The Alchemist in the Shadows

1

In an antechamber at the Louvre, Captain La Fargue stood looking out the window while Almades maintained a discreet guard at the door. They were waiting for Agnes, who had joined the queen's household three days previously and had not communicated with the Blades since.

Attached to the household of Anne d'Autriche, Agnes now lived in the palace and was no longer free to dispose of her time. Moreover, she knew she was being closely observed, the public manner of her arrival having aroused both curiosity and envy amongst her new peers. Although of the noblest breeding, she was nevertheless practically unknown and her sudden ascension had surprised the entire court. For two whole days, no one had spoken of anything else. It was rumoured she had been presented to the queen by the duchesse de Chevreuse, which was true. It was also said that the king had admitted her to his wife's entourage in order to initiate a reconciliation with the duchesse, which was false. Agnes's role was watch over Anne d'Autriche and to protect her if needed — a mission which the Sisters of Saint Georges' Superior General had entrusted to her with Richelieu's assent and which she was now carrying out, albeit under protest.

La Fargue turned round upon hearing the door open and saw Agnes enter. She looked very beautiful, with her hair and dress done in the latest style, her outfit including an elegant red hooped skirt, a square neckline and short puffed sleeves.

'I only have a little time,' she said as she carefully closed the door behind her.

The old gentleman understood.

'Yesterday,' he said, 'Laincourt supped at the Hotel de Chevreuse . . .'

'I'm sure it was more amusing there than it is here.'

'No doubt. This supper, in which the marquis de Chateau-neuf also took part, was given in honour of a certain Aude de Saint-Avoid.'

The young baronne nodded.

'She is to be presented at court today, before joining the queen's household tomorrow. As a maiden-of-honour, I believe . . .'

'She is a distant relative of the due de Chevreuse. She has arrived in Paris directly from Lorraine, where the duchesse no doubt made her acquaintance during her exile . . . Coming a few days after your own, this new appointment to the queen's household cannot be a coincidence.'

It was only at Cardinal Richelieu's private request that madame de Chevreuse had agreed to introduce Agnes to the queen and to recommend her. Louis XIII alone decided who was to be admitted to his wife's entourage and had occasionally used this privilege to punish her by excluding ladies she liked, claiming they exercised a bad influence over her. Thus Anne d'Autriche had learned to be wary of new faces, for she knew they had been chosen by the king and his chief minister. That was why the cardinal had sought, in this case, the good offices of the duchesse who enjoyed the queen's trust. The problem was that the duchesse had no particular desire to please either the cardinal or the king, and the fate of this little baronne de Vaudreuil was a matter of perfect indifference to her. She thus required some persuasion to become better disposed towards the idea . . .

'The duchesse,' Agnes suggested, 'might have agreed to vouch for me with the queen on condition that Aude de Saint-Avoid also became a maiden-of-honour.'

'Is there anything else that would have induced the king to allow one of La Chevreuse's protegees to join the queen's suite? Especially given that . . .'

La Fargue did not complete his train of thought

They both knew that the duchesse — who never ceased to

plot — was on the point of being arrested as part of a general round-up of suspects which would spare neither the wealthy nor the powerful. The king had decided to strike the day after the great ball the duchesse would be hosting at the Chateau de Dampierre, so that her fall would come as swiftly as possible after her apparent triumph.

'What do you expect of me, captain?'

'Laincourt assures me that this young Saint-Avoid is not mixed up in La Chevreuse's schemes.

Nevertheless, keep your eye on her. You never know.'

Agnes sighed in resignation.

'All right,' she agreed.

'Listen, Agnes, I know you feel you are wasting your time here, but—'

'What could possibly happen to the queen here? The Louvre is swarming with the king's men, including both the Swiss Guards and the Musketeers!'

'There are dangers against which courage and steel alone do not always suffice. And it is those sorts of dangers, with respect to the queen, that worry the cardinal and the Mother Superior General . . .'

