Donna and the alleged plot against the king that still nagged at him, the old captain could only think of finding a bite to eat and then going to bed. He rang the bell at the entrance to the Hotel de l'Epervier without dismounting, and waited for someone to open one of the great rectangular doors of the carriage gate. It was not monsieur Guibot but Andre, the new groom, who hurried over. Once inside the courtyard, La Fargue and Almades handed him the reins of their horses.

They found the others in the garden.

Agnes, Leprat, and Marciac were chatting away beneath the chestnut tree at one end of the old table, where the meal had not yet been cleared away. Looking happy and thick as thieves together, they sipped wine and conversed for the sole pleasure of enjoying one another's company. The heat was bearable out here in the garden. The air was fresher and a relaxed hush reigned which was only slightly disturbed by the regular snores from Ballardieu, asleep in an armchair.

The old soldier had drunk a fair amount of wine and he merely stirred in his sleep when the others greeted the new arrivals. He groaned and smacked his lips without opening his eyes as La Fargue and the Spanish fencing master sat down and took their ease, removing their hats and baldrics, downing a few glasses of wine, and attacking the remains of the repast.

While polishing off the last quarter of the pate en croute, the captain of the Blades recounted his meeting with La Donna. He reported what she had told him and what she was demanding in exchange for the information she claimed to possess. Then he described the confrontation with the dracs, without omitting any details. Almades, meanwhile, remained silent as usual, eating little, controlling his urges despite his hunger and thirst.

'Can we believe what this woman says?' Leprat wondered aloud. 'Isn't she a schemer and a spy of the worst possible kind?'

'As far as scheming and espionage go,' observed Marciac, 'the worst possible kind is also the best . . .'

'To be sure. But all the same ... A plot against the king!'

'What is she like?' asked the young baronne de Vaudreuil. 'They say she is very beautiful. Is she?'

'Yes,' the captain answered. 'She is.'

'And what impression did she make on you?' Agnes persisted.

'I found her to be intelligent, determined, skilful—'

'—and dangerous?'

'Certainly.'

'If we know anything about La Donna,' Leprat commented, 'it is that she only acts out of self-interest. So what does she gain from exposing this purported plot?'

'The cardinal's protection,' Marciac reminded him.

'A protection that she must truly need,' Agnes emphasised.

'True,' agreed the Gascon. 'You are thinking of the dracs—'

'Yes. La Donna is not only being hunted, but the pack chasing her is a ferocious one—'

And snapping at her heels.'

'Black dracs and an unnatural black mist,' noted Leprat. 'I don't know about you, but to me all this reeks of the Black Claw . . .'

Marciac and Agnes both nodded.

Led by power-hungry dragons who would stop at nothing to achieve their ends, the Black Claw was a secret society which was particularly strong in Spain and her territories, including the Spanish Netherlands within whose borders La 1 )onna had waited for La Fargue. Its most ancient, influential, and active lodge was to be found in Madrid. But although there were close links between it and the Court of Dragons, the Black Claw's goals were not always in accord with those of

the Spanish Crown. Its ultimate aim, in fact, was to plunge Europe into a state of chaos that would permit the establishment of an absolute draconic reign. A reign that would spare no dynasty.

No human dynasty, that is.

'If La Donna is being pursued by the Black Claw,' surmised the Gascon, 'one can certainly understand her eagerness to find a powerful protector ... I would not like to be in her shoes—'

'And yet you are,' Agnes said in an amused tone. 'Do you suppose that the Black Claw has forgotten the defeat we recently inflicted upon its agents?'

'But in my case, I have you,' Marciac responded. 'Whereas La Donna has no one.'

The young baronne smiled.

'But why would the Black Claw be after La Donna?' Leprat wanted to know.

'Perhaps . . . ,' Agnes started to suggest, 'perhaps the Black Claw is the origin of the plot against the king. Perhaps La Donna somehow got wind of the secret, perhaps the Black Claw knows this, and now wants to silence her . . .'

'All right,' granted the former musketeer. 'Or perhaps the Black Claw is seeking La Donna for some other reason, and she has concocted this tale in the hope that the cardinal will protect her, at least for a while . . . What do you think, captain?'

In the heat of their discussion, Leprat, Marciac, and Agnes had forgotten the presence of La Fargue.

Turning their faces in unison, they saw Almades lifting an index finger to his lips in warning . . .

The captain was fast asleep in his chair.

