The Alchemist in the Shadows

2

The rain continued after the storm and did not cease until dawn. Paris woke fresh and reinvigorated.

To say that the capital was clean would have been an exaggeration; it would have required a deluge of biblical proportions to carry away the filth accumulated on its streets and to remove the foul muck clinging to its pavements. But the worst had been washed away and Parisians, upon rising from their beds, were grateful to have finally been relieved of the dust and stink of recent days. It even seemed that the cocks crowed more valiantly and the bells rang more clearly this morning, while the city glistened beneath the sun's first rays.

'Dead,' repeated La Fargue in a tone which did not bode well. 'Gueret ... is dead.'

The garden still being soaked, they had gathered in the large fencing room inside the Hotel de l'Epervier. The atmosphere was tense. Even those Blades who were not involved in the previous evening's fiasco were keeping their heads down. Only Almades, who had stationed himself slightly apart from the others to guard the door, seemed completely aloof.

'Yes, captain,' Agnes confirmed.

She, Marciac and Ballardieu had not had time to change from the night before. Their clothing had dried on their backs and left them looking bedraggled, not to mention their tousled hair, weary faces and obvious chagrin. Ballardieu in particular wore a hangdog look.

'How?' La Fargue demanded.

'Gueret surprised us while we were in his room,' Marciac explained.

He was sitting down with one bare foot resting on a stool.

'And killing him seemed like a good idea to you?'

'No!' the Gascon defended himself. 'He fled over the rooftops. We pursued him and, unfortunately, he broke his skull in a fall.'

'Unfortunately. That's one way of putting it . . . And how was it that Gueret managed to surprise you? Was no one keeping watch?'

Agnes and Marciac exchanged an embarrassed glance. Ballardieu kept his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him.

'Yes,' said the old soldier. 'I was.'

'And you didn't see the man coming back . . .'

'It was a dark night,' the Gascon interjected. 'And with the rain, the storm—'

'—and the wine, am I wrong?' La Fargue continued relentlessly.

'No,' confessed Ballardieu. 'I just went off for a moment to buy a bottle and—'

The Blades' captain thundered at him:

'You BLOODY OLD TOSS-POT! HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT YOUR FOOLISHNESS HAS

COST US?'

Ballardieu kept his mouth shut. There was an oppressive silence in the room.

After a moment, La Fargue rose and went to a window. It opened onto the wet garden, where the chestnut tree's leaves were shedding their final drops upon the old table. Hands behind his back, he took the time to regain his calm. Then, still facing the garden, he said in a quieter voice:

'Any witnesses?'

'None,' replied Agnes. 'And the innkeeper will hold his tongue.'

'The body?'

'Thrown, naked and unrecognisable, into the Seine. With the waters still high from the storm, he'll never be found.'

'His belongings?'

'I lis baggage and the clothes he was wearing are all here.'

From over his shoulder, La Fargue glanced at the table the young woman was pointing to. On it were placed the small

travelling chest, the big leather bag and Gueret's still-damp clothing. Papers found in the false bottom of the chest were also spread out.

Leprat was already inspecting them in silence.

'There are sealed letters, a map of Lorraine and another of Champagne, false passports, promissory notes . . .' he finally announced. 'Add to that French, Spanish and Lorraine currency, and you have everything one might expect to find in the possession of a spy who, according to marks on this map, came from Lorraine and passed through Champagne to reach Paris.'

'And the letters?' asked Marciac, craning his neck to see from his armchair.

'There are three of them, all addressed to the duchesse de Chevreuse. The first comes from Charles IV, the second is from his brother, the cardinal of Lorraine, and the third is from the Spanish ambassador to Lorraine. I did not think it appropriate for me to open them.'

Nancy was the capital of the duchy de Lorraine, of which Charles IV was the sovereign. Located on the border of the Holy Roman Empire and defended by one of the most formidable fortresses in Europe, Lorraine was a rich territory much coveted by France. Relations between Louis XIII and his 'dear cousin' Charles were, moreover, execrable, the duke seeming to do everything in his power to exasperate the king and defy his authority. Twice now, royal armies had marched on Nancy to compel Charles to respect the treaties he had signed. And twice the duke had made promises that he failed to keep. Thus his palace continued to welcome dissenters, plotters and other adversaries of Louis XIII. Banished for a time from France, the duchesse de Chevreuse had been one of their number.

'And that's everything?' asked Agnes.

'My word,' replied Leprat in surprise, 'it doesn't seem such a bad haul to me . . .'

Even La Fargue looked at the young baronne with puzzlement.

Was she joking?

'To be sure,' she explained, 'these passports, maps, and letters are by no means worthless. But Gueret was sent to the duchesse de Chevreuse by the queen mother, wasn't he?'

She looked at them all intently, as if they were missing something obvious. And it was the captain of the Blades who was the first to see what she was driving at.

'In all this,' he said, pointing at the documents cluttering the table, 'there is nothing from the queen mother addressed to La Chevreuse . . .'

'Exactly. The queen mother is not going to dispatch one of her agents merely to collect a few letters in Lorraine and deliver them to the duchesse, is she . . . ? Are you sure you haven't missed anything, Antoine?'

Leprat considered the dead spy's belongings displayed before him.

'I believe so, yes . . .'

'What about the clothes our man was wearing last night?' suggested Marciac.

Agnes came to the musketeer's assistance and together they lound a leather envelope concealed in the lining of Gueret's doublet. As it was closed with a strip of sealed cloth, they hesitated and looked to La Fargue for permission to proceed. He nodded gravely and they broke the wax seal.

The envelope contained a letter along with several handwritten sheets that Agnes perused, showing signs of a growing astonishment.

'It's a pamphlet,' she said. 'It's about the queen, her failure to give birth to an heir and the king's supposed intention to repudiate her on those grounds. The author claims that the king has already communicated with Rome on this matter and that he will soon be in a position to choose a new wife

. . .'

All those listening gaped in disbelief.

Alter eighteen years of marriage Queen Anne d'Autriche was still childless. She had had several miscarriages and, for some time now, had suffered from the disaffection and indif-ference of her husband. Indeed, Louis XIII only rarely visited her bed. Nevertheless, the repudiation of the queen would provoke an outcry in the kingdom and a possible scandal at the royal court. But above all, it would constitute a casus belli with Madrid, Anne being the king of Spain's sister.

'Do you think there's any truth in it?' asked Agnes.

'Who knows?' replied La Fargue. 'But if people believe it, what does it matter?'

'This text was no doubt meant to be printed secretly in Paris,' noted Leprat. 'And then spread like wildfire.'

'In order to provoke unrest?' asked Marciac.

'Or to cause a big enough upset in Europe to embarrass the king and oblige him to renounce any such project . . .'

'And so that's it? La Donna's plot against the king?' the baronne de Vaudreuil exclaimed incredulously. 'Tell me another one!'

'No,' La Fargue intervened. 'There's something else going on. But whether its content is true or pure invention and calumny, this pamphlet is by no means innocent. I believe we have laid our hands on the package the queen mother was seeking to have delivered to the duchesse de Chevreuse.'

'And the letter probably contains special instructions to go with it.'

'Shall I open it?' asked the musketeer, holding up the missive that accompanied the manuscript.

'Yes,' ordered La Fargue.

There was, in an iron cabinet somewhere within the Palais-Cardinal, a whole collection of stolen or counterfeit seals, including that of the queen mother. Her seal could be replaced if necessary.

Leprat split the seal and unfolded the letter.

'We have a problem,' he said immediately. 'This is all in code.'

When he arrived at the Hotel de l'Epervier, Arnaud de Laincourt saw a sedan chair leaving with Marciac as its passenger, escorted by Ballardieu. The spectacle astonished the former spy, who moved aside and bemusedly acknowledged the Gascon's wave.

'I'm going to rest my wounds at Les Petites Grenouilles,'

Marciac announced. 'Come and visit me there when you have a moment. I'm sure you'll receive a fine welcome!'

Laincourt watched without saying a word as the chair passed through the door and then spotted La Fargue walking briskly towards the stable, where Almades was holding two saddled horses by their bridles.

'Monsieur!' he called.

The captain of the Blades halted.

'Yes, Laincourt?'

'Could you grant me a minute?'

'It will be a short one. I have to take some documents we found in Gueret's possession to the Palais-Cardinal.'

'You captured him?'

La Fargue reflected that he would probably save time if he fully briefed Laincourt right away.

'Follow me,' he said, signalling to Almades that he should wait there.

They entered the main building by the closest door, which was that of the kitchen. The two men sat down and, having asked Na'is to leave them, the old gentleman recounted the most recent events to Laincourt. The latter listened very attentively, occasionally nodding and taking mental note of every detail.

'One thing is for certain,' he said when the captain concluded, 'this pamphlet does indeed smack of the queen mother.'