The dangers that La Fargue was referring to were dragons and their spells. And he was not mistaken in his assertion that it required more than good soldiers to combat them. It took counter-spells and fearless souls who could wield them. It took the Sisters of Saint Georges, who had been protecting the throne of France for the past three centuries.

But the Chatelaines - entrusted with Anne d'Autriche's security — were now claiming they could no longer carry out their sacred duty.

'What exactly is the problem?' the Blades' captain wanted to know.

And Agnes was regretfully forced to admit:

'It is true that the queen does nothing to make the Sisters' task any easier. You might even think she is trying to hamper them—'

'But the queen's dislike for the Sisters of Saint Georges didn't start yesterday.'

'Oh, as far as that goes, she spares the unhappy wretches assigned to her protection nothing. She gives them the cold shoulder, openly expresses her scorn and never misses an opportunity to humiliate them. From what I have been able to learn, there is nothing new there. What has changed, however, is the fact that the queen now avoids them whenever she is permitted to do so. And sometimes more. Last Friday, for example, she forbade them to accompany her to the Val-de-Grace.'

The Val-de-Grace, on rue Saint-Honore, was a convent for which Anne d'Autriche had laid the first stone and was one of her favourite retreats.

'That's extremely imprudent,' commented La Fargue.

'The queen's resentment towards the White Order seems to have redoubled . . .'

'Then perhaps you are the best choice, after all. You almost completed your novitiate with the Sisters and came close to taking the veil yourself—'

'That page has been turned, captain,' the young woman said brusquely.

'I know, Agnes. I'm only asking you to trust your instincts and act for the best. You are capable of detecting things that escape the rest of us.'

Pensive for a moment, Agnes turned towards the window and then asked:

'Has Mere Emmanuelle de Cernay tried to contact me?'

Out of affection for Agnes, Emmanuelle de Cernay, formerly Superior General of the Sisters of Saint Georges, had promised to help her uncover what had happened to a certain lieutenant serving in the Black Guards. The young officer was both the son of an old friend of La Fargue and the brother of a Blade who had died in the course of a mission.

'No,' the old gentleman admitted.

'Will you let me know right away if—?'

'1 promise, Agnes.'

'I must go . . . Any news of Leprat?'

'Nothing from him, either.'

'Or of the Alchemist?'

This time, La Fargue remained silent and the young woman judged it best not to press him any further. She left.

When he arrived that afternoon, Laincourt found the Hotel de Chevreuse in a state of upheaval. Out in the courtyard, beneath the hot sun, the servants were loading wagons with furniture, boxes, chests and rolled-up tapestries. The duchesse was not emptying the premises, but she was preparing to live elsewhere for a while. On her estate at the Chateau de Dampierre, as it happened.

Laincourt joined the duchesse's maitre d'hotel on the front steps, where the head servant was very busy giving orders and supervising the move. As Laincourt was now a familiar figure at the mansion the young man did not need to present himself but simply asked if he might see madame de Saint-Avoid. He was informed that as she was about to go out, she was not receiving visitors.

Laincourt insisted: he would wait on the terrace and only desired a short interview with her. The maitre d'hotel finally consented to this request.

'Very well, monsieur.'

And with a snap of his fingers, he summoned a lackey whom he charged with delivering the message.

Laincourt waited on the terrace, admiring the magnificent garden that stretched as far as rue Saint-Nicaise.

So, madame de Chevreuse was leaving Paris . . .