Aubusson leaned back in his chair and considered the painting with a weary eye. It seemed to be resisting him today. Any further effort was useless. His mind was elsewhere and he could produce nothing worthwhile on the canvas.

'I might just as well go for a walk,' he grumbled to himself as he put down his brushes and his palette.

Like all artists, he occasionally had black days and now had no trouble recognising the signs.

Nearly sixty years old, he had more than four decades of experience as a painter. Starting as an apprentice he had followed the ordinary course demanded by his guild. He rose to the rank of journeyman and finally — after completing a piece his peers judged to be of superior quality — that of master. Acquiring this title was essential for him to open his own studio. Aubusson could then accept commissions and earn a living from his work. He became one of the best portrait painters of his generation. Perhaps the very best of them, in fact. His renown had spread across borders and the courts of Europe vied for his services as he spent years roaming the roads of France, Germany, Italy, England, Spain, and even travelled as far as Hungary and Sweden. He reached the very height of his glory when Marie de Medicis, widow of Henri IV and mother of Louis XIII, had sent him to Madrid to produce a faithful likeness of the Infante Doha Ana Maria Mauricia, the future Anne d'Autriche, queen of France. It was said that even the Grand Turk himself had requested that Aubusson portray him.

These days, Aubusson no longer travelled.

Lacking a wife and children, he had retired to a charming country manor and was wealthy enough to take his rest following a career that had proved far more adventurous than he could have dreamed. He still painted, however. Landscapes mostly. But sometimes portraits when he chose to accept a commission. These tended to be rare now. Aubusson lived in such reclusion that many believed him dead or in exile, when in fact he resided only eight leagues northeast of Paris. His days passed peacefully near the village of Dam-martin, with a couple of elderly domestic servants and a tall adolescent valet as his sole company.

This valet was grinding colours in a mortar when Aubusson decided to abandon his painting for the day.

'You will wash my brushes, Jeannot.'

'Very good, master.'

And thereupon, the artist left his studio, leaving its clutter, its golden light, and its intoxicating odours of paints behind.

Outside, the afternoon sun dazzled him as he crossed the courtyard. He hurried, the panels of his large sleeveless vest flapping against his thighs, his buckled shoes raising dust which then clung to his stockings, the hand shading his eyes pushing back the cloth cap on his head. He was quite tall.

He had not gained weight as a result of age or retirement, and he remained a handsome man with a firm profile and a thick head of hair which was the same white as his carefully trimmed beard.

Women were still attracted to him, although not nearly so many as in his prime. Back then, he had collected mistresses, sometimes selected among those whose portraits he painted at the expense of an overly trusting father or husband.

The big manor was silent.

In the front hall, at the bottom of the stairs, Aubusson washed his hands in a basin of clean water waiting for him. Then he took off his cap and the vest that he only wore when painting, exchanging them for a doublet hanging from the back of a chair. He had finished buttoning it when old Mere Trichet, who had heard him from the kitchen where she busied herself, brought him a glass of newly drawn wine, as she always did when he returned from the studio.

'Have you already finished for the day, monsieur?'

'My word ... It seems to be one of those days when nothing goes right.'

Mere Trichet — a woman in her fifties with a thick waist and a round face — nodded as Aubusson drained his glass and returned it to her.

'Thank you. Is the signora in her bedchamber?'

'No, monsieur. She is out at the back, with her monstrous beast . . .'

The painter smiled but did not respond to this.

'I will sup alone this evening,' he said as he left.

'Very good, monsieur.'

Once out in the backyard where hens were pecking grain and a tired old hound was snoring, Aubusson went round the stable until he came to an enclosure. Here, beneath a sloping roof made of poorly joined planks, he found a chained wyvern asleep, its energy no doubt sapped by the heat. Crouched beside it, with her head bare and her long red hair sparkling in the sunshine, the beautiful Alessandra di Santi was stroking the great scaly head.

Leaning on the fence, Pere Trichet was watching the scene with eyes squinted beneath the brim of his old battered hat, a lit clay pipe in his mouth. He was an elderly man, with a gnarly body hardened and worn from a life of labour. He spoke little, and when Aubusson joined him, he moved off with a visible shake of the head, his way of expressing utter disapproval of proceedings while washing his hands of the matter.

Even when domesticated and trained, wyverns remained carnivorous creatures powerful enough to tear off an arm with a single bite. And if one avoided approaching a horse from behind, one needed to take similar care with these winged reptiles, as placid and good-natured as they might seem.