Banished from the kingdom and exiled in Brussels, Marie de Medicis, widow of Henri IV and mother of Louis XIII, was an embittered old woman still brooding over the way her eldest son had brutally evicted her from power and replaced her with Richelieu. She schemed, dreamed of revenge and placed all her hopes in her other son, Gaston d'Orleans, also known as 'Monsieur', who she hoped to one day see ascend to the French throne.

'You're right,' the captain of the Blades acknowledged.

'And this encrypted letter, could you show it to me, please?'

'Might you be able to decipher it?'

'Possibly. I used to be one of the cardinal's code secretaries.'

Laincourt took the letter that La Fargue held out to him and ran his eyes over it rapidly. The text consisted of a single block - without punctuation or breaks in the lines — made up of symbols that were mostly borrowed from alchemy.

The cardinal's former spy smiled faintly.

'It's a very simple cipher. Each symbol stands for a letter, and that's about all there is to it.'

'You can tell all this with just a glance?' asked La Fargue, giving the young man a measuring look.

But Laincourt was already absorbed in deciphering the text.

'Perhaps certain symbols stand for frequently used words. Or certain persons. But there's nothing more complicated than that . . . And see how this sign occurs so frequently? No doubt it's an "a" or

"e",. if the text is in French. And you see this one, it's doubled several times suggesting that it's a consonant, an "r" or "s" or "t", for example . . .'

His eyes shining, Laincourt displayed an excitement that was unusual for this young man, ordinarily so thoughtful and reserved.

'Just a moment,' he said.

And, without waiting, he rose, went over to the chimney mantelpiece, snatched up a small notebook that Nai's used for her shopping, tore off a page, returned to his seat and with a lead pencil began to transcribe the coded letter. His eyes danced from one sheet to another while his hand wrote nimbly, as if possessed of a life of its own. With pinched lips and clenched jaws, his face betrayed his intense concentration.

'This will be easier than I dared to hope,' he said.

'Why is that?'

'Because I already know this cipher.'

La Fargue was discovering that Laincourt had hidden talents which could be highly useful to the Blades. A few minutes went by in a tense silence, broken only by the scratching of pencil on paper.

'And there you have it!' the young man declared, pushing both the letter and his transcription towards La Fargue. 'You may have trouble reading my writing, but at least you won't be late in arriving at the Palais-Cardinal.'

He was almost out of breath, but displayed no pride or even satisfaction in his work.

Smiling, the captain of the Blades sat back in his chair and considered Laincourt with the admiring and amused gaze of someone who has just been fooled by an amazing feat of magic.

'You asked if I could spare you a little of my time,' he said after a moment. 'For what reason?'

'I have a way to get close to La Chevreuse.'

'How?'

The young man then explained how the chevalier de Mirebeau had approached him with his offer, and a note that would give him entry to the Hotel de Chevreuse.

'And you propose to make use of this note,' concluded La Fargue.

'Yes.'

The old gentleman thought for a moment, weighing the pros and cons.

'All right,' he said at last. 'But you must be very careful.'

'Understood.'

'Keep your eyes and ears open, but in a natural fashion. Remember the cardinal's orders: we must not, at any price, risk arousing the duchesse's suspicions. Don't listen at doors, peer through keyholes or ask any indiscreet questions.'

'Very well.'

'And above all, be very wary of the duchesse de Chevreuse. You wouldn't be the first person that she has led astray . . .'

La Fargue had just rejoined Almades, who was patiently waiting for him in the courtyard with their two horses, when a coach entered by the carriage gate which Guibot, hobbling on his wooden leg, had hastened to open.

'Who is that?' asked the Blades' captain. 'Did you hear the name announced through the hatch?'

'No,' admitted the Spanish fencing master. 'But it's rare to see monsieur Guibot hurry like that.'

Drawn by a smart team of horses, the vehicle halted in front of them and they understood the reason for their concierge's

alacrity upon seeing the marquis d'Aubremont emerge from the cabin. A man of honour and duty, he bore one of the most prestigious and respected names in France. He was also the last friend La Fargue possessed in this world. Like the captain, he was about sixty years old with grey hair, a dignified air and precise mannerisms. He and La Fargue exchanged a warm greeting. They hadn't seen one another since the marquis had buried his eldest son.

'My friend,' said La Fargue, whose eyes sparkled with a contained joy. 'If you know the pleasure that I—'

'Thank you, my friend, thank you ... I too am very happy to see you again.'

They had once been part of an inseparable trio: La Fargue, d'Aubremont and Louveciennes.

Companions and brothers-in-arms, they fought together during the civil and religious wars that had ravaged the kingdom, and then helped the 'man from Bearn' take the French throne and become King Henri IV. Upon the death of his father, d'Aubremont had been called away by the family obligations that came with bearing a great and noble name. Twenty years later, however, the first of his sons, who had until then been a member of the King's Musketeers, was to follow Leprat and join the Blades. Endowed with an adventurous and rebellious spirit, the young man had grown distant from his father and adopted the name of a small holding belonging his mother, that of Bretteville.

And it was only after recruiting him that La Fargue learned that he was the eldest son of his old friend.

'Pardon my arrival in this fashion,' said d'Aubremont. 'But I could not set down in a letter what I am about to tell you . . .'

'What is it?' asked the captain of Blades in a worried tone.

'Could we speak inside, please?'

Exhausted after a particularly active and sleepless night, Agnes went upstairs to lie down in her bedchamber. She slipped between the fresh sheets with a shiver of delight and, already drowsy, vaguely heard the sound of a coach entering the courtyard. Then she closed her eyes and it seemed to her

that she had just dozed off when there was a knock at her door.

'Madame . . . Madame!'

It was Nais, whose voice reached her from the corridor, through the fog of her interrupted sleep.

Agnes muttered something into her pillow that very fortunately was transmuted into an indistinct groan, as her words were hardly polite and certainly unworthy of a baronne de Vaudreuil.

'Madame . . . Madame . . . You must come, madame . . .'

'Let me sleep, Nais . . .'

'You were sleeping?'

'Yes, by God!'

Timid NaTs must have hesitated, for there ensued a moment of silence during which Agnes nourished the hope of having prevailed.

'But monsieur de La Fargue is asking for you, madame! He's waiting for you. And he's not alone.'

'Is he with the king of France?'

'Uhh . . . no.'

'The Pope?'

'No.'

'The Great Turk?'

Not him, either, but—'

'Then I'm going back to sleep.'

Agnes turned over, hugged her pillow, gave a long sigh of contentment and let a faint smile appear on her lips as she once again abandoned herself to slumber.

But she heard NaTs announce in a small voice:

'He's with the marquis d'Aubremont, madame.'

La Fargue and d'Aubremont were in the captain's private office. Having finished tying back her heavy black mane of hair with a leather cord as she dashed down the stairs, Agnes hurried to join them. She granted herself a pause in front of the door, however, to briefly check her appearance and catch her breath. Then she knocked, entered, greeted the marquis with whom she was already acquainted, sat down at La Fargue's invitation and waited.

With a small nod of his head, the captain indicated to his friend that he could speak freely.

'Madame, I have come here today seeking advice and assistance from monsieur de La Fargue, who, after listening to me, thought that you might be able to help.'

'But of course, monsieur.'

Agnes had the deepest respect for this honest and upright gentleman, a father whom fate had struck all the more cruelly since his son had been killed before they had the chance to effect a reconciliation. Like all the Blades, she felt somewhat beholden to him because, of this.

'It's about my son . . .'

Agnes was surprised. Did the marquis mean Bretteville?'

'My younger son, I should say. Francois, the chevalier d'Ombreuse.

'Isn't he serving with the Black Guards?'

'Indeed, madame.'

The Black Guards were one of the kingdom's most prestigious light cavalry companies. The king financed them from his own private purse, although they did not belong to his military household, and he appointed their officers. These hand-picked gentlemen served the Sisters of Saint Georges, the famous Chatelaines. They formed the military guard for these nuns whose mysterious rituals, over the past two centuries, had been successful in defending France and her throne against the dragons. In their black uniforms, they protected the Sisters, escorted them and, occasionally, carried out perilous missions on their behalf.

'Here's how matters stand,' continued d'Aubremont. 'My son has disappeared and I do not know whether he is alive or dead.'

The young baronne de Vaudreuil addressed a concerned glance at La Fargue, who told her:

'Three weeks ago, the chevalier left on an expedition along with a few men from his company. It seems he was supposed

to make his way to Alsace, with a possible detour into the Rhineland.'

Alsace not being French territory, Agnes thought the expedition must have been either an escort mission or a covert military operation. But even without that, the region was filled with dangers.

War was raging there. Imperial and Swedish troops were contending for control of the cities while mercenary bands pillaged the countryside.