She would soon be emulated by others. As wild and welcome as it had been, the nocturnal storm that had been unleashed over the capital had merely offered a brief respite. The hot weather had resumed and, after a few days, had become an ordeal, especially with the disease and foul odours which accompanied the stifling heat. Paris had become a cesspit. Beneath a merciless sun, a nauseating muck polluted the ditches, manure baked at the stable gates, blood simmered on the pavement in front of the butchers' shops and faecal matter fermented in the latrines. This pestilence caused headaches, nausea and respiratory disorders in weaker persons and the only effective relief was flight. Soon, as occurred each year

at this time, the wealthy would begin to desert the capital. It was the season when loved ones were sent to the country or whole families emigrated, along with their baggage and servants, to some favoured retreat or ancestral castle. The king himself set an example by leaving the Louvre every summer while the palace moats were cleaned. The royal court followed suit, while more ordinary Parisians were forced to shut themselves up in buildings where the atmosphere was scarcely purer than the contaminated air outside and to wait until Sunday when they could go and breathe freely in the countryside.

'I am truly sorry, monsieur. But I can only grant you a few moments. Madame la duchesse is already waiting in her coach, ready to take me to the Louvre, and—'

Laincourt turned round and saw Aude de Saint-Avoid, looking more adorable than ever in a dress he hadn't seen before. He thought she was quite ravishing, although he didn't dare say as much. But the expression on his face must have betrayed him, for she stopped speaking, smiled and blushed, her green eyes sparkling with joy.

They stood joined in silence for an instant and Laincourt resisted the desire to take hold of her hands.

'I know, madame, that you are to be presented at court today. And that you will enter the queen's household as of tomorrow. But before that, I wished to salute you and assure you of my friendship.'

'Thank you, monsieur. Thank you with all my heart.'

'I also wish to offer you a few words of advice. The royal court of France is not like the court of Lorraine. And your proximity to the queen will earn you enmity in certain quarters. Don't be fooled by false smiles, beware of hypocrites and those who aspire to a higher rank, learn to spot those who act out of self-interest and, above all, avoid getting caught up in intrigue.'

He realised that he had in fact seized her hands and that she had not withdrawn them from his grasp.

She was looking at him and listening carefully, convinced and touched by his sincerity.

He stopped speaking, without releasing her hands and without her attempting to remove them.

At least, not until they heard the sound of a throat clearing: the sad-looking madame de Jarville had come in search of her niece.

Full of life and joy, Aude de Saint-Avoid then took her leave with a rustling of silk.

'Farewell, monsieur! We'll meet again very soon!'

He did not reply, sure that fate had just separated them for good.

Coming from Ivry, Leprat and Mirebeau arrived in Paris by way of the faubourg Saint-Marcel. They rode side by side, at a walk, conversing in a friendly fashion.

These past few days spent together at Mirebeau's house had brought them together^ On the day after the famous night when Leprat had risked his life to free him, Mirebeau had pledged his friendship, solemnly but sincerely. Leprat had initially been glad to have won the trust of the duchesse de Chevreuse's agent, for the sake of his mission. Later, he had come to like Mirebeau himself. In truth, the two men resembled one another. They were of roughly the same age, both were elder sons from noble families, and both had followed military careers: Leprat with the King's Musketeers and Mirebeau in the company of guards led by monsieur des Essarts. If life had robbed them of many of their illusions, both tried to conduct themselves as gentlemen; and lastly, as they learned exchanging confidences one night over a bottle, they had both been unlucky in love and realised, to their regret, that they would no doubt never become a father.

They smelled the capital well before they actually saw it and were soon sorry they had not chosen another route. To be sure, all of Paris stank beneath the burning sun. But Paris never stank quite so much as in the vicinity of rue Mouffetard, which they rode along with tears in their eyes. Here, the nearby Bievre — a river that crossed the neighbourhood before plunging into the Seine — attracted various activities such as knackers' yards and tanneries which consumed great quantities of water and polluted both the river and the atmosphere.

It was therefore a relief to pass through the Saint-Marcel gate, despite the odour of a warmed-up old latrine that prevailed within the city walls. Finally able to breathe without keeping a hand over their nose and mouth, Leprat and Mirebeau took rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Genevieve as far as Place Maubert. They crossed the small arm of the Seine by way of the Pont au Double, thus named because use of this bridge entailed a toll of a double denier.