Elementary rules, known to all, or almost all . . . and which La Donna evidently chose to ignore . . .

Standing up, she turned her back to the wyvern as she left the enclosure and, showing no fear of the beast behind her, said to the painter:

'The poor thing is exhausted. I must say I've hardly spared her strength these past few days . . .'

Smiling and serene, she wore a hunting outfit that looked delightful on her, very similar to the one she had worn the night before, in Artois, when she had met La Fargue.

'And you?' enquired Aubusson in a tone where concern outweighed reproach. 'You promised me you would rest a while.'

'I shall rest this evening,' said Alessandra.

The painter helped her shut the gate to the enclosure.

'You must take good care of her,' she added, looking over at the wyvern.

'I promise you I shall.'

'She has truly earned it. Last night, for my sake, she faced a terrible storm and did not falter until she brought me here safely, despite—'

'I shall give up my own bed to her, if that will reassure you . . . But am I permitted to have some care for you?'

The Italian spy did not respond, instead turning round to sweep the surrounding area with a slow scrutinising gaze.

'What is it?' asked Aubusson worriedly, in turn searching around them.

'I'm wondering where my little dragonnets, Scylla and Charybdis, might be.'

'Bah! No doubt they're off hunting some poor field mouse, which they will deposit half-devoured in front of my door . . .'

Taking Alessandra by the elbow, the painter led her towards a table placed in the shade provided by an arbour. They sat down and, once they were face-to-face, Aubusson gently squeezed the young woman's hands in his own and sought to capture her gaze.

'There's still time to abandon this course of action, you know that?'

Touched, La Donna gave him a smile full of tenderness. She felt troubled by this man so imbued with paternal instincts towards her. He was the only man she never made an effort to seduce.

'No,' she said. 'It's too late to turn back. And it has been too late for quite some time . . . Besides, I've already made all my arrangements for this evening. The important thing is not to deviate from the plan. Remember, I shall no doubt be taken to La Renardiere.'

'I know. I'll scout out the domain tomorrow. And I shall return there during the night to make sure I will be able to find the path to the clearing, whatever happens.'

'The domain is vast, but well guarded. Don't let them arrest you.'

'If necessary, I shall say that I was out strolling and became lost . . . But what if you're taken elsewhere?'

'Knowing the cardinal, that's highly unlikely.'

'Nevertheless.'

'Then I shall send you a warning by means of Scylla and Charybdis.'

'And if you're someplace where you can't be reached?'

'For example?'

'Le Chatelet? Or the Bastille? Or in a cell at the chateau de Vincennes?

Irritated, Alessandra stood up.

'You always take the blackest view of things!'

Aubusson rose to his feet as well.

'Your plan is too full of risks!' he exclaimed. 'It will be a miracle if—'

He did not finish, feeling upset and embarrassed by his outburst.

With a smile and a knowing glance up at his face, the Italian adventuress indicated that she was not angry with him.

'You're forgetting one thing,' she said.

'And what is that?'

'Even if they do not realise it, I shall have the Cardinal's Blades on my side.'

The tavern was located in rue des Mauvais-Garcons, not far from the Saint-Jean cemetery. Like the surrounding neighbourhood, it was dark, filthy, smelly and sinister. Although its dirt floor was not strewn with the same unhealthy muck that spattered the paving stones outside, the air stank of the smoke from pipes and the cheap yellow tallow candles, as well as the sweating, grimy bodies of its clientele. The One-Eyed Tarasque was a place where people came to drink themselves senseless, drowning their pain and sorrows in the sour wine. One such drunkard could be seen mumbling to himself in a corner. Not so long ago, a hurdy-gurdy player had performed his melancholy airs here in the evening. But he would be coming here no more.

Arnaud de Laincourt, however, still came.

He was sitting alone at a table upon which Marechal, roaming as freely as his little chain would allow, was scratching at old wax incrustations in the wood. With a grey stoneware pitcher and a glass before him, the cardinal's former spy had a lost, distant expression on his face.

And a sad one.

Despite himself, he was thinking of all the sacrifices he had agreed to make in His Eminence's service, and the little thanks he had received in return. He was thinking back on all the years he had spent living amidst lies, suspicion, betrayal, intrigue, and murder. He was thinking of that deceitful world where rest was never permitted, and which had little by little eaten away at his soul. He was thinking of all those who had lost their lives there. And in particular, of an old hurdy-gurdy player who had left nothing behind but a decrepit dragonnet.

