The Cardinal's Blades Part 4

Standing up, leaning against the door to the salting room, and putting a foot up on a bench, Agnes looked at Marion. She was still attractive, with an ample bosom and small greying locks of hair twisting themselves free between the nape of her neck and her linen bonnet. At one time she had been much courted by men, and she continued to be on occasion. But she had never married, a fact that intrigued other local inhabitants of this area of the Oise valley.

A silence settled over the room, and lingered.

Finally, when she could restrain herself no longer, Marion said: "I heard a coach leave early this morning."

"Good. Then you're not deaf."

"Who was it?"

Agnes threw the piece of bread, reduced to no more than an empty crust, onto the table.

"What does it matter? I remember only that he was well built and knew what he was doing between the sheets."

"Agnes!" Marion exclaimed.

But there was more sadness than reproach in her voice. With an air of resignation, she gently shook her head and started to say: "If your mother-"

"None of that!" interrupted Agnes de Vaudreuil.

Suddenly frosty, she became absolutely rigid. Her emerald green eyes gleamed with contained anger.

"My mother died giving birth to me and it's futile for you to tell me that she might say this or that. As for my father, he was a pig who shoved himself between every pair of thighs he could snuffle out. Including your own, as I well know. So do not preach to me about the way in which I occasionally fill my bed. It's only in such moments that I feel even remotely alive, ever since ..."

Trembling, with tears in her eyes, she couldn't finish the sentence.

Marion was visibly shaken by this outburst, and returned ashen-faced to her scrubbing with more energy than was strictly necessary Now in her forties, Marion had witnessed Agnes's birth and the accompanying agony of her mother, who had lain in labour for five days. After fighting at the side of the future King Henri IV during the Wars of Religion in France, the baron de Vaudreuil was always too busy serenading the beautiful ladies at the royal court or stag hunting with the French monarch to interest himself in the fate of his spouse. And upon learning that the child was female, he had not even bothered to attend his wife's funeral. Entrusted-or rather abandoned-to the care of Marion and a rough soldier by the name of Ballardieu, it was seven years before the little girl met her father. This occurred during a brief stay on his domain, when he had also dragged Marion into his bed. Although she might have offered herself freely to him, if she had had any say in the matter. But the baron was not one to brook refusal from a servant, and would have dismissed her without further ado if denied. Marion could not bear the thought of being separated from Agnes, who adored her and had almost no one else in the world to look after her. The baron had been highly amused to discover that his latest conquest, although by no means a young woman, was still a virgin. Delighted, after it was done he left her to go sleep elsewhere, saying that he deserved her grat.i.tude.

Calmer now and beginning to feel ashamed of herself, Agnes walked around the table to stand behind the woman who had raised her, and bent to embrace her, resting her chin against Marion's head.

"Forgive me, Marion. I'm mean and stupid.... Sometimes, I think I'm going mad.... But it's not you who's making me so angry. You realise that, don't you?"

"Yes. But who is it, then?"

"I think ... I'm angry at myself. All these memories I have, that I would just as soon forget. Things I've seen and done.... And things which were done to me...."

She straightened up, sighed, and added: "One day, perhaps, I shall tell you all."

8.

As they travelled back to Paris by coach, Nicolas Marciac and the vicomte d'Orvand enjoyed a light red wine designed to sharpen their appet.i.tes. A wicker basket filled with food and some good bottles of wine stood between them on the bench. They drank from small engraved silver goblets, half filled so that the b.u.mps and jolts of the road, which shook them violently and without warning, soaked neither their chins nor their laps.

"You hadn't been drinking," said d'Orvand, referring to the duel.

Marciac gave him a wicked, amused glance.

"Just a mouthful for my breath. Do you take me for a complete idiot?"

"Then why this comedy?"

"To make sure Brevaux was overconfident and lowered his guard."

"You would have defeated him without that."

"Yes."

"Moreover, you could have let me in on it-"

"But that would have been much less fun, wouldn't it? If you could have seen your face!"

The vicomte could not help but smile. His friends.h.i.+p with the Gascon had accustomed him to this kind of joke.

"And who were the two charming ladies whose coach you borrowed to make your entrance?"

"Now, vicomte! I would be the very lowest of gentlemen if I told you that."

"In any event, they seemed to have a great deal of affection for you."

"What can I say, my friend? I am well liked-Since you are so curious, then know that one of them is the very same beauty upon whom the marquis de Brevaux, it seems, has set his sights. I'm sure he recognised her...."

"You are reckless Nicolas. No doubt the marquis's anger grew and his skill as a fencer proportionately decreased when he saw you kiss the woman. But by doing so you gave him a reason to demand another duel. Not content to defeat him, you had to humiliate him. For you it's a game, I know. But for him ..."

Marciac thought for a moment about the prospect-which had not crossed his mind until now-of a second duel against the marquis de Brevaux. Then he shrugged.

"Perhaps you're right.... We shall see."

And extending his empty goblet, he added: "Before we start on the pork, it would be my pleasure to drink a little more of your wine."

As d'Orvand poured for his friend, risking his clean, beautifully cut breeches in the process, Marciac held the prize he had won from the marquis up to the light. Admiring the ruby, he slid it onto his finger, where it came to rest against a signet ring. But it was the signet ring itself which caught the vicomte's eye-made of tarnished steel, it was etched with a rapier and a Greek cross capped with fleur-de-lis.

"There," said Marciac admiring the s.h.i.+ne of the stone, "that should keep Madame Rabier satisfied."

"You borrowed money from La Rabier?" exclaimed d'Orvand in a tone of reproach.

"What else could I do? I have debts and it is necessary that I honour them. I am not the marquis de Brevaux."