Mirebeau paid their fee. They passed before Notre-Dame cathedral, made their way through the maze of mediaeval streets on the Ile de la Cite, reached the Right Bank by the Pont au Change and ended up in front of the Grand Chatelet.

Leprat still did not know where they were going.

That morning when, after several days of idleness, Mirebeau had suddenly announced that they needed to be in Paris that afternoon, he had refused to say anything more. But he had refused in a playful manner. It was no longer a matter of distrusting Leprat, but of offering him a surprise.

A pleasant surprise.

Going along with the game, the musketeer had cherished the hope that they might be going to the Hotel de Chevreuse to meet the duchesse. But he was forced to abandon this notion once they continued beyond Le Chatelet. Instead of going west along the quays or following rue Saint-Honore to rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, they first took rue Saint-Denis northwards, turning off once they reached the Saints-Innocents cemetery, then passed Les Halles and, keeping the Saint-Eustache church on their right, entered rue Trainee.

Mirebeau smiled as he watched Leprat out of the corner of his eye. In fact, the former musketeer had no idea of their destination until the last moment.

And it was only when they were in front of the monumental gate that he understood.

'The Hotel de Chateauneuf?' exclaimed Marciac.

I le turned to La Fargue and then looked again at Leprat, who confirmed the information:

'To the home of the marquis de Chateauneuf, yes.'

They were meeting this evening in rue Cocatrix, on the Ile de la Cite.

The place didn't look like much: a rented bedchamber beneath the rafters with cracked walls and a rough wooden floor, containing a bed without a canopy or a curtain, a clothing chest, a small dressing table, a chair in considerable need of being re-stuffed, a stained mirror and a crucifix. It was fairly wretched, but a musketeer's pay did not allow for anything better. However, the landlord was friendly, the neighbours were discreet and the street was quiet.

And Leprat felt more at home here than anywhere else.

'The truth,' he explained, 'is that Mirebeau does not belong to madame de Chevreuse or even to her husband. He belongs to Chateauneuf, who has placed him at the duchesse's disposal for her . . .

affairs.'

Although night had not yet fallen, the three men had already lit a candle so they could see one another within the dark bedchamber. Leprat was sitting on his chest, La Fargue was straddling the chair backwards and Marciac was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, next to a crookedly hung crucifix.

'Chateauneuf and La Chevreuse are lovers, as practically everyone knows,' observed the captain of the Blades. 'But what you have discovered, Leprat, is something else again . . .'

Born of a lineage that had produced several royal councillors and secretaries of state, Charles de l'Aubespine, marquis de Chateauneuf, had been the ambassador of France in Holland, Italy and England. He was reputed to be subservient to Richelieu, who, in 1630, had rewarded his loyalty and devotion by making him Keeper of the Seals. Now fifty-three years old, he was one of the most important figures in the kingdom. But he was also a somewhat ridiculous old fop who had an eye for the ladies and who, despite his age, persisted in behaving like some young Romeo.

'It would seem that La Chevreuse only likes old codgers,' observed Marciac. 'The duc de Luynes was already forty when he married her, I believe. The duc de Chevreuse was forty-four. And now Chateauneuf. . .'

'It is one thing for Chateauneuf to make the horns on the duc de Chevreuse's brow grow a little longer,' said La Fargue. 'He is not the first man to do so and, knowing the duchesse, there will be others after him. But in placing Mirebeau at La Chevreuse's disposal for her schemes, he has made himself her accomplice. And who knows what State secrets he may have let slip during their bedchamber conversations?'

'And all this has been taking place on the eve of a war against Lorraine,' added Leprat.

'Yet I thought Chateauneuf was completely devoted to the cardinal,' said the Gascon.

'No doubt that ceased to be the case the day he caught sight of the duchesse's beautiful eyes,' the captain of the Blades surmised. 'God only knows what ideas the she-devil has put in his head . . .