Don't torment yourself on my account, boy.

Can't I at least shed a tear for you?

Of course you can. But I won't have you blaming yourself for my death. You know it wasn't your fault that I perished.

But I'm still alive. While you—

So what?

Laincourt looked at the empty stool in front of him.

It was the very same stool on which the hurdy-gurdy player used to take a seat during each of their clandestine meetings. The young man imagined that it was occupied once again. He had no trouble at all envisioning the old man, wearing his filthy rags and carrying his battered instrument on a strap around his neck. He was smiling, but his face was bruised and bloody. Laincourt could no longer remember him any other way than this, the way he had seen the hurdy-gurdy player for the very last time.

I've seen the man in the beige doublet again. The one who's been following me around these last few days and doesn't seem to care if he's seen. He was on the Pont Neuf. And I know he came by Bertaud's bookshop later . . .

You can't avoid meeting him much longer.

Bah!

Just because you've finished with intrigues doesn't mean they've finished with you. The world doesn't work that way . . . And besides, you were wrong.

Wrong?

Wrong to spurn the cardinal's offer.

The cardinal did not offer me anything.

Come now, boy! Do you think La Fargue would have proposed your joining his Blades without, at the very least, His Eminence's approval . . . ? You should not have refused him.

Suddenly weary, Laincourt looked away.

To the others present in the tavern, he was just a young man whose dragonnet was patiently waiting for him to finish his drinking.

To travel from the Louvre to the Palais-Cardinal, all that was necessary was to take rue d'Autriche, then turn left on Saint-Honore and follow to Richelieu's official residence.

A first obstacle, however, was posed in leaving the Louvre itself, which had been a mediaeval fortress before it became a palace. Its courtyard therefore had only one public exit: an archway so dark that one winter morning a gentleman had jostled King Henri IV there without even realising it.

Twelve metres long, this archway led out to the east. It was the main access to the palace, the one used by royal processions, but also by a crowd of people that gathered before it from morning till night. Flanked by two old towers, it overlooked a nauseating ditch which could only be crossed by means of a narrow bridge defended by a massive fortified gate, known as the Bourbon gate.

Having left the Louvre through this gate, however, other obstacles still lay ahead. The gate opened onto rue d'Autriche, a lane running perpendicular to the Seine, between the Ecole quay to the south and rue Saint-Honore to the north. In Paris, the narrowness of the city's streets made the passage of traffic difficult everywhere. But the very modest rue d'Autriche was the place where all those seeking to enter the Louvre crossed paths with all those leaving the palace. To make matters worse, its pavement was always filled with coaches, since carriages were denied permission to enter the precincts of the palace, except in the case of certain grand personages, foreign dignitaries, or for reasons of health. Thus the resulting jams,

collisions, and confusion were a permanent feature of rue d'Autriche, where people spent more time shuffling in place than advancing in the midst of a great din of shouts, insults, whinnying, hoof beats, and creaking axles.

It was therefore with a certain amount of relief that, on the way to the Palais-Cardinal, it was finally possible to escape from rue d'Autriche and turn left onto rue Saint-Honore. This street, although one of the longest in the capital since Paris had been extended westwards, was not much wider than the others. Heavily frequented, it too had its share of daily traffic jams. But here at least, there was a more ordinary level of unruliness and bother. And here at least, travellers were no longer subjected to the stench from the stagnant waters in the ditches surrounding the. Louvre.

Here at least, one could progress at a walking pace.

Bearing his magnificent coat-of-arms, Cardinal Richelieu's coach left the Louvre with the curtains drawn. It entered rue d'Autriche at a slow walk, moving towards rue Saint-Honore where a horse escort would open the way for it until it arrived at the Palais-Cardinal.

The heavy curtains were intended to protect His Eminence from both the dust and public view.

Nothing could be done, however, about the heat or the stink. Paris had been baking all day beneath a pitiless sun and the excrement and muck that covered its pavement had become a cracked crust from which escaped powerful, acrid, and unhealthy exhalations.

