The Cardinal's Blades (30 page)

“Where is this list?”

“In reliable hands, as I told you. And they will remain anonymous.”

Gagnière’s tone became menacing.

“It is a secret which we could tear out of you.”

“Not before the list would be brought to the knowledge of all.”

“So? We do not share the cardinal’s fears. On the contrary, we would be delighted to see relations between France and Spain deteriorate even further.”

“To be sure,” allowed Laincourt. “However, information concerning the Black Claw itself would be revealed at the same time. And believe me, this information could be most damaging.”

Gagnière greeted this news calmly, measuring what Laincourt knew about the Black Claw and the danger it might pose.

“Another list?” he suggested.

“Another list.”

“You are playing a very dangerous game, monsieur de Laincourt.…”

“I have been employed as a professional spy for some time now, Gagnière. Long enough to know that servants of my type are sacrificed just as easily as the foot soldiers on a field of battle.”

The marquis sighed, no doubt annoyed not to have the upper hand.

“Let us cut to the chase. You would not be here if you had nothing to offer me. Speak.”

“I offer to deliver both lists to you as a token of my loyalty. You will destroy the one and do as you see fit with the other.”

“These papers protect you and yet you would separate yourself from them? Doesn’t that run contrary to your interests?”

“I will separate myself from them, even though I’ll risk incurring the cardinal’s wrath. But, in return, I want to be assured of the Black Claw’s protection.”

Gagnière was beginning to understand where this was leading, but nevertheless asked: “How?”

“I want to join the circle of initiates to which you belong. Besides, I believe I have already earned that right on merit alone.”

“It is not up to you to be the judge of that.”

“I know. So take this proposal to the person who is.”

4

Barely distracted this time by the noisy, colourful crowd that milled about on the Pont Neuf, Ballardieu followed Naïs discreetly. He was in a foul mood and, with an angry look in his eye, talked to himself as he pushed through the throng.

“Ballardieu, you’re not a complicated man,” he grumbled. “You’re not a complicated man because you don’t have very much in the way of wits and you know it. You have loyalty and courage but not much wit, and that’s simply the way of things. And you do as you’re told, usually without protest. Or without protesting too much, which is the same thing. You are a soldier, even a good soldier. You obey orders. But I know you would greatly appreciate it if someone did you the honour of explaining, just once in a while, for the sole pleasure of breaking with old habit, the orders they gave you.…”

At this point in his monologue, keeping an eye on Naïs’s white bonnet, Ballardieu repeated Agnès’s words and his own, hastily exchanged at the Hôtel de l’Épervier.

“‘I want you to follow her.’ ‘Naïs? Why?’ ‘You’ll see.’ ‘Ah … right.’ A fine explanation! And what did you reply to it? ‘Ah … right.’ Nothing else … ! Ballardieu, you might have even less wit than you imagine. Because, in the end, there’s nothing preventing you from demanding an explanation, is there? Well, granted, the girl had that look in her eye and you know very well that she wouldn’t have explained anything at all. But at least you’d have tried instead of meekly following orders.…”

Now getting himself worked up, Ballardieu shook his head.

“Good soldier! Good faithful dog, more like it … ! And where will the first blows land when things go wrong? On the dog, not on the mistress, by God! Because have no doubt about it, Ballardieu, this business will go wrong and it’ll do so at the expense of yours truly. No one acts behind the captain’s back and gets away with it. Sooner or later, you—”

Lost in his thoughts, he had bumped into a lampoonist who fell backward in an explosion of printed papers.

“What?” flared Ballardieu angrily and in perfectly bad faith. “Can’t you watch where you’re going? Is this the new fashion in Paris?”

The other man, bowled over in both the literal and figurative senses, took some time to recover himself. He was still wondering what had happened to him, and gaped with amazement and fear at this bull of a man who had come out of nowhere and charged into him as he was haranguing the crowd and brandishing his sheets which—as he was unable to blame the king directly—accused Richelieu of crushing the people beneath the weight of taxes. The individual who had so abruptly entered the life of the lampoonist was not someone with whom he would wish to seek a dispute. Without being particularly tall, he was wide, heavy, and massive, and in addition to being red in the face and fuming, he was armed with a good-sized rapier.

