The Alchemist in the Shadows

2

In the Chevreuse valley, evening fell across the vast domain of Dampierre and Leprat watched from the bank of the great pond as the sunset lent its colours to the waters. Turning his back to the castle he enjoyed a moment of peace, filling his lungs with fresh air.

As they had agreed, he and Mirebeau had followed the marquis de Chateauneuf as part of his escort.

It was composed of over thirty gentlemen of noble birth, each of whom attempted to outdo the others in elegance. Their presence was meant to enhance the prestige of monsieur de Chateauneuf as much as to ensure his safety. A great lord never travelled in public on his own and his status was measured by the number and rank of those accompanying him. Charles de l'Aubespine, marquis de Chateauneuf and Keeper of the Seals of the kingdom of France, could hardly ignore convention on this occasion.

The only road from Paris to Dampierre passed through the villages of Vanves, Velizy and Saclay. It was a journey often leagues, which the marquis wanted to make on horseback, without resting and despite the burning sun, leaving his coach and baggage trailing behind. He was obviously impatient to reach their destination. But he also wished to make a grand entrance at the castle, where madame de Chevreuse was already waiting. So they halted at the gates to the domain for long enough to shake the dust from their clothing, refresh themselves and brush down their mounts. It was a matter of putting on a proud display. For Leprat, it allowed him to observe that Chateauneuf, despite being in his fifties and having considerable experience when it came to women, seemed as eager and anxious as an adolescent before his first gallant rendezvous. The duchesse had indeed made him lose his head.

They had arrived in the afternoon to find Dampierre swarming with busy servants and craftsmen.

The paths were raked clear, the gardens were tidied, the trees were pruned and the canals were dredged. But at the heart of all this laborious agitation was the castle itself, where preparations for the forthcoming festivities would continue well into the night. The king, the queen and the entire royal court would be arriving on the morrow, the day of the ball itself. Everything had to be ready to receive them.

'It's beautiful, isn't it?'

Leprat turned his head towards Mirebeau who had come out to join him and then looked again at the sunset reflecting off the calm, shining waters.

'Yes,' he said. 'Very beautiful.'

'This domain is one of the most splendid places I know. Whatever the season, it's a veritable feast for the eyes . . .'

He broke off as a deep, mournful trumpeting almost deafened the two men.

'And for the ears!' exclaimed Leprat before they both burst out laughing.

They turned around to watch as a tarasque crossed the terrace separating them from the castle, plodding along at a slow and steady pace. The enormous, shelled reptile was pulling a train of three wagons piled with the pruned trunks of trees that had been cut down to embellish a prospect in the park. Two tarasque drivers were guiding the beast, using both their voices and their pikes. It moved forward with a rattle of the heavy chains linking its six legs to the collar encircling its neck.

Still smiling, Leprat and Mirebeau returned to admiring the view of pond, without either feeling any need to speak. Since he had discovered that Mirebeau was actually in the service of the marquis de Chateauneuf, Leprat had felt himself drawn even closer to the gentleman in the beige doublet. Now there seemed to be really little difference between them, other than the fact that they served their respective masters with equal loyalty. Life might easily have reversed their roles or allowed Mirebeau to become a member of the Cardinal's Blades. It was perhaps simply a matter of circumstances.

Leprat's gaze was drawn to an island at the far end of the pond, an island upon which he was able to make out some ruins and the silhouettes of men apparently keeping watch over them.

"What is that?' he asked, pointing his finger.

'It's the island of Dampierre. An island which isn't truly an island, since it's connected to the bank by a causeway that you can't see from here. The duc is having some pavilions built there.'

The ruins were in fact buildings being constructed.

'According to legend,' Mirebeau went on to say, 'in the time of Charlemagne there was a lord living in a black tower upon the island. He performed vile rituals there and terrorised the entire region, to the point that some valiant knights came to challenge him. Unfortunately for them, the lord was not only a wicked sorcerer, but also a dragon . . . There is, in the castle here at Dampierre, a tapestry representing the heroic combat between these knights and the monster.'

'Did they defeat the dragon?'

'Don't knights always triumph in tales?'