'Francois could not reveal more than that,' the marquis explained. 'Knowing that he was bound to secrecy, I did not ask any questions. Indeed, he probably told me more than he ought to have done . . . But it was precisely because of this that I suspected it was an important matter and one which was causing him great concern. And I understood just how accurate my suspicions were when I learned that, on the eve of his departure, Francois spent a long while praying at his brother's tomb . . .'

Visibly overcome by emotion, d'Aubremont fell silent.

'Since then,' said La Fargue, taking up the account from his friend, 'the chevalier has not sent any news. And as for the enquiries that the marquis has recently made of the Sisters of Saint Georges, they have yielded no results. He has received no answers. Or very evasive ones.'

'It's always the same closed doors, the same silences and the same lies,' said d'Aubremont in a voice vibrant with contained anger. 'Because I know they are lying. Or at least hiding something from me . . . But don't I have the right to know what has become of Francois?'

Agnes gazed deeply into the eyes of this old gentleman who had already lost one son and now feared for the life of the second.

'Yes,' she said. 'You have the right.'

'Of course,' the captain of the Blades pointed out, 'it would be fruitless to call on the cardinal . . .'

'. . . since the Mother Superior General of the Chatelaines is his cousin,' the young baronne concluded for him.

'And as for speaking directly to the king . . .'

'As a last recourse only!' decreed the marquis. 'Kings are to be served, not solicited. Besides, what would I say to him?'

There was a moment of silence.

Agnes turned to La Fargue who, without pressuring her to do anything, waited for her to come to a decision.

'Monsieur,' she said to the marquis, 'I can promise you nothing. But since my novitiate I have kept up several acquaintances among the Sisters of Saint Georges. I will go see them and perhaps I can obtain the answers you are seeking.'

D'Aubremont gave her a smile of sincere gratitude.

'Thank you, madame.'

'However, do not harbour any great hopes for I do not—'

'It would be enough to know that my son is still alive, madame. Just so long as he is still alive . . .'

Immediately after the marquis d'Aubremont took his leave, Agnes ordered a horse to be saddled for her. She would have to make haste indeed in order to reach her destination before nightfall. La Fargue joined her in the stable while Andre finished preparing Vaillante, the fiery young baronne's favourite mare.

'I know how much this costs you, Agnes.'

They stood side by side, watching the groom busying himself with her mount.

The young woman nodded lightly.

'I know what it costs you to resume contact under these circumstances with the White Ladies,' La Fargue continued. 'And I wanted to thank you.'

Because they dressed entirely in white, 'White Ladies' was one of the nicknames given to the Sisters of Saint Georges. They were also known as the 'Chatelaines', after their founder, Saint Marie de Chastel.

'No need to thank me, captain.'

'Of course, the marquis cannot know how great a favour you are doing him, but—'

'The Blades owe him this service at least, don't you think?'

'True.'

Out in the courtyard, one of the horses Almades still held by the bridle snorted.

'I must go to the Palais-Cardinal,' La Fargue said. 'Have a safe journey, Agnes.'

'Thank you, captain. I'll be back tomorrow.'

The duchesse de Chevreuse had been born Marie de Rohan-Montbazon.

In 1617, at the age of fifteen, she married Charles de Luynes, the marquis d'Albert. Twenty-two years older than her, at the time Luynes enjoyed the king's favours and accumulated responsibilities, wealth and honours, despite his mediocre intelligence. Soon appointed superintendent of the queen's household herself, the young, beautiful and joyful marquise de Luynes knew how to please Anne d'Autriche, who was already growing bored with life at the French court. A sincere friendship grew up between them, but the king began to turn away from his wife and he deemed that Marie had a bad influence upon her. It was true that the superintendent was by no means unsociable and willingly partook in the pleasures of life. And while her husband was promoted to due and then supreme commander of the royal armies, she became the mistress of the youngest son of the due de Guise, Claude de Lorraine, prince de Joinville and due de Chevreuse. Luynes died in 1622, during the course of a military campaign in the south of France against the Huguenots when Marie was twenty years old. Exposed to the hostility of Louis XIII, she nevertheless continued her duties with respect to the queen. But one evening, while she led her friend on a run through the halls of the Louvre as a game, Anne d'Autriche fell and, three days later, she suffered a miscarriage. This tragic loss provoked the king's wrath. He blamed Marie, pronounced the young widow's disgrace and banished her from the royal court.

Defying social conventions, Marie married the duc de Chevreuse barely four months after Luynes's death. Louis XIII was opposed to their union. But the due's loyalty, his glorious military record and his blood ties with the I louse of

Lorraine persuaded the king to forgive him and, shortly after, to allow the duchesse to rejoin the queen's entourage. From that position, she then embarked on one of the most notorious careers as a schemer — and as a lover — in the history of France. In the space of only a few years she pushed the queen into the arms of the duke of Buckingham and very nearly succeeded in causing a great scandal. She opposed the marriage of the king's brother, Gaston, to mademoiselle de Montpensier.

She took part in a plot against the cardinal that was barely foiled and was implicated in another against the king himself. Her life was saved only by her status as a foreign princess. Condemned to retire to her country holdings, she fled to Lorraine and, without giving up any of her other pleasures, she continued to involve herself in conspiracies. After the siege of La Rochelle, England negotiated a peace treaty with France and interceded on behalf of the duchesse. She thus returned to France after a year in exile, surrounded by a certain diabolical aura, thirty years old but not ready to settle down. But she was either lucky enough or smart enough not to take part in the revolt that started in the summer of 1632 in Languedoc, which ended with the victory of the royal troops and a death sentence for the duc de Montmorency.

In Paris, the duchesse de Chevreuse lived in a magnificent mansion on rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, between the Louvre and the Tuileries. Remodelled for her by one of the most celebrated architects of the day, this splendid dwelling was composed of a central building flanked by two square pavilions, from which two wings extended to frame the courtyard. The latter was closed off a by third, lower wing, which contained a monumental gate decorated with pilasters and sculptures.

The lateral wings contained the facilities that were indispensable to the life any great household: kitchens, offices, servants' quarters, stables and coach houses. As for the central building, it housed the private apartments and the halls, a string of grand rooms that were used only on social occasions. To the rear, a terrace overlooked an exquisite garden.

The Hotel de Chevreuse was a veritable palace where the duchesse gave superb parties which tended to take a licentious

turn. It was also a den of intrigue into which Arnaud de Laincourt, on this very afternoon, was determined to enter.

'Come in, monsieur! Come in!' called out madame de Chev-reuse in a light-hearted tone.

Laincourt hesitated for a brief instant, then doffed his felt hat and crossed the threshold of the doorway that had been opened for him.

The room into which he had been admitted was part of the duchesse's private apartments. The furniture, the parquet floor, the wood panelling, the draperies, the gilt work, the painted ceilings, the ornaments and the framed canvases were all in the best possible taste and evidence of an extraordinary luxury. The air in the room was perfumed. As for the atmosphere, it was feverish. The chambermaids and wardrobe mistresses were engaged in whirling ballet with the duchesse at its centre. Sitting before a mirror that was held out for her, she had her back turned to the door and was giving precise instructions whose results she immediately verified in her reflection. It was question of adding a hint of rouge here, a pinch of powder there; of arranging a few stray locks that did not fall perfectly; of bringing another necklace and, upon further thought, changing the earrings which simply wouldn't do.

Believing himself forgotten, Laincourt was seeking a discreet means of recalling his presence to mind when madame de Chevreuse, her back still turned, said:

'You must forgive me, monsieur, for receiving you so poorly.'

'Madame, if my visit is ill-timed—'

'Not at all, monsieur! Not at all ... ! Stay.'

Laincourt thus remained, and waited.

Now the great matter was the perfect tilt of the duchesse's hat, the finishing touch to a ritual whose importance the young man could only guess at and which he witnessed with a certain degree of embarrassment.

'You were spoken of very highly to me, monsieur.'

'I was?'

'Does the idea displease you?'

'Not at all, madame. But since I do not know who holds me in such good esteem as to speak—'

'Well then, first of all there is the duc. But it is true that my husband looks favourably upon any who come from Lorraine as he does. You are from Lorraine, are you not, monsieur?'

'In fact, I—'

'Yes, yes . . . However, it is monsieur de Chateauneuf above all who praises your merits . . .'

Charles de l'Aubespine, the marquis de Chateauneuf, was the kingdom's Keeper of the Seals, the highest-ranking figure in the State after the king and Cardinal Richelieu.

'Monsieur de Chateauneuf is one of my most excellent friends. Did you know that?'

With these words, and after a final glance in the mirror, the duchesse rose and turned to Laincourt.

He was immediately struck by her beauty, her tawny hair, her milky complexion, the flawless oval of her face, the sparkle of her eyes and the perfection of her carmine mouth. She had, moreover, an air of joyful boldness that was a provocation to the senses.