But Ballardieu, to the great relief of his innocent victim, passed almost at once from anger to compassion and regret.

“No, friend. Forgive me. It’s my fault.… Here, take my hand.”

The lampoonist found himself catapulted upward rather than simply raised.

“I offer my apologies. You’ll accept them, won’t you? Yes? Good man! Nothing broken, I hope.… Good, I would happily pay for the brushing of your clothes but I’m short of time. I promise to buy you a drink when next we meet. Agreed? Perfect! Good day, friend!”

With these words, Ballardieu went on his way, while the other man, still tottering and dazed, an idiotic smile on his lips, bade him farewell with a hesitant wave.

Far ahead of him, Naïs had fortunately taken no notice of the incident and he had to quicken his pace in order not to lose sight of her. After Pont Neuf she followed rue Saint-Denis, then rue de la Vieille-Cordonnerie, came out on rue de la Ferronnerie, and went up rue Saint-Honoré, which Ballardieu had never known to seem so long. They passed in front of the scaffolding of the Palais-Cardinal and went as far as rue Gaillon, into which Naïs turned. Recently absorbed by the capital by the construction of wall know as “Yellow Ditches,” this former faubourg was foreign territory to Ballardieu. He was about to discover its layout, its houses, and its building sites.

Opposite rue des Moineaux, Naïs crossed a large porch that opened onto a courtyard full of people and animation, overlooked by a strange tower that stood at the end, like an oversized dovecote. A sign hung over the entrance where one could read the words: “Gaget Messenger Service.”

“‘Gaget Messenger Service’?” muttered Ballardieu with a frown. “What’s this, then?”

Seeing a passerby, he asked him: “Excuse me, sir, what is this place of business?”

“There? Why it’s the Gaget Messenger Service, of course!”

And the man, in a hurry like all Parisians and as lofty as most of them, walked away.

Feeling his temper rise, Ballardieu sucked in his cheeks, took a deep breath in the vain hope of controlling the murderous impulses that had entered his head, and caught up with the passerby in a few strides, gripping him by the shoulder and forcing him to spin round.

“I know how to read, monsieur. But what is it exactly?”

He was breathing hard through his nose, was red-faced again, and his eyes were glaring dangerously. The other man realised his mistake. Turning slightly pale, he explained that the company owned by Gaget offered customers a postal service using dragonnets, that this service was both rapid and reliable, although somewhat expensive, and …

“That’s enough, that’s enough …” said Ballardieu, finally releasing the Parisian to go about his business.

He hesitated for a moment over whether or not he should enter and then decided to take up a position at a discreet distance in order to wait and to observe—after all, Naïs might go elsewhere next. It wasn’t long before the old soldier saw a familiar figure come out of Gaget’s establishment.

It was not Naïs.

It was Saint-Lucq.

5

La Fargue and Almades had no trouble finding the house Cécile had indicated, which stood at the fringe of the faubourg Saint-Denis where the buildings faded away into open countryside. It was surrounded by an orchard enclosed by a high wall, in the middle of a landscape of fields, pastures, small dwellings, and large vegetable gardens. The spot was charming, peaceful, and bucolic, yet was less than a quarter-league from Paris. There were peasants working in the fields and herds of cows and sheep grazing. To the east, beyond some leafy greenery, the rooftops of the Saint-Louis hospital could be seen.

Along the way they had encountered a band of riders coming in the other direction at full gallop, forcing them to draw aside toward the ditches. In normal circumstances they would have taken little notice of them. But the band was headed by a one-eyed man dressed in black leather who strongly resembled the individual Marciac had surprised the night before, organising the abduction of the young Cécile Grimaux.

“I don’t believe in coincidences of this kind,” La Fargue had commented as they watched the riders disappear toward Paris.

And, after a meaningful look in reply from Almades, they both promptly spurred their mounts in an effort to arrive at their destination as quickly as possible.

They did not slow down until they reached the gate. It was opened wide onto the path that led straight through the orchard to the house.

“Are your pistols loaded?” asked the old captain.

“Yes.”

