The Alchemist in the Shadows

1

Alessandra di Sand, also known as La Donna, had been awake since dawn. She rose carefully from her bed, trying not to disturb the two dragonnets still curled up asleep. Silently she went to sit by the window, half naked, with an old Italian song on her lips, methodically combing her hair. She was pale and beautiful, caressed by the dawn sunlight that warmed her long red tresses.

The young woman had a view of the garden and the entire domain of La Renardiere — the name of the small castle where she had dwelt for the past five days — from her bedchamber. It was a hunting lodge, quite similar to the one which had just been finished for the king in Versailles. It comprised a central pavilion with two wings framing a courtyard, and to the front, beyond a dry moat crossed by a stone bridge, stood a forecourt flanked by the servants' quarters. Although in truth it lacked for nothing, La Renardiere only provided the basic comforts. But the place was both discreet and peaceful, only an hour's ride from Paris, a short remove from the road to Meudon, and practically invisible behind some dense woodland.

In short, it was a perfect retreat.

Having combed her hair, Alessandra shook a little bell to warn the chambermaid - who had been graciously put at her disposal, along with an elegant wardrobe — that she wished to wash and dress.

The clear tinkling sound attracted first Scylla, the female of the pair of black dragonnets and then her brother Charybdis, who followed close behind. The twins vied playfully for their mistress's affections. They jostled one another, craning their necks for a caress and rubbing their snouts against La Donna's throat and cheeks. She laughed,

pretending to repel the small reptiles' assaults and gently scolding them for being such impudent little devils. An involuntary swipe of a claw scratched Alessandra's shoulder, but the wound closed almost immediately and the single drop of blood that had welled up slid down her perfectly healed skin.

The chambermaid's knock at the door interrupted their frolics.

She had been at La Renardiere for five days. Five days of being taken, each morning, to Paris to be interrogated. Five days of being treated with a mixture of courtesy, wariness and resentment.

'This is your room, madame. And this is your key. At night please avoid leaning too far from your window. Someone might fire a musket at you by mistake.'

When she had presented herself at his door and made herself his prisoner the beautiful spy had placed the cardinal in an extremely delicate position. The Parlement of Paris — which was the kingdom's most important court of justice -had recently convicted her in absentia on several charges of corruption, blackmail and theft. And, for the most part, they were quite right in doing so. But Richelieu did not want her to be punished for these crimes: firstly, because the Pope was unlikely to allow her to be executed; secondly, because she was in a position to reveal State secrets which no one in Europe wished to see divulged; and thirdly, most crucially, because she claimed to have knowledge of a plot against Louis XIII and was demanding, before she would say more, that her life and liberty be guaranteed. But the Parlement was jealous of its authority and if it learned the truth, it would call for La Donna's immediate arrest. Once that happened, whatever was subsequently decided, the legal and political complications would accumulate — and as for the plot against His Majesty, they would be forced to wait until it was set in motion to discover its nature and scope . . .

Happily, the members of Parlement could not be displeased by tilings of which they remained ignorant. It was thus in

greatest secrecy that Alessandra spent her mornings with a magistrate at Le Chatelet, where she was asked questions which she answered graciously, while always endeavouring not to say too much.

She stayed at La Renardiere the rest of the time, protected by musketeers. There were a dozen of them, who patrolled the grounds and occupied a small wooden pavilion in the woods by the entrance to the hunting lodge's grounds. But the young Italian woman was not fooled: the musketeers were there to keep a watch on her as much as they were to protect her, just as the domestic servants in the residence were there to spy on her as much as to serve her. All of them were Richelieu's people, as was the gentleman who acted as her bodyguard.

That one was a Cardinal's Blade.

Seated at her dressing table, Alessandra was finishing arranging her hair and attire to her satisfaction when there was a knock at the door.

'Come in, monsieur!'

It was Leprat. Freshly shaven, wearing boots, breeches, gloves, and a doublet, he was dressed in red, black and grey. His spurs jingling at each step, he entered the room with his hat in hand and his sword at his side.

'Good morning, monsieur le chevalier,' La Donna greeted him, her eyes on the mirror which the chambermaid slowly moved around her. 'Did you sleep well outside my door?'

'No, madame.'

The young woman pretended to be concerned. She turned theatrically in her seat and placed a hand to her throat.