"Still, La Rabier ... borrowing money from her is never a good idea. I would have been happy to advance you a few ecus. You should have asked me."

"Asked you? A friend? You're joking, vicomte!"

D'Orvand slowly shook his head in silent reproof.

"All the same, there is one thing that intrigues me, Nicolas ..."

"And what would that be?"

"In the nearly four years during which you have honoured me with your friends.h.i.+p, I have often seen you impoverished-and even that word is a poor description for it. You have p.a.w.ned and redeemed your every possession a hundred times over. There were times when you were forced to fast for days, and you would doubtless have let yourself die of hunger if I hadn't invited you to my table under one pretext or another. I even remember a day when you had to borrow a sword from me in order to fight a duel.... But never, ever, have you agreed to be separated from that steel signet ring. Why is that?"

Marciac's gaze became vague, lost in the memories of the day when he first received the ring, until a sudden b.u.mp in the road jolted the two men perched on their stuffed leather bench.

"It's a fragment of my past," replied the Gascon. "You can never be rid of your past. Not even if you p.a.w.n it...."

D'Orvand, who found that melancholy did not suit his friend, asked after a moment: "We will soon be in Paris. Where would you like to stop?"

"Rue de la Grenouillere."

The vicomte paused a moment, then said: "Did you not have enough of duelling for one day?"

Marciac replied with a smile, and muttered, almost to himself: "Bah! ... When I die, I want to be certain at least that I have truly lived."

9.

Paris at midday was packed with working, bustling, and gossiping people, but in contrast, at the Palais-Cardinal, the guards on duty seemed to be sentries of some luxurious necropolis. Accompanied by his large entourage of advisors and his armed escort, Richelieu was at the Louvre, and in his absence, life at his residence carried on slowly, almost as though it was night. Men in capes were barely to be seen. More lowly servants moved along dark corridors without haste or noise, carrying out routine menial tasks. The crowd of supplicants had thinned out considerably when they heard that the master of the palace had left, and only a few persistent souls decided to wait for his return, making do with an improvised repast on the spot.

Alone in a small study, Ensign Arnaud de Laincourt made use of this lull in activity to carry out a task which came with his rank: filling out the log-book of the Cardinal's Guards. The rule was that the officer on duty must scrupulously record all the day's events, whether they were ordinary or unusual, from the hour when guards were relieved at their posts to possible lapses in discipline, and detailing every occurrence or incident which might affect His Eminence's security. Captain Saint-Georges consulted the log at the end of each s.h.i.+ft, before communicating anything noteworthy to the cardinal.

"Enter," said Laincourt, on hearing a knock at the door.

Brussand entered.

"Monsieur de Brussand. You're not on duty.... Would you not be better off at home, resting after your long night on watch?"

"Of course, but ... would you grant me a minute?"

"Just allow me to finish this task."

"Certainly."

Brussand sat down in front of the desk at which the young officer was writing by candlelight. The room had only a high, bevelled window opening onto a light well into which the sun barely peeped. There were, without a doubt, dungeons in the Bastille or in the chateau de Vincennes that were better lit.

Laincourt finished his report, checked it, wiped his quill on a rag, and then slipped it between the pages of the thick log-book before he closed it.

"There," he said. "I'm all yours."

And turning his crystal blue eyes upon Broussard, he waited.

"I have come to a.s.sure myself," said the other, "that you do not hold anything against me."

"Regarding what?"

"Regarding confidences about you that I repeated to young Neuvelle. Concerning your past. And the circ.u.mstances under which you joined the Cardinal's Guards."

Laincourt gave an amiable smile.

"Did you say anything slanderous?"

"Certainly not!"

"Anything untrue?"

"No. At least, not unless I've been misled myself."

"Then you have nothing to reproach yourself for. And therefore, neither do I."

"Of course. But ..."

There was a silence during which the officer's smile did not waver.

His courteous mask, ultimately, proved to be a perfect defence. Because it expressed nothing but polite interest it left others to carry the conversation, so that, without any effort on his part, they little by little became less self-a.s.sured. Rarely failing, this strategy was proving particularly effective against Brussand, who was growing more embarra.s.sed by the moment.

But the old guard was a soldier, and rather than remain exposed in this manner, he instead charged forward: "What can I say? There are certain mysteries surrounding you that encourage rumours-"

"Indeed?"

"Your famous mission, for example. The one which, it is whispered, detained you for two years in Spain. And for which, no doubt, you were promoted to the Cardinal's Guards with the rank of ensign.... Well, you can imagine what is said about all that, can't you?"

Laincourt waited without making any reply, the same indecipherable smile on his lips.

Then, a clock sounding half past one, he rose, picked up his hat, and tucked the heavy log-book under his arm.

"Forgive me, Brussand, but duty calls."

The two men walked together to the door.

As he allowed the officer to go first, Brussand said to him in a conniving tone: "Strange country, Spain, isn't it?"

Laincourt walked on, leaving Brussand behind him.

With the air of a man who knows exactly where he is going, Arnaud de Laincourt strode through a series of salons and antechambers, paying no heed to either the servants or the guards on duty who snapped to attention as he pa.s.sed. Finally, he entered an empty service corridor and, at its intersection with another, paused a few seconds before turning right toward the cardinal's private apartments.

From that point, he moved as quickly and silently as possible, although taking care not to appear furtive: there was no question of making his way on tiptoe, or hugging the walls, or glancing anxiously around. If someone was to surprise him, it was best to behave in a manner unlikely to arouse suspicion. His rank and his cape, certainly, protected him. But then, suspicion was the rule in the Palais-Cardinal.