Riding side by side, all their senses alert, they advanced up the path between rows of blossoming trees. The air was sweet, full of delicate fruity fragrances. A radiant morning sun dispensed a light that was joyfully greeted by birdsong. The foliage around them rustled in the gentle breeze.

There were two men standing in front of the small house. On seeing the riders approaching at a walk, they came forward, curious, craning their necks to see better. They were armed with rapiers and wearing doublets, breeches, and riding boots. One of them had a pistol tucked in the belt that cinched his waist.

“Who goes there?” he challenged in a loud voice.

He took a few more steps, while the other stood back and placed the sun behind him. At the same moment a third man emerged from the doorway to the house and remained close to the threshold. La Fargue and Almades observed these movements with an appreciative eye: the three men were perfectly positioned in case of a fight.

“My name is La Fargue. I’ve come to visit a friend of mine.”

“What friend?”

“The chevalier de Castilla.”

“There is no one by that name within.”

“Yet this is his dwelling, is it not?”

“No doubt. But he just left.”

The man with the pistol was trying to appear at ease. But something was worrying him, as if he was expecting something irremediable to happen at any minute. His companions shared his anxiety: they were in a hurry to finish whatever they were doing and wanted these untimely visitors to turn round and leave.

“Just now?” asked La Fargue.

“Just now.”

“I’ll wait for him.”

“Come back later, instead.”

“When?”

“Whenever you please, monsieur.”

Almades was leaning forward like a tired rider, his wrists crossed over the pommel of his saddle, hands dangling just a few centimetres from the pistols lodged in his saddle holsters. His glance sweeping out from under the brim of his hat, he observed his potential opponents and knew which of them—taking into account, among other things, the layout of the place—he would have to take on if things went badly. With his index, middle, and ring fingers he idly tapped out a series of three beats.

“I would be obliged,” said La Fargue, “if you would inform the chevalier of my visit.”

“Consider it done.”

“Will you remember my name?”

“La Fargue, was it?”

“That’s right.”

The hired swordsman at the doorstep was the most nervous of the three. He kept glancing over his shoulder, seeming to watch something going on inside the house which was likely to be coming out soon. He cleared his throat, no doubt signalling to his accomplices that time was running short.

The man with the pistol understood.

“Very well, messieurs,” he said. “Goodbye, then.”

La Fargue nodded, smiling, and pinched the felt brim of his hat in farewell.

But Almades sniffed: a suspect, alarming odour was tickling his nose.

“Fire,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth to his captain.

The latter looked up at the chimney of the house, but could see no plume of smoke rising from it. On the other hand, in the same instant he and the Spaniard caught sight of the first curls of smoke obscuring the windows from within, on the ground floor.

The house was burning.

The assassins realised their secret was discovered and reacted instantly. But Almades was faster still, seizing his pistols, extending his arms, and firing simultaneously to the right and the left. He killed both the man on the doorstep and the other man who had been hanging back with two balls that drilled into the middle of their respective foreheads. The detonations startled his horse, which whinnied and reared, forcing La Fargue’s steed to take a step to one side. The last man had meanwhile drawn his pistol and was taking aim at the captain. But his shot missed La Fargue, who, struggling to control his mount, had to twist round in his saddle in order to return fire. He hit his target nevertheless, lodging a ball in the neck of his opponent, who collapsed in a heap.

Silence returned to the scene just as suddenly as the previous violence had been unleashed. With La Fargue removing a second pistol from its holster, he and Almades dismounted, taking cover for a moment behind their horses, observing the house and its surroundings for signs of any other enemies.

“Do you see anyone?”

“No,” replied the Spanish master of arms. “I think there were only three in all.”

“No doubt they stayed behind to make sure the fire took good hold.”

“That means there’s something inside that must disappear.”

Rapiers in their fists, they rushed into the house.

Fires had been set at several points and thick black smoke attacked their eyes and throats. But the danger was not yet significant, although it was too late for there to be any hope of extinguishing the conflagration. While Almades rushed up the stairs to the floor above, La Fargue took charge of inspecting the ground level. He went from room to room without finding anything or anyone, until he spied a small, low door, just as the Spaniard came back down.