'Did you sleep poorly, monsieur? Are you feeling ill?'

'No, madame.'

Alessandra went from worry to pouting anger, still playacting.

'Then you must have slept elsewhere. That's very poor on your part. You abandoned me and I could have been assassinated. I'm very upset with you. I was happier when I thought you were ill . . .'

Leprat smiled.

'I was at your door, madame. But I didn't sleep. And I feel quite well.'

'Well, thank goodness on both counts! I am doubly reassured.'

Returning her attention to her toilette, La Donna continued to inspect her reflection in the mirror.

'Madame, would you be so good as to make haste. Your breakfast is served, and monsieur de La Houdiniere will no doubt arrive soon.'

Irritated, La Donna snatched the mirror from the chambermaid's hands.

'Monsieur de La Houdiniere shall have to wait,' she said. 'And in Paris, inside that depressing Chatelet where he insists on receiving me, monsieur de Laffemas can also wait. And, if necessary, the cardinal can wait too!'

'Madame. If you please . . .'

Alessandra caught Leprat's eye in the mirror.

She smiled at him, adjusted a curl of hair for form's sake, returned the mirror to the servant, and then rose to turn towards the former musketeer. She looked ravishing, in a snugly fitting but otherwise fairly plain brown-and-cream dress which nevertheless enhanced her pale skin, her red hair, and her pretty bosom. She seemed to be waiting for a compliment, but Leprat limited himself to a brief nod of approval.

The beautiful Italian woman had to satisfy herself with that and accepted the arm offered to her before passing into the antechamber.

Kh'Shak, the huge black drac, hesitated for a moment before opening the door and descending the stairs with a cautious step, almost on tiptoe, holding the scabbard of his rapier to keep it from knocking into anything.

The cellar was silent and warm, stingily lit by fat yellow candles whose flames gave off acrid wisps of smoke. The place reeked, filled with strong odours that would turn a human stomach but which were pleasant to drakish nostrils: the smell of blood, offal, and meat both fresh and spoiled.

The old pale-scaled drac was sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor. He was wearing the dirty, smelly rags that were his sole clothing, and his ceremonial staff —

the big carved stick with its feathers, bones, scales, teeth, and coloured beads — was resting across his meagre thighs. Eyes shut, he sat completely still, hardly breathing at all. The gutted body of a small white goat lay before him. Other remains were rotting here and there, mutilated and half-devoured.

Halting at the bottom of the steps Kh'Shak hesitated again, as if afraid to enter the cellar completely and set foot on the spattered, blood-soaked floor where he knew awful rituals had been carried out.

Yet he was by no means a coward. His courage and fierceness had earned him his position as chief.

But when it came to magic . . .

'Saaskir . . .' he ventured in a hoarse voice.

Saaskir. A drakish word meaning both priest and sorcerer, two notions that were blurred together in the dracs' tribal culture.

'Yes, Kh'Shak?' answered the old drac. 'What is it?'

The black drac cleared his throat. Still unmoving, his eyes still closed, the other had his back towards him.

'Have you found her, saaskir?'

'No, my son,' said the sorcerer in the calm, patient tone that one usually employed with small children. 'I haven't found her yet. La Donna has concealed herself behind seven veils. I rip one away each night, and soon, she will be revealed in full nudity beneath the Eye of the Night Dragon. Then I shall see and, after me, you will be the first to know . . .'

'Thank you, saaskir.'

Kh'Shak was about to turn away, still troubled, when the old drac called out to him:

'You're worried, aren't you?'

The great black drac wondered how he should reply. He opted for the truth.

'Yes, saaskir.'

'That's good. You are a chief. It is your role to worry about things others do not care about, to think of things which others forget, to see what others ignore . . . But as the days pass, your warriors are growing restless, and you're afraid you won't be able to restrain them for much longer.'

Was the saaskir casting doubt on his authority? Kh'Shak's blood began to boil.

'My warriors fear me and respect me! They shall obey!' The old drac sorcerer gave a faint smile that the other could

not see.

'Of course, of course . . . So, all is well?'

'Yes,' Kh'Shak was obliged to concur. 'All is well.'

A silence ensued, during which the black drac did not know what to do. Finally, the old sorcerer's sugary voice came again: 'Now, Kh'Shak, you must leave me.

I need to rest.'