'And the tower? It looks like there is nothing left of it.'

'It was razed to the ground and its stones, reputed to be cursed, were thrown into the pond so that they could never be used again.'

'Legends have an answer for everything.'

'It seems that these cursed stones also gave rise to the name "Dampierre", although I know nothing of Latin . . .'

As for the musketeer, he possessed only a smattering of church Latin. He pursed his lips and the two men fell silent again.

'Enough lazing about,' Mirebeau suddenly declared. 'Come with me, we need to go to the Chateau de Mauvieres and make sure that everything is ready there to receive monsieur de Chateauneufs entourage.'

'We're not sleeping at Dampierre?'

'In the castle?' the gentleman asked with amusement. 'Tonight, that might be possible. But tomorrow there will be marquises in the servants' quarters, comtesses in the attic and barons sleeping on straw mattresses. Where do you think they would put us? No, trust me, we shall be better off at Mauvieres. And it's close by.'

Leprat regretfully dragged his eyes from the pond and its island. He was following Mirebeau, who had set off at a brisk pace, when he heard the sound of a few notes being played on a jew's harp.

He halted, turned round and saw Rauvin in the shadows.

Mirebeau had told Leprat that the hired swordsman had escaped, but he'd not seen him since the night when Rochefort had laid his trap for them. How long had the other man been standing there, spying on them? And why had he decided to reveal his presence, if not to make Leprat understand that he was still keeping an eye on him?

As he continued plucking notes on his harp, staring directly at the musketeer, Rauvin gave a slow nod of the head.

The barony of Chevreuse had been made a duchy in 1555, as a favour to Cardinal Charles de Lorraine who had just acquired it as his holding. The seigneurial seat at the time was the Chateau de la Madeleine, an austere mediaeval fortress built on a height overlooking Paris and whose only real advantage was its unequalled view of the surrounding countryside. Its lack of comfort displeased the cardinal, who preferred a more elegant manor nestling in the Yvette valley barely a league away from Chevreuse. It had belonged to a royal treasurer who was obliging enough to die quickly, leaving behind him some debts and a widow who posed no objections to selling off the entire domain.

This domain was Dampierre, whose name was perhaps derived from either domus Petri — Peter's dwelling in Latin -or from damnce petrce, meaning cursed stones. Its manor became the new ducal residence. The cardinal transformed it into a castle that was later inherited by the youngest son of the

duc de Guise, who also came from Lorraine, along with the land and title in 1612. This due de Chevreuse did not add any great distinction to the name, as opposed to the woman he wed ten years later. The famed and indomitable duchesse loved Dampierre. She stayed there often and, at her urging, her husband enlarged and embellished the property further.

However, if the domain was vast and prosperous in 1633, its castle, despite acquiring a luxurious steam bath and some other interior improvements, still compared poorly with the magnificence of the Hotel de Chevreuse in Paris. Its roofs were covered with tiles rather than more handsome slate, while the four sides formed by its sandstone towers and pavilions enclosed a rather small courtyard, entered by means of a drawbridge leading from a forecourt lined with the castle's outbuildings.

But the main attractions of Dampierre lay elsewhere.

They included the magnificent forests in the surrounding area; the orchards and splendid flower beds arranged in the Renaissance fashion; the beautiful water-filled moats that encircled the castle and its garden; the canals feeding these moats, lined with leafy walks and bordering the main flower bed; and, lastly, the pond where one could take pleasant boat trips out to the island where the new pavilions were being built.

Pavilions which were being guarded for no reason that Leprat could see.

Mirebeau had not lied. The modest Chateau de Mauvieres — sometimes also called Bergerac —

was located just beyond the outer wall surrounding the domain of Dampierre. It belonged to a minor nobleman, Abel de Cyrano, whose son Savinien was already beginning to make a name for himself in Paris, both as a man of letters and with his sword.

Leprat waited until nightfall before slipping out of his bedchamber, which was fortunately close by the stables. He saddled a horse, and led it out of the manor before mounting and urging it forward with a dig of his heels. The summer nights were short and he had to be back before dawn.