'But I must take my leave,' she said as if in regret. 'It has already been half an hour since the queen sent word that she wished to see me at the Louvre . . .' She extended her hand to be kissed. 'Come back this evening, monsieur. Or rather, no, come back tomorrow. That's it, tomorrow. At the same time. You will, won't you?'

Laincourt would have liked to reply, but she had already left him standing there.

She disappeared through a door, abandoning the young man in a cloud of powder and perfume, exposed to the somewhat mocking gazes of the chambermaids . . .

Upon his return from the Palais-Cardinal, La Fargue found Leprat exercising alone in the fencing room. The musketeer was practising lunges in particular in order to limber up the thigh which had been wounded a month earlier and still remained a little stiff. Wearing boots, breeches and a shirt, he was sweating and did not spare his efforts, sometimes pressing an imaginary attack, then stepping back into position and beginning the exercise all over again.

He broke off when he saw his captain enter.

'I need to speak with you, Antoine.'

'Of course.'

'In my office, please.'

Still catching his breath, Leprat nodded, re-sheathed his white rapier and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his face and the back of his neck while La Fargue went into his private office. He joined the old gentleman there as he finished putting on his doublet and, with his brow still damp, he asked:

'What is it, captain?'

'Sit down.'

The musketeer obeyed and waited. Behind his desk, La Fargue appeared to be choosing his words, before he asked:

'How is your thigh?'

'It still causes me an occasional jolt of pain, but that's all.'

'That fight with the dracs was a bit of an ordeal, wasn't it?' the captain said, only half-jokingly.

'That it was,' agreed Leprat.

A silence fell, and stretched . . .

Until finally, the captain of the Blades announced gravely:

'I have a mission for you, Antoine. A particularly dangerous mission that you will be free to refuse once I have laid it all out for you. I would understand in that case. Everyone would understand . . .'

More intrigued than worried, the musketeer gazed back with narrowed eyes.

'But first of all, read this,' said La Fargue, holding out a handwritten sheet.

"What is it?'

'The transcription of the encoded letter we found on Gueret's body.'

Leprat frowned as he struggled to read Laincourt's handwriting.

The letter began with salutations addressed by Marie de Medicis to madame de Chevreuse. Then, in a pompous style, the queen mother assured the duchesse of her friendship and wished her success in all her endeavours, including 'certain affairs with respect to Lorraine'. She expressed a desire to be of assistance to her 'very dear friend' and, to that end, was placing at her disposal a French gentleman of no fortune, but 'a devoted, capable man who will know how to render you great services'. This man was in fact the bearer of the letter, Gueret, of whom the queen mother provided a fairly precise physical description. She explained that the man was being sent first to Lorraine and then to Paris, where he would wait every evening at The Bronze Glaive, wearing a opaline ring on his finger, as had already been agreed. The queen mother went on to describe the precarious state of her finances, of which she did not complain for her own sake, but for those who had followed her into exile. And lastly, she concluded with the usual polite formulas.

'Well?' asked La Fargue. 'What do you make of it?'

Leprat pursed his lips.

'This missive hardly deserved to be enciphered.'

'To be sure. But what does it tell us about Gueret?'

The musketeer reflected and, looking for clues, ran his eyes over the letter once again.

'Firstly, that he is an agent of the queen mother as we suspected,' he said. 'And secondly . . .

Secondly, the duchesse de Chevreuse does not know him since the queen mother had to describe him.'

'Very true.'

Leprat, then, understood:

'The portrait of this Gueret could in fact be my very own . . .'

'Yes, it could.'

His chest and feet bare, Marciac lifted the curtain slightly to look down at the street without being seen. Behind him, in the bedchamber, Gabrielle had dressed again and was finishing arranging her hair by the rumpled bed. After an afternoon of passionate lovemaking and tender complicity she would soon have to take her leave of the Gascon. She was the owner and manager of Les Petites Grenouilles, an establishment whose

young and comely boarders made their livings from an essentially nocturnal activity. Their first customers would be arriving soon.

'What are you watching for?' she asked as she placed a last pin in her strawberry-blonde hair.

Although she was beautiful, the attraction she exercised over him owed less to her beauty than to her natural elegance. She could seem cold and haughty, especially when anger lit up her royal blue eyes and a glacial mask slipped over her features. But Marciac knew her doubts, her fears and her weak points. Because she was both the only woman he truly loved and the only one he did not feel obliged to seduce. Even Agnes still had to repel his amorous assaults upon occasion.

'Hmm?' he muttered distractedly.

'I asked, what are you watching out for,' said Gabrielle.

'Nothing.'

His mind was visibly elsewhere and she knew he was lying.

In truth, she even knew what he was observing. Or rather whom. What surprised her, on the other hand, was how little time it took to arouse Marciac's suspicions. He must have been aware of something as soon as he arrived, because they had barely left the bed since then.

She wanted him to think of something else.

'How long have you been back in Paris?'

'A few days . . .'

'You could have paid me a visit sooner, rather than waiting until you were injured.'

Marciac had a bandaged ankle. It was still painful, but no longer prevented him from standing. If he didn't put too much weight on it and granted himself a good night's rest, he could be walking almost normally the following day. And there would be no trace of it at all the day after that.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I've had no free time.'

Gabrielle rose. With a sly smile on her lips, she approached the Gascon and embraced him tenderly from behind, placing her chin upon his shoulder.

'Liar,' she murmured in his ear. 'You were seen at La Sovange's mansion.'

Madame de Sovange maintained, on rue de l'Arbalete in the faubourg Saint-Jacques, a rather famous gambling house.

Now it was Marciac's turn to want a change in the subject of conversation.

'Do you know this individual, standing over there beneath the sign with the head of a dog? The one with the leather hat?'

She barely glanced at the man he was referring to.

'I've never seen him before,' she said, drawing away from the Gascon.

And then she added from the doorway:

'Get dressed and come say hello to the little frogs. They won't stop asking after you until you do.'

'I will.'

Gabrielle departed, leaving Marciac convinced that she was holding something back concerning the man in the leather hat. Peeking out at the street again, he saw the man exchange some words with a newcomer, then walk away, leaving the other man standing there.

That dispelled any doubts the Gascon might still be harbouring.

A man who stood hanging around all afternoon in the same place might be an idler or even some sort of mischief-maker. But when he was relieved at his post in the early evening, then he had to be a lookout.

Alone in his bedchamber, leaning over the basin. Leprat lifted his face dripping with cool water and observed himself in the mirror. He was bare to the waist but already wore the breeches and boots of another man who was at this very instant floating dead in the Seine. The rest of his attire — a hat, a shirt, a doublet whose lining had been re-sewn and a steel sword in its scabbard - waited upon the bed.

Leprat gave his reflection a hard stare.

He had accepted the mission La Fargue had proposed to him, that is to say, infiltrating rnadame de Chevreuse's clandestine schemes by passing himself off as Gueret, the agent the queen mother had sent to the duchesse from Brussels. Since he

was ignorant of almost everything about the person he was supposed to replace, it was a risky business. Gueret was a French gentleman of no fortune, that much was certain. And no doubt he had followed the queen mother when, removed from power and humiliated, she had chosen to leave the kingdom. But aside from that?

Leprat, in fact, could only rely on a certain physical resemblance with the man whose identity he was trying to usurp. A resemblance which, furthermore, would not fool anyone who had met Gueret. And the musketeer knew that he would probably die under torture if he was unmasked . . .

Bah ... he told himself philosophically, as he bent once again to splash water on his face . . . if no one kills you today, you know what will kill you tomorrow . . .

Upon his back, the ranse spread in a broad violet rash with a rough surface. The disease was progressing. It would one day take his life and was already weakening him, as witnessed by the wound to his thigh that was taking longer than it should to completely heal.

How much time do you have left? Leprat wondered. And more, how much longer can you keep it a secret?

He stood up straight and smiled sadly at his image in the mirror.

This secret that is eating away at you . . .

The expression had never been so apt.

Agnes arrived in the early evening. The abbey was located in a peaceful corner of the countryside, far from any heavily travelled roads, and was surrounded by the fields, woodland and farms from which it derived its revenues. From the vantage point of her saddle, the young baronne took her time observing the handsome buildings and the white, veiled silhouettes moving about behind the enclosing walls. The memories of her novitiate with the Sisters of Saint Georges came back vividly to her. Then she gently nudged her horse forward with her heels as bells rang out in the dusk, calling the Sisters to prayer.

She was soon admitted to wait in the cloister where she stood a'lone, exposed to the curious glances and whispers from the passing nuns. She knew from experience how small a world an abbey was and how fast news travelled there. No doubt her name was circulating and it was already being murmured that she had asked to meet the mother superior.