La Donna was finishing her cup of chocolate while a servant cleared away the remains of her breakfast. Sitting in an armchair, she eyed Leprat who was looking out of a window. He was watching the track that emerged from the woods and then ran in a straight line, crossing the forecourt between the servant quarters to the bridge over the dry moat.

Antoine Leprat, chevalier d'Orgueil.

One of Captain La Fargue's Blades, therefore. And a former member of the King's Musketeers, it would seem. Calm, reserved, courteous, and watchful. Probably incorruptible. In a word: irreproachable. Tall, dark-haired and grim-eyed. Attractive, to those who liked mature men whose faces had been marked by the years, and by their ordeals. He had a brutal side to him. This Leprat knew how to fight and had no fear of violence. His muscular body was doubtless covered with scars

. . .

Alessandra di Santi's glance must have been too intense in the silence, because Leprat felt it and turned to her. She did not make the mistake of suddenly averting her eyes, which would have been a tacit admission of a guilty sentiment.

Instead, cleverly, she chose to conceal the motive of her interest.

'Where did you acquire that strange sword, chevalier?'

As always, Leprat had his white rapier at his side, a single piece of ivory carved, from tip to pommel, out of an Ancestral

Dragon's tooth. It was an extraordinary, formidable weapon, lighter and yet more resilient than even the best Toledo blade.

'It was entrusted to me.'

'By whom? Under what circumstances?'

The former musketeer smiled and turned his head back to the window without answering. His eyes drifted towards the tree line.

'Come now, monsieur,' the beautiful spy insisted. 'We've shared this roof and most of our waking hours for several days and I still know almost nothing about you.'

'Just as I know almost nothing about you. No doubt it's best that way.'

Alessandra rose and walked slowly up to Leprat, approaching him from behind as he continued to gaze outside.

'But I only desire that you know me better, monsieur le chevalier. Ask me questions, and I'll answer them . . .'

'I leave the task of questioning you to monsieur de Laffemas.'

'Would a little chocolate soften you? There's some left.'

Turning from the window, Leprat suddenly found himself in close proximity to La Donna. She had drawn so near they were almost touching. Shorter than him, she looked up at him over the rim of the cup, which she held against her moist half-opened lips.

Her eyes were smiling.

'Do you like chocolate, monsieur le chevalier?'

'I ... I don't know.'

'You've never tasted it?'

'No.'

Not widely known previously in France, chocolate now enjoyed some slight notoriety since Queen Anne d'Autriche, who had acquired a taste for it during her childhood in Spain, asked that it be served to her in the Louvre. Still reserved for the rich elite, chocolate was, curiously enough, sold by apothecaries.

'It's delicious,' murmured Alessandra. With both hands she raised her cup to Leprat's mouth. 'Here, try some . . .'

Their glances met, hers seductive, his troubled.

For an instant that slowly stretched between them, the former musketeer almost gave in to temptation . . .

. . . but the chambermaid — knocking and then immediately entering the room — broke the spell.

She brought La Donna's gloves, cloak, and hat. Having surprised Leprat, who quickly drew back, she acted as if she had seen nothing.

'Bah!' said Alessandra, shrugging and turning away. 'It's gone cold now, in any case . . .'

Leprat found La Renardiere's maitre d'hotel already on the front porch, waiting as usual.

'Monsieur.'

'Good morning, Danvert.'

Together they watched a coach pass over the dry moat and enter the courtyard. Twelve cavaliers escorted the vehicle, all of them Cardinal's Guards armed with swords and short muskets, although they did not wear the cape. Monsieur de La Houdiniere rode at their head. He was the company's new captain and the successor to sieur de Saint-Georges, who had died a month earlier under circumstances which were so infamous that they remained secret, to the satisfaction of all concerned.

The coach drew to a halt at the bottom of the steps. La Houdiniere leapt down from his saddle and went over to Leprat. They shook hands like men who held one another in esteem but who could not permit themselves to fraternise — for the first belonged to His Eminence's Guards, while the second remained, even if he had momentarily hung up his cape, a member of His Majesty's Musketeers.

There was a traditional rivalry between these two corps, and a lively one: it was a rare fortnight which passed without a guard and a musketeer engaging in a duel for one reason or another.

La Houdiniere and Leprat, however, were on good terms.