Who would post a guard over some unfinished pavilions on an island?

Once inside the domain at Dampierre, Leprat stayed away from the paths. He entered the woods, tethered the horse to a tree and continued onward by foot. Remaining concealed, he soon found a place where he enjoyed a clear view of the island in the middle of the large pond. As he had expected, he saw men with lanterns guarding the causeway that gave access to the building site from the shore furthest away from the castle.

It would be impossible for him to cross over that way.

Leprat stripped down to his breeches and shirt, and swung his baldric round so that his rapier hung down his back. Then he took careful note of the place where he left his belongings, slid into the cold water and began swimming towards the island and its mysteries.

He had no idea who these men were or what they were doing here. During supper, Mirebeau had also confessed his ignorance, but said they did not belong to the marquis de Chateauneuf. Did they serve madame de Chevreuse, then? Perhaps. Or else some third party.

Leprat swam steadily to conserve his strength and to splash as little as possible. He drew close to the island, regained his footing once more and hurriedly climbed the bank. Then he took up position on a height where, hidden by some thickets, he was able to catch his breath while observing what was going on.

He saw more armed mercenaries guarding the building site itself, which was lit here and there by torches planted in the ground. Five pavilions had started to emerge from the scaffolding and piles of building materials. They surrounded a roof made of wooden planks. Leprat was unable to see what lay concealed beneath it, but there were mounds of earth nearby.

Had the construction project made an unexpected discovery? Or was the building work only a pretext intended to mask other activities? Whatever the case, Leprat intended to get to the bottom of the matter.

He studied the movements of the hired swordsmen before creeping forward. Quickly and silently he entered the site,

liptoed among the shadows and managed to slip beneath the wooden roof without being spotted. It sheltered a pit into which he could descend via a ramp and several ladders. The excavation of this pit had exposed the ancient foundations of a large circular building which immediately called to mind the black tower of the legend. The same black tower whose cursed stones might have inspired the name Dampierre.

The musketeer leapt into the pit and landed nimbly upon a Moor of bare flagstones. There was a gap where some steps descended into the ground. They led to a very old door made of black wood which appeared to have been blocked up long ago and only recently unsealed. Its relatively well-preserved state was, upon reflection, rather astonishing. As was the ease with which it opened to reveal a spiral staircase lit by candles in a succession of niches. Leprat made his way downward with caution, counting seventy-one stone steps which took him to a level beneath the bottom of the pond. After opening another black door, he found himself in a fairly vast but empty chamber, whose vaulted ceiling was supported by rows of round columns. Here, again, a few candles shone in the darkness. The air felt damp and water dripped from the ceiling into age-old puddles.

More and more intrigued, Leprat continued his exploration. There were several doors — low and again black — on either side of the chamber. But the central aisle between the columns, illuminated by the candles set at regular intervals, seemed to indicate a path leading to an archway at the rear over which a last, solitary candle burned.

Rut as he stretched out a hand to draw open the purple curtain concealing the archway, he sensed a sudden movement behind him. He spun round, but only had time to see a scaly tail snaking away into the darkness. A syle. Bad news. Sometimes growing as big as cats, the carnivorous salamanders were both extremely swift and voracious. They became frenzied at the scent of blood and, when gathered in numbers, they were capable of attacking a wounded man and devouring him alive. And where there was one, there were usually others . . .

Pulling himself together, the musketeer lilted the curtain.

*

Having left the castle in the middle of the night, seven riders trotted forth upon the causeway joining the island to the shore of the pond. At their head was Savelda, the Black Claw's most effective servant when it came to carrying out foul deeds. Behind him rode the Alchemist, the false master of magic using the name of Mauduit and true mastermind of a plot intended to change the destiny of France forever. The third rider was in fact a very beautiful woman: the duchesse de Chevreuse, dressed as a horseman and thrilled at taking part in this nocturnal expedition. The four others were hired swordsmen who, like those guarding the island, had been recruited by Savelda to replace the mercenaries killed in Alsace by the troops serving the Sisters of Saint Georges.

The riders reached the building site and dismounted.