Did they remember her here? Perhaps. In any case, everyone would be wondering about the motive behind her visit . . .

Feeling quite satisfied with the effect that both her presence and her armed horseman's outfit were having, in particular on the young novices who were jostling one another to spy on her from behind some columns, Agnes forced herself to remain patient and impassive. The severe sound of a throat being cleared, however, was enough to remind the adolescent girls of their duties, before the mother superior's arrival dispersed them entirely.

About sixty years in age, Mere Emmanuelle de Cernay was an energetic woman with strong features and a frank gaze. Accompanied by two nuns who walked behind her, she gratified Agnes with a tender smile, hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. The young woman responded with similar warmth to these displays of affection.

'Marie-Agnes! It's been so long since we have seen you . . . And your last letter dates from over a month ago!'

'The Blades have been reformed, mother.'

'Really? Since when?'

'Since about a month ago, in fact.'

'I didn't know . . . Are you still under the command of that old gentleman?'

'Captain La Fargue, yes.'

'And are you happy?'

'My word . . .' replied Agnes with a somewhat guilty smile.

'Then that's all right, that's all right . . . Just don't find yourself on the receiving end of a sword stroke that will make you regret not having taken the veil!'

'It would have to be a very nasty sword stroke, indeed, mother . . .'

The abbess took Agnes by the arm and they walked together beneath the gallery of the cloister. Shaking her head resignedly, the old woman said:

'Intrigue. Racing about on horseback. Sword play . . . You have always loved all that, Marie-Agnes .

. .'

'And the boys. You're forgetting the boys, mother superior.'

The abbess chuckled.

'Yes. And the boys . . . Did you know that the ivy on the north wall is still called "Agnes's ivy" by some of the older nuns?'

'I didn't climb it that often . . .'

'Let's say rather that you weren't caught every time you climbed it . . .'

Still talking in this relaxed manner, they left the cloister for a garden at the entrance to which the mother superior asked the two nuns trailing them to wait behind. And once she and Agnes had moved out of earshot, she confided:

'One of those two is spying on me. I don't know which one. But what can I do? The Mother Superior General continues to be suspicious of me, after all these years . . .'

Mere Emmanuelle had previously been the head of the Sinters of Saint Georges. But following some dark dealings, she had been ousted in favour of the current Superior General, who happened to be part of the Richelieu family. Since then, the Order had become a more or less blatant instrument of the cardinal's policies, to the great displeasure of Rome. The concordat of Bologna, however, had granted the king the right to appoint the recipients of the Church's major benefices in France, including the abbesses and abbots of the religious orders.

'But what can 1 do for you, Marie-Agnes? I imagine that you have not come to tell me that you wish to complete your novitiate . . .'

The young baronne smiled as she thought of how very close she had come to taking the veil, then she spoke of the fears of the marquis d'Aubremont, his approach to the Blades and the promise she had made to him.

The mother superior thought for a moment.

'An expedition to Alsace, you say . . . ? Yes, I think I did hear something about that. Its goal, I believe, was the destruction of a powerful dragon. And as is proper in such cases, a louve was leading the hunt.'

Among the Chatelaines, there existed a small number of exceptional sisters who, thanks to a papal dispensation, were allowed to wield magic as well as the sword to fight the draconic menace. They were nicknamed the louves, or she-wolves, because their headquarters were located in the Chateau de Saint-Loup, not far from Poitiers. But also, and above all, because they were solitary and merciless huntresses. If Agnes had come close to pronouncing her own vows, it had been with the sole intention of becoming a louve herself.

'But I don't know the details of this affair,' Mere Emmanu-elle was saying. 'And, inr particular, I don't know what success the expedition had . . . But if you like, I can make enquiries and let you know what I discover.'

'Thank you, mother superior.'

'Nevertheless . . . Nevertheless, be very careful, Marie-Agnes. It won't take the Superior General long to learn of the reasons for your visit, and I doubt she will take a kind view of your becoming mixed up in the Order's business . . .'

In the office of magic at the splendid Hotel de Chevreuse, in rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, the man bent forward to examine the painted portrait the duchesse was showing him. Tall, thin and pale, he appeared to be about fifty-five years in age. He was wearing the black robes of a scholar and a cloth beret, also black in colour, with a turned-up, crenelated edge.

'Do you see, master?' asked madame de Chevreuse.

He was her master of magic and exercised an insidious but immense influence over her. She believed he was called Mauduit, was of Italian origin and had spent long years studying and practising the occult arts abroad. In truth, he was a dragon as well as an agent of the Black Claw.

While he studied the portrait by candlelight, the duchesse poured two glasses of a golden liqueur with a heady aroma. When he heard the clink of crystal and smelled the odour of henbane the Alchemist's nostrils flared and a gleam of longing

briefly lit up his steely grey eyes, while the tip of a rosy tongue licked at his lips. But he retained control of himself, succeeded in masking a desire that was becoming a need and, with a steady hand, accepted — casually, without taking his eyes off the canvas — the glass held out to him. He dipped his bloodless lips in the liqueur and contained the shiver of pleasure that obliged him to shut his eyes.

'You will soon have to find me some more of this delicious henbane from Lorraine,' said madame de Chevreuse.

'Certainly, madame.'

'Will you tell me, someday, who your supplier is?'

'Madame, whatever would become of a master of magic who gave away his secrets?'

She smiled, rose and took several paces about the room as she gazed incuriously at the books of magic and various alchemical and esoteric objects that were on display.

Then she asked:

'So? What do you think of my find? I can assure you that this portrait is most faithful.'

The Alchemist pursed his lips.

'Precisely, madame. This young woman is far too pretty. She won't fool anyone.'

The duchesse was expecting this reaction and had prepared a visual effect. Smiling, she showed him a small piece of carton shaped like a theatre mask, which she placed upon the portrait.

'And now, master?'

The master of magic looked again at the painting and could not prevent a start of surprise.

'Admirable ... !' he admitted. Then a shadow of doubt passed over his face. 'But her size? Her figure?'

'They are a perfect match in every respect,' madame de Chevreuse reassured him.

'As is her hair . . . And where is this marvel hiding?'

'She has been staying here, in my home, for several days now. I will present her to you during the course of a dinner I am hosting.'

'But will she be capable of—'

'I will answer for her.'

'On condition that she accepts.'

'How can one refuse a queen?'

The Alchemist gave one of his rare smiles, which always seemed cruel.

'Yes, of course . . .' he said. 'But it will still require some scheming on your part to place your protegee in the queen's entourage. How do you hope to accomplish that?'

'Through the marquis,' replied the duchesse with a hint of annoyance. 'Or through my husband the duc. We'll see.'

'Time is running short, madame. If all is not ready in time for your great ball at Dampierre . . .'

'I know it all too well, monsieur. All too well . . . Now, a little more henbane?'

Leprat had already been waiting for an hour. With an ordinary sword at his side, he was wearing Gueret's clothing and jewellery, including a ring adorned with a handsome opaline stone that he had slipped on his left ring finger. He had of course put away his ivory rapier and the Blades' steel signet ring, along with anything that might compromise his false identity. He hoped it would suffice. For although he had no doubt that the duchesse de Chevreuse was not personally acquainted with Gueret, this was perhaps not the case for all those who surrounded her and served her.

Once again, he gazed about the tavern's taproom. Sitting at the end of a table, he did not conceal the opaline on his ring finger but nor did he flash it about, to avoid trouble. While The Bronze Glaive was no cutthroats' den, it was not the most reputable of places. Located outside the faubourg Saint-Jacques, less than a quarter of an hour's walk from the inn where Gueret had been lodging, the establishment was exempt from the taxes and regulations that applied in Paris. Wine was cheaper here and they continued serving it after curfew every evening of the week, until midnight.

Every evening of the week, that is, except the previous evening, when the owner, having gone to Tours to bury a dead relative, had closed the tavern. Leprat had discovered this by listening to a conversation between two regulars. It

explained, at least, why Gueret had returned to the inn earlier than expected and surprised Agnes and Marciac in his bedchamber. This extraordinary closure had indirectly killed him.

The difference between life and death often depends on the tiniest things, Leprat mused.

Absentmindedly toying with the opaline that served as his recognition sign, he did not react when a gentleman sat down next to him and asked without giving him a look:

'Did you have a safe journey from Flanders?'

'I've come from Lorraine.'

'Did you take pains to ensure you were not followed?'

'From Nancy?'

'The cardinal has eyes and ears everywhere.'

Leprat glanced at the stranger. He was slender and fair-haired, with a well-trimmed moustache and royale beard. He was elegantly but unobtrusively dressed in a beige doublet. And he had a friendly air.

The musketeer lowered his eyes to the gentleman's hands, who let him catch a glimpse of an opaline ring on his own index finger before he said:

'Wait a little while and then meet me around the back.'