Their acquaintance had begun when they fought together the previous year, when Louis XIII had marched on Nancy for the second time — and before he had to for a third — at the head of his army to persuade Duke Charles IV of Lorraine to show better sentiments towards the king of France. On the 18th of June, a cavalry regiment from Lorraine had been holding one of the crossings over the Mouse river, close to the

small town of Saint-Mihiel and not far from the king's quarters. Hostilities had not really commenced yet — in fact, Charles IV was continuing to parley — but Louis XIII was determined to strike a lightning blow as a demonstration of force. A unit of elite soldiers drawn from the Navarre regiment, the gendarmerie, the light cavalry, the King's Musketeers, and the Cardinal's Guards had therefore been placed under the comte d'Allais's command. La Houdiniere — who was then still a lieutenant — and Leprat had been among this elite. Surprised, trapped in their trenches, and soon stricken by panic, Lorraine's forces had suffered a terrible defeat. It had been a massacre which few had survived.

Later the two men's paths had often crossed, but they had not worked closely together again until now. They shared the responsibility of guarding La Donna, Leprat here at La Renardiere and La Houdiniere during her daily journeys to Le Chatelet, where the spy was interrogated. They thus met twice a day, when the one relieved the other.

'Is everything all right?' asked La Houdiniere.

'Yes,' replied Leprat. 'Any orders from the Palais-Cardinal?'

'None.'

And that was everything that needed to be said.

Wearing her cloak and hood, Alessandra soon made her appearance, smiling and unruffled. Ever a gentleman, La Houdiniere opened the coach door for her and lent her his hand as she climbed into the passenger compartment. Then he remounted his horse and, after a final salute to Leprat, gave the signal to depart.

The former musketeer stood for a moment watching the coach and its escort move off. He was tired but could not rest just yet.

He turned to Danvert, the maitre d'hotel, who was waiting patiently.

'Let's go,' he said, returning inside. 'We have much to do.'

The old woman was sitting in a peaceful, sunny garden in one of the numerous convents in the faubourg Saint-Jacques.

She spent the better part of her days here, when the heat was bearable, reading and biding her time in an armchair that was brought out from her bedchamber for her. Otherwise she shared the ordinary life of the nuns, punctuated by prayers and meals. She was not obliged to do so, but it suited the character she had invented for herself, that of a rich, pious widow, weary of the world and desiring to pass the last years of her life in retreat from it. Within the convent she was known as madame de Chantegrelle. Only a month earlier, however, she had been the vivacious vicomtesse de Malicorne and, thanks to magic, had looked less than twenty years old. An age which was scarcely more deceptive than the one her present appearance suggested. For her true age was a number of years which stretched far beyond the ordinary span. Ordinary for human kind, that is.

But she was a dragon.

The so-called madame de Chantegrelle lifted her eyes from her book and sighed as she considered both the garden and the life that was hers at present. She had loved being the vicomtesse de Malicorne. She'd possessed youth, beauty, wealth, and power. All of Paris had courted her and vied for her favours. What a shame to have been forced to abandon that role! Officially, the vicomtesse had perished in a fire that had left nothing of her but a charred, unrecognisable corpse — in point of fact, that of some wretched woman taken from the gutter. It was a tragic loss but an almost banal event in Paris, where fire was the cause of many fatal accidents . . .

The truth was, the ritual intended to mark her triumph had instead brought about her ruin. Anyone but her would not have survived the ordeal, no doubt. But that did not assuage her regrets. And it did nothing to diminish the desire for revenge that burned inside her. If not for Cardinal Richelieu, if not for Captain La Fargue and his cursed Blades, today she would have been at the head of the first Black Claw lodge ever founded in France . . .

The sound of a light footstep on the gravel garden path drew madame de Chantegrelle's attention. A nun approached her and, after making sure she wasn't asleep, whispered a few words in her ear. The old woman nodded before turning her head to look at her announced visitor, who stood a short distance away beneath a stone arch covered with climbing roses in flower.

A fleeting expression of surprise and fear passed across her face, but she greeted her visitor with a polite smile and extended a hand to be kissed.

The man was dressed as a gentleman, in grey and black, with a sword at his side. He might have been fifty or fifty-five years of age. He was an intimidating figure: tall, rather thin, and hieratic in bearing. He had an emaciated oval face with strangely smooth skin, as if it had been stretched a little too tight over the ridges of his face, and a morbid, sickly pallor. His icy grey eyes crinkled up whenever he coughed — with a dry, brief, guttural sound - into the handkerchief which he dabbed at his fine, livid lips.