Only Savelda, the Alchemist and the duchesse, however, passed beneath the roof protecting the pit and disappeared down the spiral staircase. Wearing the silver-studded leather patch over his left eye, the Spaniard led the way again with a confident air. His two companions wished to make sure that everything was ready for the ceremony the following evening. He already knew this to be the case.

In preparation for the last-minute inspection, Savelda had even ordered candles to be lit underground. The same candles that were at this very moment aiding Leprat's exploration.

Leprat was a musketeer.

He did not know much about draconic magic, but enough to recognise all the signs indicating a spell chamber. The drapes embroidered with esoteric patterns. The tall black candles waiting to be lit. The small table for ritual items. The lectern to support the heavy grimoire as the incantatory formula were pronounced. The altar, a large platform carved from a single block. And lastly, the pentacle engraved on the black stone floor and embossed with scarlet and golden glyphs.

But above all, there was an atmosphere of evil haunting this place. Whatever danger threatened the king, whatever the nature of the plot concocted by the Alchemist, it had something to do with this chamber which now only awaited the arrival of a sorcerer and, perhaps, a victim.

'Damn it!' Leprat muttered.

He started to feel ill.

He was suddenly very hot. His vision blurred. Dizzy, he felt his legs start to give way under him. He did not understand what was happening to him; indeed he had trouble keeping any wits at all. Then the disease eating away at his back awoke. It was as if the patch of ranse had come alive and was biting ever more deeply into his flesh. Leprat grimaced, fighting back moans of pain. In a feverish delirium of confused thoughts, he sensed that he had to leave this cursed chamber. He needed to get back to the surface and away from this place that was increasing tenfold the virulence of the ranse.

He clung to this idea, concentrating on its urgency. He tottered back through the curtain. The pain lessened, but the dizziness remained. Gasping, his brow bathed in sweat, he staggered from column to column, moving in the direction of the staircase and the exit. He could barely see the way. His ears were filled with a buzzing sound and he failed to hear the party descending the steps. Sapped of his strength, he continued to stumble towards the door, which Savelda was going to open at any instant . . .

. . . when he felt a pair of arms seize hold of him and haul him away.

A gloved hand blocked his mouth.

'It's me,' a familiar voice murmured in his ear.

Saint-Lucq.

Dressed entirely in black, the half-blood with the red spectacles dragged Leprat into a dark corner just before Savelda entered. The Black Claw's agent preceded madame de Chev-reuse and her master of magic. He held a lit lantern in his left hand, as the candles burning in the hall of columns did little more than point the way to the spell chamber.

I lallway to the purple curtain, Savelda slowed and then came to a complete halt. His two companions imitated him, looking puzzled. He turned around with the expression of a man who senses he has overlooked something. The leather

patch concealing his eye failed to mask the stain of the ranse that spread, star-like, towards his brow, his temple and his cheekbone. His fist closed about the pommel of his rapier.

'What is it?' asked madame de Chevreuse.

'I thought ... I thought I heard ... I don't know. Something.'

The gaze of the one-eyed man passed over Leprat and Saint-Lucq without seeing either of them.

Saint-Lucq kept hold of the musketeer and had not taken his hand away from the other man's mouth. With a considerable effort, Leprat managed to control the shaking of his legs which risked betraying their presence.

'I didn't hear anything,' said the duchesse. 'Did you, Mauduit?'

'I heard nothing either, madame.'

'It must have been a syle,' Savelda conceded.

'Good Lord! There are salamanders down here?'

'This place is safe, madame,' said the Spaniard as he reluctantly moved on. 'My men have made sure of that. But down in the lower levels . . .'

The two men and the woman soon disappeared behind the curtain.

'You'll see,' they heard madame de Chevreuse promising, 'everything has been scrupulously arranged according to your instructions.'

'Let's get out of here,' said Saint-Lucq.

With the half-blood assisting Leprat, they returned to the open air by way of the spiral staircase, climbed out of the pit, slipped past Savelda's men and found refuge in one of the pavilions under construction. Sitting with his back against a large block of stone, the musketeer took his time to recover, drawing in deep breaths while Saint-Lucq kept watch over their surroundings.