The cardinal held a handkerchief imbibed with vinegar to his nose and sat deep in thought, his face turned towards the window of the passenger door and the curtain that blocked it. Now that he had found refuge in his coach he was no longer obliged put on an act for the ever-present spies at the Louvre. And although he remained in perfect control of his emotions, his severe expression and distant gaze betrayed the extent of his preoccupation. He considered the arrests he would have to order in conformity with the king's will, the interrogations that would then need to be conducted, and the truths that would emerge from them. Disturbing, embarrassing, scandalous truths. Truths that might very well compromise Queen Anne's honour and become a grave affair of State.

The queen, after all, was Spanish . . .

The cardinal sighed and, almost as a means of distracting himself, asked:

'Any news of Captain La Fargue?'

Then he slowly turned his head to look at the gentleman who had been sitting across from him, silent and still, ever since the coach first moved off.

'He returned today,' replied the comte de Rochefort.

'Did you speak to him?'

'Yes, monseigneur. He asks to be received by Your Eminence as a matter of urgency.'

'Impossible,' Richelieu declared.

In order to confound any possible suspicions on the part of his adversaries, he had decided to maintain the pretence that today was an ordinary day, just like any other. He would, therefore, not receive the captain of his Blades. Not even discreetly, or secretly. For if someone happened to catch even a fleeting glimpse of La Fargue in the corridors of the Palais-Cardinal, the most astute observers would be sure to make a connection with the tete-a-tete which Louis XIII had so brusquely held with his chief minister that morning, after the meeting of the Council. A connection that had no basis in fact, as it happened. But it would be dangerous, nevertheless.

Rochefort did not insist.

'La Fargue met with La Donna last night,' he said. 'She claims to have knowledge of a plot threatening the throne of France. She offers to reveal it in return for—'

'How much?'

'She is not demanding money, monseigneur.'

The cardinal quirked an eyebrow.

is La Donna no longer venal?'

'She demands your protection.'

'My protection. Meaning that of France . . . What does she fear? Or rather, who does she fear?'

'If one is to believe La Fargue, La Donna is being hunted by the Black Claw,' Rochefort said dubiously.

'Ah,' replied the cardinal, beginning to understand. 'Naturally. That would explain a number of things,' he added in a thoughtful tone. 'Such as the lady's eagerness in seeking to contact me.'

'She asked that this letter be delivered to you.'

Richelieu looked at the letter held out to him, but at that instant the coach, which had previously been advancing very slowly along rue Saint-Honore, came to a complete halt. Roche-fort placed his hand on his rapier. Intrigued, the cardinal lifted the curtain of the coach door and called out:

'Captain!'

The young Captain de La Houdiniere drew up aside the coach on his horse.

'Monseigneur?'

'Why aren't we moving?'

'A tarasque, monseigneur.'

Tarasques were enormous reptiles with hard shells. They had three pairs of very short legs. Heavy and slow, they possessed colossal strength and could easily knock over a wall by accident or pass right through a house without changing pace. As stupid as they were placid, they made excellent draught animals. They could also be readily harnessed to hoist machinery at building sites.

And there was no lack of building sites in the vicinity of the Palais-Cardinal.

'Do the best you can,' said Richelieu before letting the curtain fall back into place.

But he had no illusions: there was simply no way of hurrying a tarasque when it crossed a street.

The cardinal considered the letter that Rochefort still held in his hand. Stained and dog-eared, it seemed to him thicker than a simple missive. No doubt there was something inside.

He did not touch it.

'Open it, please.'

The comte undid the seal and unfolded the letter with a certain degree of apprehension. The threat of a possible attempt against Cardinal Richelieu's life was never far from his mind. And poisons existed — born of draconic alchemy —

which, reduced to a very fine powder, could kill the first person who breathed them.

The letter from La Donna presented no such danger. On the other hand, what it actually contained prompted Rochefort to recoil in an instinctive, superstitious manner.

His reaction could not fail to interest the cardinal.

'Well, then?'

'Monseigneur, look . . .'

Richelieu lowered his eyes to peer at the object the other man was showing him, lying in the hollow of the unfolded letter. Still attached to the torn corner of a sheet of parchment, it was a seal in black wax stamped with the sign of the Grand Lodge of the Black Claw.

'Monseigneur ... Is that what I think it is?'

The cardinal took his time to examine it closely, and then nodded firmly.

'Most assuredly, Rochefort.'

'But how could La Donna have obtained it?'

'That would be a very interesting question to put to her, wouldn't it?'

And as his coach started to move again, Richelieu turned back to the closed curtain of his coach door, as if absorbed by some spectacle that only he could perceive.