Like the woman he now joined, he was a dragon. He had borne many names, some of which she had learned. But the one he preferred was a nom de guerre: the Alchimiste des Ombres, the Alchemist of the Shadows. Where had it originated, exactly? She didn't know. In any case, it was by this pseudonym — or sometimes merely by a sign featuring an A' and an 'O' intertwined - that the Black Claw designated one of its best independent agents.

A novice having brought him a chair, the Alchemist sat down with a nod — not so much in thanks but rather in acknowledgement of the chair being placed at his disposal, as a matter of course.

'I have known of your setbacks for some time, madame. But I have only now had the opportunity to pay you a visit. Please forgive me.'

'My "setbacks",' noted the old woman. 'How kindly put—'

'I will add, in my defence, that it was hardly easy to find you.'

'What can I say? Madame de Chantegrelle is far more discreet than the vicomtesse de Malicorne.

And who would concern themselves with a dying old lady living out her final days in a convent, surrounded by sisters whose affection for

her was ensured by bequeathing to them what remains of her fortune?'

The Alchemist gave one of his rare smiles, which barely lifted the corners of his thin lips. Like all dragons, he was amused by human religions and the shortcomings of their representatives. His race had no other form of worship than that of ancestors, no other divinities than the Ancestral Dragons whose existence, even in times immemorial, was not subject to doubt.

'Do you lack money, madame?'

'No, thank you. But I am touched by your concern, although it does seem to me that your visit cannot be one of pure courtesy.'

'Madame, I—'

'No, monsieur. Don't defend yourself on this subject; you would only be lying, after all . . .' She sighed. 'I am indeed most ungrateful in reproaching you. Since . . . since my setbacks, visitors have been rare. The Black Claw is quick to forget anyone who can no longer serve it. I do not regret that

-I'm happy to still be alive. I imagine I owe it to my birth, to my rank. And perhaps because they believe I've been rendered harmless once and for all—'

'I wager that they are mistaken on that point.'

'Do you really think so?'

The former vicomtesse looked at the Alchemist.

'Yes,' he said, returning her gaze without wavering.

It meant nothing, she knew that.

Nevertheless, she chose to believe that he was sincere.

'I just need to rest, hence my self-imposed retreat here. And then one day, when I have recovered some semblance of my past power—'

She broke off, eyes shining and lost in the distance . . .

The Alchemist waited for her to return from her dreams of restored glory. But perhaps those dreams had carried her too far away. After a moment, he heard her murmuring, as she nodded her head vaguely:

'Yes . . . Some rest ... I only need some rest . . .'

*

The inn, a little way from Vincennes on the road to Champagne, was full of soldiers going to join their regiment at Chalons-sur-Marne. Swords, daggers and pistols lay on all the tables; muskets and halberds leant against the walls. The noisy, mixed-up, indistinct, but warlike conversations reverberated around the common room where a golden light poured in through the windows.

Mocking sallies were thrown above heads wreathed in pipe smoke. Other jests answered them and loud laughter erupted.

Captain La Fargue entered and, from the inn's threshold, where his impressive silhouette was outlined against daylight and blocked the exit, he surveyed the assembly with a slow glance. Eyes narrowed, he did not find the person he was looking for, while ignoring the curious looks that were being warily cast in his direction. Anyone but him would no doubt have drawn some remark that would have started a fight. But none of the soldiers present were stupid enough or drunk enough to pick a quarrel with a man like La Fargue.

A rare kind of man, intimidating and dangerous.

Entering in turn, Almades approached the captain from behind and said in his ear:

'Round the back.'

La Fargue nodded and, accompanied by the Spaniard, went out into the sunny back yard. There he found the comte de Rochefort, who was playing skittles with a group of gentlemen.

Seeing who had arrived, the cardinal's henchman took his time to aim, launched the ball, and managed a fairly good throw. Satisfied, he rubbed his hands together while his playing companions congratulated him. He thanked them, excused himself, finally nodded to the captain of the Blades, and went to recover his doublet which he had removed in order to play more comfortably. Putting it back on, he invited La Fargue to sit with him at a small table beneath a tree. There was a glass and a jug placed upon it. Rochefort drank from the glass and La Fargue, provocatively, from the jug.