'Have they come back up?' he asked after a moment.

'Not yet.'

'The duchesse was there, wasn't she? But who were the other two? I could barely see.'

'One of them was Mauduit, the duchesse's master of magic. The other one was Savelda, a Spaniard working for the Black Claw. I almost had a chance to fight him when we prevented the vicomtesse de Malicorne from summoning the soul of an Ancestral Dragon.'

'I missed all of that. I was in a gaol cell in the Grand Chatelet that night.'

'That's true . . . But what was wrong with you just now? It looked like you were overcome by a fever or by too much drink . . .'

Without mentioning the ranse, which he wished to keep secret, Leprat spoke of the spell chamber and the effect that he suspected it had on him.

'I almost fell right into the arms of our enemies. If it hadn't been for you . . .' And when Saint-Lucq did not respond to this, the musketeer prompted him, 'What were you doing down there?'

'At the cardinal's request, I have been watching Dampierre for several days now. I was intrigued by the pavilions that they were building here. And you?'

'I entered La Chevreuse's service by passing myself off as an agent of the queen mother. And, like you, I was curious about what this building site might be hiding.'

The half-blood nodded.

Leprat crouched and as his wits returned to him along with his strength, he noticed that Saint-Lucq was gloved, booted and impeccably dressed, as usual.

'You didn't get here by swimming.'

'No. I came underground. There is a passage that leads to the old cellars here. No doubt it was once used by the residents of the tower in times of siege. The entrance lies beneath a very big oak tree in the forest, not far from a stone cross that stands where two paths meet. I discovered it when following Savel-da's men. Several of them came back wounded and I wanted to know why. As it happens, the tunnel is swarming with enormous syles.'

The Alchemist, Savelda and the duchesse returned to the surface. Leprat and Saint-Lucq watched them depart, along

with most of their hired swordsmen. The torches were extinguished. Only a handful of sentries remained.

'I better go back myself before someone notices my absence,' said Leprat.

'Well, I'm going back down. I need to see this spell chamber with my own eyes.'

'We must also inform La Fargue of our discoveries.'

'I'll take care of that. I will be in Paris tomorrow.'

'Understood.'

'Have you fully recovered?'

'Yes. Don't worry about me.'

The half-blood was about to leave when Leprat called him back:

'You saved my life, Saint-Lucq. Thank you.'

The other Blade gazed back at him from behind his red spectacles. He did not react, no doubt seeking a suitable response, to no avail.

And so he left.

In his turn, the musketeer slipped out of the unfinished pavilion. He tried to ignore the burning pain in his back, forcing himself to focus on the approaching day instead. He had lied to Saint-Lucq. He knew what was happening to him, although it cost him to admit it, even to himself.

The causeway was no longer guarded. Leprat crossed it quickly, then found his clothing and his horse in the forest. He did not spare his mount and arrived at the Chateau de Mauvieres just as the night sky was beginning to grow pale, but before the cock's first crow. He left his horse in the stable and hurried back to his bedchamber.

But someone was watching him.

A new day dawned in Paris and, by mid-morning, the air had already grown unpleasantly warm.

From all its streets, all its courtyards, all its gutters and all its ditches, the city's stink rose stronger than ever beneath the relentless sun. The sun's rays, however, did not reach sieur Pierre Teyssier's study. Behind closed shutters, I lis Eminence's master of magic had fallen asleep at his work table after a hard night of labour, his head resting on his forearms, snoring loudly and drooling slightly.

He awoke suddenly to what sounded very much like an altercation in the stairway outside, complete with cries and the sound of blows being exchanged. He sat up, with bleary eyes and tousled hair, to gaze with astonishment and then alarm at the individual who had just burst into the room. He was a squat, solidly-built man with white hair and a ruddy face. One could tell he was an old soldier from ten leagues off. He shoved his way past the valet who had been trying to deny him entry.

The tall, gangly young magic master rose and looked for a weapon to defend himself. He found nothing, but consoled himself with the thought that he would in any case not have known how to use it.

'Monsieur?' he asked, mustering a degree of dignity.