He immediately rose and went out, after paying for the glass of wine which he had not touched.

Leprat imitated him five minutes later.

In the dark night, he had difficulty finding the narrow arched passageway that led to the rear of the tavern. He could not see a thing and was unfamiliar with the place. His instinct, moreover, told him that something was amiss. Had he already been unmasked? He thought for an instant about giving up, turning around and returning to the Hotel de l'Epervier.

Despite everything, he decided to continue.

And was knocked unconscious the moment he set foot in the rear courtyard.

Each house in Paris had a sign. The shops and taverns had them, of course. But so did the dwellings, which was how one told them apart in lieu of numbers. These signs served to designate the addresses of both commercial establishments and private individuals: Rue Saint-Martin, where the sign of the Red Cock hangs, for example. This only applied, however, to premises belonging to commoners. Private mansions, still reserved solely to the aristocracy under Louis XIII, did not have signs. Instead they took the names of their owners, often decorated with prestigious coats-of-arms on their pediment, and that was address enough: Hotel de Chateauneuf, rue Coquilliere. Or even: Hotel de Chevreuse, Paris.

Parisian streets were thus graced with innumerable signs in multicoloured wood that added to the capital's renown and gave it, when the weather was fine, a festive air. The subjects of these signs were varied — saints, kings of France and other sacred or profane characters; tools, weapons and utensils; trees, fruits and flowers; animals and other imaginary creatures — but showed no evidence, on the whole, of any real artistic vision or profound taste for the picturesque. For every Horse Wielding a Pickaxe or Gloved Wyvern, how many Tin Plates and Golden Lions? The most curious thing, however, was the fact that the signs for shops never evoked anything related to the nature of their business. There were no boots for cobblers or anvils for blacksmiths. Only taverns were required to distinguish themselves with a sheaf: a handful of knotted hay or twigs.

If signs served a useful purpose and brightened up an otherwise sordid urban setting, they nevertheless represented a certain hazard to the public due to the tendency of shopkeepers to give them excessive dimensions for the purposes of publicity. The ironwork that supported them often extended out a toise, or a measure of about two metres, into the street. Considering the width of an ordinary street in Paris, that meant signs often hung in the middle of the pavement. Added to the usual stalls and awnings, these ornaments thus hindered traffic and aggravated the crush in the most commercial streets, which were also the most heavily frequented. There were more than three hundred signs in the neighbourhood of Les Halles, and almost as many on rue Saint-Denis alone.

Coaches were constantly knocking them down. Riders on lorseback had to duck to avoid them. And even pedestrians )ften bashed their skulls on these gaudily painted wooden xinels.

Usually due to distraction.

But not always.

'Hup!'

Turning round, the man saw a monkey's head diving towards him, received a blow from the sign in the middle of his trow and keeled over backwards, while the suspended panel :ontinued its forward motion before reversing at the height of ts swing.

Marciac caught it and stopped its movement.

Then he gave a calm, satisfied look at the man lying un-:onscious in the street at his feet, his arms spread out in a ;ross.

This scene took place in rue Grenouillere at the crack of lawn where, as in the rest of Paris, the neighbourhood was ust beginning to wake.

Vlarciac returned to Les Petites Grenouilles on tiptoe. The louse was still sleeping at this hour of the morning, since the ast customers, as usual, had taken their leave late during the previous night. This suited the Gascon perfectly, as he was ounting on regaining the warmth of Gabrielle's bed without her being aware he had ever left. But as he was about to take the stairs, holding his boots in his hand, he heard a voice say:

'So? How is that ankle?'

He froze, grimacing as he closed his eyelids tightly, then re-opcned one eye and turned his head to look through a wide-open door. He saw Gabrielle sitting alone at the kitchen table. Her lace was in profile and she held her head stiffly upright as she ale, staring straight ahead of her. She had a large shawl around her shoulders and was wearing only a nightshirt, without having done anything about her hair or appearance.

She was beautiful, nevertheless.

The Gascon resolved to join her. He hated explanations and reproaches, but this time would not be able to escape making

the former or receiving the latter. Reluctantly, he fell into a chair.

'My ankle is much better,' he said. 'Thank you.'

Then he waited for the tongue-lashing to start.

'Where were you?' Gabrielle finally asked.

'Out.'

'In order to exchange a few words with Fortain, I imagine.'

Marciac frowned.

'Fortain?'

'The man who was watching the house. He was no longer there when I woke up. But you have reappeared. Whereas he—'

'Then you know.'

'That there are five or six men who have been discreetly watching the house these past few days?

Yes, I know. The fact is, you see, I'm neither totally blind nor a complete idiot. Even the girls know something is up. The only one who hasn't realised is poor old Thibault.'

Thibault, the porter at Les Petites Grenouilles, was a man of absolute devotion but limited intelligence.

Marciac nodded.

'All right,' he allowed. 'But do you know who these men work for?'

'Yes. For Rochefort.'

Astonished, the Gascon studied Gabrielle's expressionless face. She still hadn't accorded him the slightest glance.

'And how do you know that Rochefort is behind all this?'

'I recognised two of his men. Including Fortain.'

'Why didn't you say anything to me?'

'I might ask you the same question. In my case, it was because I was afraid you would only make matters worse by getting mixed up in this. A strange idea, that, wasn't it?'

Embarrassed, Marciac did not at first find a reply, but then he said:

'I had to know, Gabrielle. I had to make sure that—'

'That Rochefort was watching my house? Very well. Rochefort is watching my house. So what? He can discover nothing he doesn't already know. But now that you've attacked one of lis men, what will happen? Do you believe he'll let that go unanswered ?'

'I'll speak to him.'

'And why would he listen to you, since he has no love for the Blades and only takes orders from the cardinal? He won't be able to resist the temptation of reaching you through me. For if you've guessed that Rochefort has become interested in me, you must know it's because of your captain's hidden daughter. Isn't it? Of course, I didn't know that when I took her in and I don't know where she is now, but what does that matter?'

Gabrielle rose, abandoning the plate of fruit and cheese which she had barely touched. She had, in fact, mostly been digging her fingertips into a quarter loaf of white bread.

She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders more tightly, walked towards the door, halted, turned round and looked at Marciac closely.

At last, she said:

'I'm going to ask you one thing, Nicolas.'

'Yes?'

'You knew. Fven before you got rid of Fortain you knew

that -'

He interrupted her:

'Fortain is alive. And quite well. I am not an assassin, Gabrielle. I only dragged him off to get the truth out of him.'

She had no trouble believing him.

'But even before that, you knew he was one of Rochefort's men, didn't you? And you knew why Les Petites Grenouilles were being watched . . .'

Maniac thought for a moment.

But however much it might cost him, he hated lying to Gabrielle.

'Yes,' he recognised, 'I knew.'

'So it wasn't even a question of making sure . . . Merely of sending a message to Rochefort. So that he would understand that you and the Blades would not stand back with your arms crossed if he bothered La Fargue's daughter.'

'La Fargue's daughter or you, Gabrielle. La Fargue's daughter or you.'

She looked at him. He was sincere.

'Yes,' said Gabrielle. 'And do you believe you have done well to protect me, today?'

She left the kitchen, went to the staircase and from there told Marciac:

'I love you, Nicolas. But I would prefer it if you did not sleep here tonight.'

She returned alone to her bedchamber.

Leprat woke up with a severe headache and a devilish thirst. He was lying in his breeches, stockings and shirt, stretched out on a made-up bed in a chamber he had never seen before. He didn't know how he came to be here, but he was sure of one thing: he had left Paris. The air smelled fresh.

The musketeer sat up and, as he rubbed his skull and the handsome bump where he had been struck, he considered his surroundings. His boots were neatly awaiting him by the door. His doublet hung from the back of a chair. His hat was placed upon a table and his sword hung in its scabbard from one of the bedposts. The room was modest but clean and quiet, plunged into an agreeable shade by the curtains that obscured the window.

As he stood, Leprat noticed that the pockets of his breeches had been turned inside out and he concluded that his boots had probably been removed to make sure he was not concealing anything inside them. That made him think of his doublet and he hastened to feel the lining. It was empty and he saw that it had been carefully unsewn. The people who had knocked him out and brought him here had stolen all the secret documents he was supposed to deliver personally to the duchesse de Chevreuse. His career as the queen mother's agent had not got off to a very good start.

Except, despite what the nasty blow to his head seemed to portend, he was neither dead nor a prisoner. If he had been unmasked, he would not have woken here in this manner. Indeed, he would perhaps not have woken at all.

A cow lowed outside.