And you may recall the ball where Chateauneuf danced all night while the cardinal lay at death's door.'

The musketeer nodded.

'It was shortly after Montmorency's execution. It was said that Chateauneuf could already see himself succeeding his master.'

'What a triumph that would have been for La Chevreuse,' Marciac noted. 'Her worst enemy dies and her lover takes his place as chief minister to the king.'

'But the cardinal did not die in the end,' said La Fargue.

'Did you actually meet Chateauneuf?' the Gascon asked.

'Yes,' replied Leprat. 'The marquis has asked me to join the group of gentlemen escorting him to Dampierre, in order to attend the ball being held there by the duchesse. We're leaving tomorrow and, since Mirebeau wanted to spend the night with his mistress, I used the same excuse to get away myself. I thought it would be more prudent if I avoided going to the Hntel de l'Epervier, and I must confess that I've missed sleeping in my own bed . . .'

Marciac considered the bed in question, looking deeply perplexed. Even imagining one or two naked beauties lying in it, it still seemed unwelcoming . . .

A bell tolled.

Realising the time, La Fargue rose from his chair to take his leave.

'You have done very good work, Leprat. My congratulations.'

'Thank you, captain.'

'Be careful, though.'

'I will ... By the way, was anyone injured at the Neuilly inn ?'

'Amongst the Guards? Just a few bumps and bruises, as far as I know. But Rochefort is perfectly furious about the whole incident.'

'Tell him that I . . . No, on second thought, I shall reserve the pleasure of revealing the truth to him for some other day.'

The captain of the Blades smiled. He was not fond of Rochefort, either.

'Understood.'

He was the first to depart and descended the stairs while Marciac, on the landing, shook the musketeer's hand.

'Since you are supposedly spending the night with your mistress,' he murmured, 'what would you say if you and I were to pay a visit to the ladies? I know two sisters who live close by here and—'

'I'm tired, Marciac'

'Tell yourself that it would be for the good of your mission—'

'I'll see you soon, Nicolas.'

'All right, as you wish . . . But where's your sense of duty, Antoine? This is very poor of you. And a disappointment to me!'

'Out!'

Down below, waiting in the shadowy rue Cocatrix, La Fargue found Almades who had been keeping watch. Marciac had just joined them when the captain of the Blades announced: 'I have something else to do. I'll see you both tomorrow.' The two other men exchanged astonished looks. It was not unusual for La Fargue to leave the Gascon behind. But to separate himself from Almades . .

.

'Captain . . .' said Marciac, attempting to intervene on the Spanish fencing master's behalf, 'Are you quite sure that—?'

'I will see you tomorrow.'

And the old gentleman went off alone.

'Let's go after him,' suggested the Gascon after a moment.

'No.'

'But it's for his own safety!'

'No,' repeated an impassive Almades.

'Well, stay then. But as for me—'

'No.'

'Since when do you give me orders?'

The Spaniard drew his sword in lieu of a reply.

'You're jesting.'

'No, I'm not.'

Marciac took a step backward and hunched his shoulders, lisplaying a look of wounded surprise like some scoundrel whose honesty was being placed in doubt. It suddenly occurred o him that La Fargue might not have left the two of them ogether in order to go off on his own, but so that Almades :ould keep an eye on him, Marciac, and make sure he did not i y to follow his captain.

'Would you really run me through with your sword?'

'Yes.'

Jack at home, Laincourt looked out the window without ieeing anything.

He was lost in thought and, slowly, the blood-covered face of the hurdy-gurdy player appeared in the reflection from the window pane, above his right shoulder, as if the old man was approaching him from behind.

You're thinking about that pretty young thing, aren't you, boy?

Her name is Aude.

Well, she certainly seems to be to your liking.

You might say that.

If she matters that much to you, no doubt you did well to warn her of the dangers awaiting her at the court. However . . . How-erer, perhaps you too should be wary, of her . . .