'Please forgive this intrusion, monsieur. But the matter is an important one.'

The valet, seeing that a conversation had been engaged, awaited the outcome.

'No doubt. However, I don't believe I know you.'

'I am Ballardieu, monsieur. I am in the service of Captain La Fargue.'

'In whose service?'

The question surprised Ballardieu. He hesitated, casting a wary glance at the valet before stepping forward, leaning over, clearing his throat and whispering:

'The company of the Cardinal's Blades, monsieur.'

Realisation finally dawned upon Teyssier.

'La Fargue! Yes, of course . . .' he sighed with both relief and satisfaction which were readily shared by the old soldier . . .

. . . but which still failed to clarify the situation.

With uncertain smiles on their lips, the two men gazed at one another in silence, each of them expecting the other to speak. The valet also waited with a smile.

Until at last Teyssier enquired:

'Well? Fa Fargue?'

The question woke Ballardieu from his daze. He blinked his eyes and announced:

'The captain wishes to meet you.'

'Today ?'

'Yes.'

Although he tended to be taken aback by unforeseen events, Teyssier was young man of good will.

'Very well . . . Uhh ... In that case ... In that case, tell him that I shall receive him at a time of his convenience.'

'No, monsieur. You need to come with me. The captain is waiting for you.'

'Now?'

'Now.'

'It's just that I don't go out much.'

'Can you ride a horse?'

'Not very well.'

'That's too bad.'

An hour later, at the Hotel de l'Epervier, Teyssier was still trying to convince himself that he had not actually been abducted. Feeling unsteady, he was finishing an ink drawing of the pentacle which Saint-Lucq had reported seeing at Dampierre and had described to him from memory. He found himself in the large fencing room, lit by the sunlight pouring through the three tall windows that looked out on the garden with its weeds, old table and chestnut tree.

Carefully avoiding the scarlet gaze of the half-blood and his disturbing spectacles, Teyssier concentrated on his sketch, which he corrected and completed in the light of his own knowledge. He could not prevent himself, however, from glancing at La Fargue who was slowly pacing up and down the room, or looking over at Marciac who was sipping a glass of wine and daydreaming as he rocked back and forth on a creaking chair. Laincourt remained outside his field of vision, but Teyssier could sense the man behind him, watching over his shoulder as the drawing took shape.

Silent and expressionless as ever, Almades guarded the door. As for Ballardieu, he had left the magic master in the front hall.

In fact, as soon as Teyssier had arrived at Hotel de l'Eper-vier he had immediately been taken in hand by La Fargue, who explained what was required of him: a drawing of a pentacle based on a verbal description.

'Do you think this is possible, monsieur?'

'Yes. On condition that—'

'Because Laincourt, who knows something about magic, claims that the purpose of a pentacle can be divined from its appearance. Is that true?'

'Certainly, but—'

'Perfect! Then let's get to work, monsieur.'

Time was indeed running short. The pentacle in question had probably been traced in preparation for a ritual that would take place that very night, during the ball being given by the duchesse de Chevreuse. And the Blades suspected this ritual of being a means, if not the ultimate end, of the plot against the king.

Teyssier, on the other hand, was growing more and more doubtful that this was the case . . .

'There was a symbol resembling the letter N, here,' Saint-Lucq was saying. 'And over here, something that looked rather like the number 7 . . . And that's about all.'

The young master of magic had recognised the two draconic glyphs recalled by the half-blood. He copied them onto the paper.

'Nothing else?' he asked.

'I don't think so.'

He made a few revisions to his sketch and then turned the sheet of paper around and pushed it across the table towards Saint-Lucq.

'So it looked like this?'

The half-blood studied the drawing carefully and then nodded.

'As far as I can recollect, yes.'

La Fargue ceased his pacing. Marciac stopped rocking in his chair. As for Laincourt, he straightened up with a puzzled look and said:

'There must be some mistake . . .'

'The drawing is just like the pentacle I remember,' asserted Saint-Lucq crossing his arms.

'What?' asked the old captain. 'Why would it be a mistake?'

Teyssier hesitated.