Leprat went to part the curtains and was dazzled for a moment by the flood of light that suddenly poured into the room. Then he gradually began to make out a pleasant rural landscape, but one which failed to evoke any particular incmories in him. He still didn't know where he was, except that he was looking at a corner of the countryside from the upper storey of a house located at the entrance to a village or small town. And if his day's growth of beard was not lying, he had not slept more than a night and was therefore still in France, probably not far from Paris.

But apart from that . . .

Determined to find out more, Leprat dressed and put on his baldric, finding Gueret's steel sword to be much heavier than his ivory rapier, and then left the room. He descended some stairs and emerged into a charming, sunlit garden where he found, eating at a small table beneath a canopy, the man in the beige doublet who had approached him in The Bronze Glaive.

The gentleman rose as soon as he caught sight of Leprat and welcomed him with an open smile.

'Monsieur de Gueret! How are you feeling? Did you sleep well?'

'Fairly well, yes,' replied Leprat, who still did not know what lack he should adopt in these circumstances.

'I'm delighted to hear that. Join me, please.' The gentleman pointed to an empty chair at his table and sat back down. 'I've just returned from Paris and finally found time to eat. Will you share this late breakfast with me?'

'Certainly.'

'I am the chevalier de Mirebeau and you are here in my home.'

'Your home, which is to say . . . ?'

'In Ivry. Paris is little more than a league from here.'

Leprat sat down at the table and discovered he possessed a healthy appetite.

'Bertrand!' called the gentleman. 'Bertrand!'

A stooped and rather dreary-looking lackey appeared in the doorway.

'Yes, monsieur?'

'A glass for monsieur de Gueret.'

'Very good, monsieur.'

And tearing a leg from a chicken, Mirebeau said:

'I imagine you have many questions. I don't know if I can answer all of them just yet, but I owe you an apology for the nasty trick we played on you last night. I can only hope that Rauvin did not strike you too hard . . .'

'Rauvin?'

'You will meet him soon. The man has a tendency to be . . . zealous about his work. And he has an excessive, indeed, almost unnatural, sense of wariness ... In short, it's down to him that you were knocked out—'

'Knocked out and searched.'

'You realise we needed to assure ourselves that you were in fact who you claimed to be. As for the documents you were carrying, have no fear. I delivered them to the person for whom they were intended.'

'My orders were to place them personally in madame de Chevreuse's hands.'

Mirebeau smiled.

'Unfortunately, it is impossible for you to meet the duchesse immediately. But these papers needed to be delivered to her as soon as possible, didn't they . . . ? Also, there was an encoded letter inside your doublet. Do you know of its nature?'

'Not exactly, no.'

'The queen mother invites the duchess to take you into her service.'

'That much, yes, I did know. And have already accepted in advance.'

'Perfect! In that case, the duchesse's desire is for us to form a team. Does that pose an inconvenience to you?'

'Perhaps.'

'Really?' said the gentleman in surprise. 'Why is that?'

Leprat looked directly into Mirebeau's eyes.

'If I was ordered to place the documents in the duchesse's own hands, it was not merely to ensure that they arrived at

their proper destination, but also to satisfy myself that no one was trying to trick me. I do not know you, monsieur. I do not know if you are in the service of madame de Chevreuse. I do not even know if you have ever met her. In fact, for all I do know, you could very well be in the service of Cardinal Richelieu . . . On the other hand, if the duchesse were to receive me . . .'

Still maintaining a smiling, friendly demeanour, the man in the beige doublet nodded calmly and then said:

'I applaud your prudence, monsieur. And I understand your concerns . . . However, considering your position, your only option is the following: to place your trust in me during the time it takes to prove yourself . . .'

'Or?'

'Or you can choose to leave.'

'Which is not likely to please Rauvin, is it?'

'Probably not.'

Agnes returned to the Hotel de l'Epervier at the same time as Marciac. She was on horseback. He was on foot and still limped a little, carrying a bundle of his belongings on one shoulder.

'Already recovered?' she asked.

'Already cast out,' he corrected.

She nodded, the tumultuous relationship between the Gascon and Gabrielle having long ceased to surprise anyone who knew them both.

'And you, Agnes? Where do you return from?'

The young baronne de Vaudreuil jumped down from her saddle while Guibot opened up one of the doors of the carriage gate and she apprised Marciac of her approach to the former Mother Superior General of the Sisters of Saint Georges. Then, once inside the courtyard, she entrusted the reins of her horse to Andre and asked the old porter with the wooden leg:

'Is the captain here?'

'No, madame. He was called to the Palais-Cardinal. And this letter arrived for you this morning.'

It was now almost noon.

Agnes took the missive, recognised the seal of the Order the White Ladies printed on the red wax, opened it and read.

'Bad news?' enquired Marciac.

'This letter is from the Superior General of the Chatelaines. It expresses her wish to see me this afternoon, which amounts to the same thing as a summons.'

'Like that? All of a sudden?'

'Yes, in a manner of speaking . . .'

'Will you go?'

'I don't have a choice in the matter. But I should have liked to speak with La Fargue before going.'

'You will have to content yourself with talking to me,' said Marciac, taking Agnes fey the elbow.

'Come, we'll have dinner and then I will accompany you to the Enclos.'

Laincourt had made an effort with his appearance before presenting himself for the second time at the Hotel de Chevreuse. He had donned his most elegant doublet, found a matching pair of gloves, carefully polished his boots and stuck a new feather in his hat. His meeting the previous day with the duchesse had made a deep impression on him. She was not only breathtakingly beautiful, but her elegance, poise and nonchalant manner had disarmed him. She moved with the most natural ease in extraordinarily luxurious settings.

This time he was expected and Laincourt was immediately conducted to the terrace, where a square table had been set beneath a white cloth canopy embroidered with gold thread. There, madame de Chevreuse, looking radiant and serene, was chatting with a young girl and an older woman who, like her, was sipping raspberry water that had been cooled at outrageous expense with snow preserved from the previous winter. The young girl was very pretty, lively and very daintily attired.

In contrast, the woman was grey-haired and unassuming, with a dull look in her eye.

Upon seeing her visitor, the duchesse greeted Laincourt with a bright smile and, without rising, signalled him to approach.

'Monsieur de Laincourt! Join us, please.'

He obeyed, saluting the mistress of the house first and then her guests, finding himself introduced to Aude de Saint-Avoid and her aunt, madame de Jarville. Aude, who was a relative of the duc de Chevreuse, had arrived from Lorraine to be presented at the French court. Her aunt was acting as her chaperone.

'But now that I think of it,' remarked the duchesse, 'you also come from Lorraine, monsieur de Laincourt.'

'Madame, I must disabuse you of this notion. I was born in Nancy, it is true. But I am French.'

'Really? How is that possible?'

Laincourt, as was often the case when speaking of himself, became evasive.

'One of those accidents of life, madame.'

'We were speaking of the court at Nancy. Don't you think it is so much more appealing and gay than the French court?'

'I am forced to admit that it is, madame.'

The court of Charles IV in fact surpassed that of Louis XIII by far. In Nancy, at the ducal palace, the revels were almost unceasing and often licentious, whereas it was easy to grow bored at the Louvre with its austere and timid king who hated to appear in public. The duchesse thus retained an excellent memory of her stay in Nancy, where the duc had welcomed her with great pomp.

Laincourt supposed she had made the acquaintance of Aude de Saint-Avoid during her time there.

Aude de Saint-Avoid.

As he engaged in the conversation, he had trouble taking his eyes off this young woman. She not only pleased him, she also intrigued him. She had a very charming face, with silky light brown hair, lively green eyes and full, luscious lips. Who could fail to find her ravishing? She did not even suffer from comparison with the splendid madame de Chevreuse. In her fashion, she was less beautiful but prettier than the duchesse, less seductive but more moving. And if the duch-esse's confidence added a touch of triumphant arrogance to her beauty, young Aude had preserved something fragile from her adolescence, somehow both sad and carefree.

However, other than the fact that it was lovely, Aude's face attracted Laincourt's eye because he seemed to recognise it. Had he met her in Nancy? Perhaps. But her name meant nothing to him. Could the duchesse have brought Aude to Paris under a borrowed identity?

Ably solicited by madame de Chevreuse, who had no equal when it came to drawing the best out of men, Laincourt surprised himself by sparkling in conversation. He proved himself gallant, witty and humorous, finding particular pleasure in entertaining Aude de Saint-Avoid, whose sincere laughter enthralled him. And so their conversation had been following a most pleasant course for more than an hour when the maitre d'hotel brought a note to the duchesse. She read it without blinking, excused herself, rose, promised to return soon and took her leave/

Laincourt's gaze followed her and he caught a glimpse of man in a black cap and black robes who was waiting for her inside the mansion.

'Who is he?' he asked.

'He is the duchesse's master of magic, I believe,' Aude replied. 'But I have not been introduced to him yet.'