'Please, help yourself,' said the cardinal's man ironically.

The old gentleman soldier gazed at him steadily. And for good measure, without blinking, he wiped his mouth with the hack of his hand and smacked his lips.

'How very elegant . . .'

'What do you want, Rochefort? I have better things to do than watch you play skittles.'

The comte nodded vaguely. He glanced distractedly at their surroundings, and then took a deep breath as he collected his thoughts. Finally, in an almost casual tone, he asked:

'What do you make of La Donna?'

La Fargue sighed and leaned back in his chair.

'My opinion of her has not changed,' he replied in a weary voice. 'I believe we cannot trust the woman. But I also believe she has come to us with a story that forces us to give her allegations serious consideration. For even if it were the duch-esse de Chevreuse herself claiming to denounce a plot against the king . . .' At these words, Rochefort raised an eyebrow, but the captain was not deterred. 'Even if La Donna were La Chevreuse, I say, we would have to lend her an attentive ear.'

'The cardinal is of the same mind as you. Moreover, there is this . . .'

Rochefort discreetly pushed something across the table to La Fargue, an object which looked very much like a jewel case made of precious wood. The captain took it, opened it, and saw a black wax seal inside, still attached to the torn corner of a sheet of parchment.

'That was in the packet La Donna gave you, not long ago, to deliver to His Eminence. Do you know what it is?'

La Fargue sat up in his chair.

'Yes. This is a Black Seal. Each of them contains a drop of dragon's blood, used by the Black Claw to seal its most precious documents . . .' He returned the case, and Rochefort pocketed it immediately. 'So the Black Claw is a player in this game.'

'In one fashion or another, yes.'

'What does La Donna say on this matter?'

The cardinal's man grimaced.

'Not much . . . neither on this matter nor, indeed, on any other. According to Laffemas she has no equal when it comes to answering a question without saying anything . . .'

For several days now, the beautiful Alessandra di Santi had been transported in secret to a room in Le Chatelet and interrogated, also in the greatest secrecy, all morning. Monsieur de Laffemas conducted these sessions. Beginning his career as an advocate in Parlement, then a master of petitions, he had since been appointed a state councillor. He enjoyed the confidence and esteem of Richelieu, to whom he owed a great deal. Now, at the age of fifty, he was the lieutenant of civil affairs at Le Chatelet, that is to say, one of the two magistrates - the other being the lieutenant of criminal affairs - who worked as deputies to the provost of Paris. An honest, rigorous and devoted man, Isaac de Laffemas was in charge of State prosecutions and therefore the object of enduring hatred due to his role in the great trials ordered by the cardinal.

Thinking about the man's difficulties with La Donna, La Fargue couldn't prevent himself from letting a smile show. Rochefort saw it and also smiled, adding:

'To top it all, without a doubt, is the fact that Laffemas always comes out feeling quite pleased with himself. It is only when he reads the minutes of his interrogation that he realises how, every time, La Donna has not answered the question, or only very partially, or she has merely repeated information she has already given him, and which wasn't worth very much to begin with. She mixes truth and falsehood, all the while cleverly wielding allusion, innuendo, digression, hollow phrases and misleading revelations. She knows how to play at being nai've, foolish, forgetful and charming by turn. Poor Laffemas is losing his wits as well as his sleep over her. And yet, he still returns each morning determined not to let her get the best of him—'

Rochefort was interrupted by the skittles players, applauding an able bowler.

'Very well,' said La Fargue. 'La Donna is leading Laffemas around by the nose. But it's only fair . . .

After all, she promised to tell us what she knows of this plot on the condition that she is protected. That means a pardon, without which she will always be persecuted in France. In accordance with the sentences passed by the Parlement, her proper place, right now, is in prison.

She knows this full well and, unless she is subjected to torture, she will remain silent on the essential question until she receives her guarantees.'

'The cardinal is not in a position to offer her such guarantees right now. And time is running out.

Not simply because we believe the date of execution of the plot against His Majesty is fast approaching. But also because each day that goes by increases the chances that La Donna's presence will be discovered. And when it reaches the ears of the members of the Parlement—'

'The king can annul a ruling by the Parlement, in his Council. He has that power.'

'Certainly. But will he want to use it?'

La Fargue raised an astonished eyebrow.

'Do you mean to say that His Majesty does not know what is going on?'