He exchanged a glance with Laincourt that confirmed the doubts and fears of both men. But still he kept silent. It was therefore the cardinal's former spy who announced:

'This pentacle is beneficial, captain. It can't harm anyone. Neither the king, nor anyone else.'

The king and his court arrived at Dampierre during the afternoon.

Louis XIII and the gentlemen of his suite rode at the head of the procession with' panache, followed just behind by a detachment of musketeers. Pulled by a team of six magnificent horses, the king's golden coach followed. Then came that of the queen, and finally those of the great lords and courtiers, in order of their rank and favour. More riders in small groups brought up the rear; others trotted alongside the carriages so that they could converse with the passengers; while the most impetuous urged their mounts to prance and twirl in an effort to please the ladies who watched and laughed, bright-eyed, from behind their delicate fans.

Leaving the baggage train far behind, the parade of coaches was a splendid, joyful sight to behold, sparkling in the sun despite the dust that rose in its passage. It attracted crowds of spectators who gathered at the entrances of villages and along the roads. As it approached Dampierre, heralds spurred their horses forward to announce the coming of the king. While protocol required this, it was an unnecessary precaution. Runners had already cut across the fields to deliver breathless warnings at the castle, alarming those who had not yet finished erecting a platform, painting a fence or raking a lawn. 'The king! The king!' From the kitchens to the attic, and all the way out into the gardens, there was a great flurry of activity, with a final nail being hammered down just before the trumpets sounded.

Everything was ready, however, by the time His Majesty passed through the gates of Dampierre.

Leprat took advantage of this distraction to slip away from Rauvin, who had been breathing down his neck all morning. Although the mercenary was not following him openly, he was always somewhere in the background, no matter where Leprat went or what he did. The musketeer therefore had no choice but to carry out the tasks assigned to him by Mirebeau, who had become strangely distant. This coldness left Leprat perplexed, but he was not inclined to dwell on the matter. After all, Mirebeau must have worries of his own. For his part, Leprat had enough to think about between his mission, the danger posed by Rauvin, the underground spell chamber and the possible plot against the king. And when he wasn't preoccupied by all that, his ranse — which he knew had taken a sudden turn for the worse — continued to haunt him.

But the king's arrival gave Leprat an opportunity to take a horse and discreetly get away on his own.

There were things he needed to do in the woods and, in any case, he was better off avoiding Dampierre now that the castle was swarming with blue capes. Louis XIII never went anywhere without his regiment of musketeers, all of whom knew Leprat by sight and were thus liable to unmask him.

He rode for a quarter of an hour through the underbrush before coming across a path.

What was it Saint-Lucq had told him? Beneath a very big oak tree in the forest, not far from a stone cross that stands where two paths meet.

If Leprat wanted to explore the underground tunnels below the ruins of the black tower that once stood in the middle of the Dampierre pond, first he needed to find the entrance to them.

The afternoon was ending when Arnaud de Laincourt crossed the Petit Font and, with long strides, passed beneath the dark archway of the Petit Chatelet.

I lis surmises upon seeing the pentacle described by Saint-Lucq had been confirmed by Teyssier, the cardinal's master of

magic, who explained that there existed several different kinds of pentacles and, despite possible errors, omissions and guesswork, the one he had drawn was intended for a beneficial ritual. Certain features of its general design left no room for doubt in the matter.

'I can affirm to you,' he had said, 'that the person who drew this pentacle did not wish to harm anyone. In fact, in my view, quite the opposite.'

But Teyssier had been unable to say which particular type of ceremony the Dampierre pentacle was intended for. Protection, healing, benediction, rejuvenation? The sketch was too imprecise. He would have to compare it with all the others he had recorded in his grimoires and then, after careful cross-referencing, he might be able to reach a conclusion. Hearing that, La Fargue had permitted the magic master to return to his home, accompanied by Ballardieu who would remain with him until the pentacle had been positively identified.

Laincourt followed the old and very narrow rue de la Bucherie, towards Place Maubert.