Without the duchesse, the conversation lagged a little and they could not count on madame de Jarville to remedy matters: made sleepy by the heat, she drowsed in her chair. The two young people perceived this at the same time, exchanged an amused glance, and stifled mocking laughs.

Madame de Chevreuse soon rejoined them, but only to say that she was going to be detained elsewhere and was entrusting Aude to Laincourt's care.

'Be good,' she said as she left them.

Which was a little like the devil warning them not to sin.

'What if we escaped?' Aude de Saint-Avoid suggested with a rebellious gleam in her eye.

'I beg your pardon, madame?'

'Abduct me. Madame de Chevreuse has placed a coach at my disposal. Let's take it. And go to . . .

Let's go to Le Cours!'

'To Le Cours?'

'What? Isn't that what it's called?'

'Indeed. But . . .'

Le Cours, located near the Saint-Antoine gate, was one of the most popular places for Parisians wishing to take a stroll. Rich or poor, aristocrat or commoner, all went there to promenade, seek distractions or display themselves in public. People chatted, joked or courted one another. They played hide-and-seek or skittles or pall-mall. On fine days, especially, the place was very popular.

The young woman's idea was thus by no means a bad one. But Le Cours was never so crowded as on a Sunday, as Laincourt explained to her.

'Oh . . . You see how ignorant I am of all these things . . . It will take a long time to make a Parisienne of me, won't it?'

Aude's disappointment saddened Laincourt, who felt a compelling need to console her.

'But we could go to the garden at Les Tuileries,' he heard himself propose.

'Really?'

'Yes! We should definitely go, now that it's been said!'

'But . . . What about madame de Jarville?' whispered the young woman with the tone of an anxious conspirator.

'Let's leave her to her rest.'

The Enclos du Temple was a former residence of the Knights Templar located on the right bank of the Seine, to the north of the Marais neighbourhood. Ceded to the Knights Hospitaller after the dissolution of the Templar Order in 1314, this building was finally sold to the Sisters of Saint Georges during the reign of Francois I. It still belonged to them in 1633 and was still surrounded by a high, crenelated wall, punctuated by turrets, and defended by a massive donjon flanked by four corner towers: the famous Tour du Temple. Visitors entered the premises by means of a drawbridge and inside one found everything necessary for the life of a religious community: a large church; a cloister; a refectory and dormitories; kitchens; granaries and wine cellars; workshops; stables; gardens, vegetable plots and more extensive fields; and even some houses and a lew shops. All of this contained within a mediaeval compound in Paris, on the rue du Temple, near the gate bearing the same name.

*

Having dined at place de Greve, Marciac and Agnes both entered the Enclos, but only the young baronne was admitted to meet the Mother Superior General. They had shared an enjoyable moment together, the Gascon regaling Agnes with comic tales of his trials and tribulations in love. He was aware that she had once been on the point of taking the veil with the Chatelaines, although he didn't know of the circumstances that had prompted her to change paths and later join the Cardinal's Blades. One thing was certain: at present, she no longer held the Sisters of Saint Georges in fond esteem and even seemed to nurture a particular rancour against the current Superior General, the formidable Mere Therese de Vaussambre.

While Marciac waited patiently outside, Agnes was conducted to the ancient chapter hall. The room was immense, broad, high-ceilinged and illuminated by arched windows. At the rear, a long table covered with several white cloths stretched parallel to a wall adorned with a huge mediaeval tapestry representing Saint Georges slaying the dragon. At the centre of this table, back to the wall, beneath the tapestry, sat the Mother Superior General. Tall, thin and stiff-looking, she had the same penetrating gaze as her cousin the cardinal. She was not yet fifty years of age, directed the Sisters of Saint Georges with an iron hand and had made their Order more influential than ever before.

'Approach, Marie-Agnes.'

Her hat held in one hand and the other resting on the pommel of her sword, Agnes de Vaudreuil advanced, saluted and said:

'It's just Agnes, now, mother.'

'Agnes . . . Yes. So it is. You do well to correct me,' replied the Superior General in a tone that implied the exact opposite. 'I have trouble forgetting the novice that you once were. You had so much promise! And what a louve you would have become . . . !'

Cautious, the young baronne de Vaudreuil waited silently.

'But the day will come when you will realise your destiny . . .' added the nun, as if to her herself.

Then she added in a solemn and imperious tone: 'Madame, your services are required at the side of the queen, whose suite you will join as soon as possible. You have been chosen due to your skills, as well as the abilities revealed during the novitiate which you have so unhappily chosen to neglect.

However, we know that we can place our trust in you . . .'

A short while later, in the courtyard of the Hotel de Chev-reuse, Laincourt was helping a delignted Aude de Saint-Avoid to climb into a coach when he felt a glance fall upon the back of his neck.

He turned around but only had time to see, at a window on the first storey of the mansion's main building, a curtain hilling back into place before a thin, pallid face.

The Alchemist released the curtain and turned away from the window just as the duchesse came into his office.

'You will meet her this evening,' she promised him. 'But for now, without further delay, I can give you some excellent news: our protegee will soon be joining the queen's suite.'

'What? So quickly . . . ? How have you managed this?'

'Providence, monsieur Mauduit. Providence . . . Today, as a favour, someone asked me to—'

.Someone r

'Cardinal Richelieu, through an intermediary ... In short, the cardinal asked me to favour a distant relative of his with an introduction into the queen's entourage.'

'The king is free to appoint whomever he pleases to the queen's household. And similarly, to expel anyone he dislikes.'

'Yes, and the queen is free to turn a cold shoulder to anyone whose presence is forced upon her. And it is just such treatment that the cardinal wishes to avoid for this relative, by asking me to intercede in her favour. I believe it is also the cardinal's way of measuring my goodwill with respect to him.'

'So you accepted.'

'Of course. But, at the same time, requested that one of my own protegees be admitted to the queen's entourage. After all, I am the duchesse de Chevreuse. It would be uncharacteristic of me to give without receiving anything in return.'

'My congratulations.'

'Thank you, monsieur. And on your side?'

'All is ready. However—'

'What?'

'This relative of the cardinal, who is she?'

'How should I know?'

'A spy?'

'Without a doubt, since such manoeuvres are very much in the manner of the king, who may not love the queen but still wishes to know her every deed and gesture. No doubt to make sure she is unhappy . . .'

The duchesse's expression grew hard: she hated the king.

'This spy could do us mischief,' said the master of magic.

'In the little time between now and the ball? Come now . . . When the moment arrives, we only need to keep her apart from our . . . arrangements.'

The Alchemist, still looking concerned, fell silent.

Mirebeau did not return until the end of the afternoon.

He had left on horseback three hours previously without saying where he was going or proposing that Leprat should accompany him. The musketeer had waited in the house at Ivry with Bertrand, the chevalier's very dour-looking valet, and a translation of The Decameron as his sole company. He was at liberty to move about, but he preferred not to stray beyond the garden. He was perhaps being watched and did not wish to raise any alarms.

Hearing horses approaching, Leprat rose from his bed, where he had been reading, and went to look out the window of his first-storey bedchamber. He took up his rapier as he passed, placed himself to one side so he would not easily be seen and gently pushed open a window frame that was already ajar, just as two riders drew up.

One of them, still elegantly dressed in beige, was Mirebeau.

He jumped down from his mount and, calling out for Ber-trand, disappeared into the house. The other man had the look of a mercenary, wearing boots, thick breeches, a leather doublet, a sword at his side and an old battered hat. Leprat guessed he must be this Rauvin of whom Mirebeau had spoken, the same man who had knocked him out by surprise in the courtyard of The Bronze Glaive.

The man with the unnatural sense of wariness, as the gentleman had put it. And therefore someone of whom he should be particularly wary himself.

Very much at ease in his saddle, Rauvin - if it was indeed him — removed his hat long enough to wipe his brow with the back of a sleeve. Leprat caught a glimpse of a blade-like face and a balding crown wreathed by long black hair, belonging to a thirty-year-old man. The man took a Jew's harp from his pocket, raised it to his mouth and made the metal strip vibrate to produce a strange melody.

As he played, he calmly lifted his eyes to the window where the musketeer stood watching him, as if to signify that he had known Leprat was there all along and could not have cared less.

Their gazes met for a long while and Leprat was filled with an absolute certainty that Rauvin represented a deadly threat to him.

'Gueret!' Mirebeau called from the stairway. 'Gueret!'

The false agent of the queen mother turned away from the window just as Mirebeau entered.

'Please get ready,' requested the gentleman in the beige doublet. 'We're leaving.'

'We?'

'You, me and Rauvin, who is waiting for us below.'

'Where are we going?'

'To a place near Neuilly.'

'And what will we do there?'

'So lull of questions!' exclaimed Mirebeau in a jovial manner. 'Come now, monsieur. Make haste.

Bertrand is already saddling a horse for you.'