Rochefort ignored the question:

'Whenever the king annuls a ruling it's always a very unpopular decision. The Parlement protests loudly, everyone gets stirred up, and there are inevitably a few brave souls ready to stoke the people's anger and cry tyranny . . . And kings dislike it when there are rumblings among the people.

Especially on the eve of a war.'

'Lorraine.'

'Yes, Lorraine . . . You see, La Fargue, to succeed without making too many waves, these sorts of affairs have to be carefully arranged. Public opinion has to be prepared, some loyalties have to be bought in advance, favourable pamphlets have to be written, suitable rumours propagated . . . It's much easier than you probably think, but it demands care, money and, above all, time. And time is what we lack most . . .'

La Fargue was starting to take full stock of the problem: a spy who would or could not talk, a plot threatening the king looming on the horizon, and an hourglass whose sands were already funnelling downwards.

After a brief moment of reflection, he asked: 'What are His Eminence's orders?'

Holding the door, Leprat waited patiently while Danvert gave Alessandra di Santi's bedchamber a final but thorough glance.

This had been their routine since La Donna came to stay at La Renardiere. Each morning, as soon as the coach which took her to Le Chatelet departed, they visited her apartments. Leprat supervised, although his presence was not truly necessary. The domestic servants the cardinal had so graciously assigned to serve the lady spy knew their business. They did not content themselves with observing her every deed and gesture and making daily reports. They also inspected her bedchamber and antechamber with a fine-tooth comb, under the maitre d'hotel's keen eye, and he - rather than Leprat

— directed their search and ensured that nothing was overlooked.

Danvert was alert and gave precise orders, but otherwise said little. He was about fifty years old.

With his trim figure, grey hair and the naturally hale complexion of Mediterranean folk, he had devoted his life to providing perfect service. He was gifted with all the qualities of the best maitres d'hotel, whose duty was to ensure the smooth running of a household and to manage the domestic staff. That is to say, he was discreet, intelligent, honest, attentive, and foresighted. But he also had a flaw that was very common in his profession: a type of arrogance inspired by the sense - often well-founded - of being indispensable.

In practice, he was the true master of La Renardiere. Assisted by a staff which was at his beck and call, he kept the premises in readiness to welcome any guest on short notice, even in the middle of the night, to stay for any length of time from a few hours to days or even weeks on end. He was aware of the exceptional nature of the guests the cardinal received here. It seemed he was never surprised by anything, did not ask to know any more than was necessary, and performed his duties with zeal without ever becoming emotional about his work. Leprat quickly took his measure and came to rely

on him, in the same way that a good officer would rely on an experienced sergeant. It was a decision that the former musketeer was not given cause to regret, and on which he congratulated himself the first time he witnessed the servants' systematic search of La Donna's apartments: Danvert clearly knew what he was doing.

'A problem?' asked Leprat when the maitre d'hotel hesitated.

Only the two of them remained in Alessandra's antechamber.

Danvert was chewing on his lower lip, a certain sign of perplexity. He did not answer, and, acting on an impulse, he went over to the cage where Alessandra's dragonnets were cooped up. One of the twins — no doubt the male, Charybdis -growled at him when he checked the padlock securing the little door.

That done, the maitre d'hotel finally decided to leave and, in passing, gave Leprat an apologetic look for making him wait. But the Blade gave him a reassuring glance in return.

'It would be simpler if we knew what we were looking for, wouldn't it?'

'Indeed, monsieur. We can never be too careful.'

Leprat closed the door, turned the key twice in the lock, and the two men walked away.

'I'm going to get some sleep,' announced the former musketeer, stifling a yawn. 'Wake me if you need me.'

'Very good, monsieur.'

The dragonnets waited for the voices and the sound of footsteps to fade away in the distance.

Once calm was restored to the deserted bedchamber, Scylla's eyes sparkled and the padlock opened with a click. C'harybdis immediately pushed the little door open with a clawed foot. The twins escaped from their cage and swooped up the chimney flue. They emerged into the sunlight in a puff of soot that went unnoticed below and which — even had it been seen — would have had no clear cause. For although they were not invisible the two dragonnets had become translucent, looking as if they were made of a very pure water that barely disturbed the passage of light.

After some joyful and expert aerial acrobatics, Scylla called her brother back to their duties and they sped off towards Paris together.