'Me, wary of her? But why?' Laincourt asked out loud. 'On what grounds?'

He turned around without thinking.

And remembered that he was in fact alone.

Midnight.

The night was still warm when La Fargue started to cross the Pont Neuf. Around him, Paris was swallowed up in deep shadows, except for a few scattered lights here and there, fragile and distant.

A thick silence reigned. One could just barely hear, rather than see, the low black waters of the Seine lapping beneath the bridge's great stone arches.

As agreed, La Fargue stopped in front of the Bronze Wyvern.

This statue stood at the end of the Ile de la Cite, where the two halves of the Pont Neuf joined at Place Dauphine. It consisted of a wyvern with spread wings, resting on a marble pedestal at the entrance to a balustered promontory that -pointing downstream from the bridge — overlooked the river. Although it was represented saddled and harnessed, the Bronze Wyvern was riderless, among all the other trials and tribulations it had undergone. A gift from the grand duke of Tuscany to Marie de Medicis, following the death of her husband Henri IV, the statue had sunk off the coast of Sardinia along with the ship transporting it. Fished out of the sea a year later, it had finally been lifted into place by the Pont Neuf in 1614. But in 1633 it had still not been mounted by anyone other than the occasional drunkard or prankster.

La Fargue walked behind the statue.

A gentleman was waiting for him, leaning on the parapet and looking out at the reflections of the moon and the stars that danced upon the inky waters of the Seine. He had a felt hat with a plume on his head and a sword at his hip, and wore a black cloak over a light grey doublet with white slashes and silver thread. He seemed to be about thirty years old, although his hair had already started to grey. He was a tall, slim and fairly handsome man, whose eyes had pale irises surrounded by a dark rim.

La Fargue halted

'Who are you?' he asked in a suspicious tone.

'1 am the one who has been sent to you,' the other man replied calmly.

'I don't know you.'

'Well you're free to leave.'

The old captain thought for a moment and then asked:

'Your name?'

'Valombre.'

'Do you serve the Seven?'

The gentleman smiled.

'I serve them.'

'And are you—'

'—a dragon? Yes, I am. But unless you have a Chatelaine nun hidden up your sleeve, you will have to take my word for it.'

The jest did not make La Fargue smile and he stared at this so-called Valombre before finally saying:

'I believe you.'

'Good for you. And if we get down to business now, mon-senieur?'

The captain of the Blades nodded.

'I am worried,' he confessed. 'Rochefort's men are on my daughter's trail. Is she quite safe?'

'I can assure you that she is. Your daughter is doing splendidly and is out of reach of even the best of the cardinal's agents.'

'And of the Black Claw?'

'She is out of their reach as well.'

'They have immense resources at their disposal.'

'Our own are by no means negligible. Do you want to know where your daughter is?'

'No. I would be the first to be interrogated if—'

La Fargue walked several paces, turned around and raised us eyes towards the Bronze Wyvern.

'In two days' time,' he said, 'the king will have arrested his Keeper of the Seals, the duchesse de Chevreuse and all those who, with them, have plotted against the throne. The cardinal has been gathering testimonies and evidence against them for months now. It will cause a great deal of noise, no doubt about it.'

'This affair does not concern us.'

'Indeed not . . . But there's something else going on, isn't there? Something important. Something serious.'

He lowered his gaze to look at Valombre, who did not answer right away.

'Yes,' the dragon admitted at last, without any trace of emotion.

'Is the Alchemist part of it?'

'Possibly.'

'Are you not sure? Or don't you want me to know?'

'We're not sure.'

The old gentleman frowned.

'What are you hiding from me?' he asked.

'Nothing that the Sisters of Saint Georges don't already know. Perhaps you should take an interest in their secrets.'

'They seem to believe that the queen is threatened.'

'If it exists, the threat against the queen is only the beginning. But the greater danger that we fear will not spare anyone.'