Saint-Lucq had not lingered after Teyssier's departure, saying simply, 'I'll see you this evening in Dampierre, no doubt.' La Fargue, Marciac and the cardinal's former spy had continued the discussion in the fencing room at the Hotel de l'Epervier, while Almades contented himself with listening in. They had traded various hypotheses back and forth, trying to integrate the pentacle into a possible plot by the Alchemist and the duchesse de Chevreuse against the king. None of these speculations led anywhere. They didn't have enough facts and in the end were left with nothing but reasons to worry. Chief among them was the presence of Savelda, the Black Claw's most trusted henchman. The threat was therefore real.

Rather than continue going round in circles, Laincourt had decided to find out more about Mauduit, the duchesse's master of magic. After all, he was directly involved with the pentacle, wasn't he?

Laincourt had thus gone to the Hotel de Chevreuse, which he found almost empty and where he had learned nothing about Mauduit except that he had only recently entered the duchesse's service. The man was troubling

and elusive. He was said to be a sorcerer. People tended to avoid having anything to do with him, and even the Swiss guard on duty at the mansion gate did not know his address in Paris.

After rue de la Bucherie, Laincourt crossed Place Maubert which, at the entrance to rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Genevieve, was one of the five places in the city where prisoners were tortured and executed. Preoccupied by his mission, the young man did not even spare a glance for the gallows or the sinister wheel that was being set up on a new platform.

Upon leaving the Hotel de Chevreuse, it occurred to him that the duchesse was fond of luxury. She only allowed herself the best, the most beautiful and the most expensive items available. Her new master of magic was, no doubt, no exception to the rule. Mauduit had probably been recommended to her or was at least fairly renowned in certain circles. The fact that Laincourt didn't recognise his name wasn't significant, since the small world of magic masters was extremely secretive.

But there was someone who was well-acquainted with this small world.

On rue Perdue, Laincourt entered Bertaud's bookshop.

An hour later, just as night was falling, Laincourt arrived back at the Hotel de l'Epervier, out of breath. He had hoped to find La Fargue still there, but the captain had already left for Dampierre with Almades and Marciac.

'What about Ballardieu?' he asked Guibot.

'Monsieur Ballardieu has not yet returned,' replied the old porter.

'Too bad. Fetch me a horse. Quickly!'

But just then a rider entered the courtyard. It was Ballardieu. He had come from the home of Teyssier, who had finally succeeded in identifying the pentacle described by Saint-Lucq.

'You're not going to believe this!' the old soldier announced as he jumped down from the saddle.

But Laincourt did believe him.

He mounted Ballardieu's horse and left at a gallop.

*

As evening descended upon Dampierre, raised voices and bursts of laughter resounded in the small castle courtyard. Some Italian actors were performing, by torchlight, a lively farce which had all the guests enthralled. Even the king, who had little taste for bawdiness, appeared to be enjoying the comedy. He guffawed readily enough. Since he was normally of a dismal, brooding nature, his excellent humour astonished those observing him. It should, instead, have alarmed some of them.

La Fargue looked down into the courtyard from a first-storey window. The Italians' pranks did not amuse him. Since arriving at Dampierre ,he had asked to be received by monsieur de Treville, captain of the King's Musketeers, and had communicated his suspicions to him: a plot against His Majesty was about to unfold. The two men knew, liked and respected one another. But without taking La Fargue's warnings lightly, Treville had assured him that Louis XIII could not be in danger because an elite company of gentlemen was there to protect him. The captain of the Musketeers nevertheless allowed La Fargue to remain, on the condition that he and his Blades would not hinder Treville's own service. He also required that they stay away from the gardens, particularly once night fell.

'My musketeers don't know you and they have strict orders. They will open fire on your men, if they do not obey these instructions.'

In the courtyard, before a painted backdrop, Arlecchino was kicking Matamoros's rear end, for vainly seeking the hand of Colombina in marriage. In a decidedly joyful mood, Louis XIII was laughing heartily at the grotesque hopping of the actor each time he received a boot to the arse. It made a sharp contrast with the attitude of the queen, seated to the left of her husband, who was forcing herself to smile and, distracted, applauded with a slight delay. She was obviously preoccupied with something . . .

'It will happen this evening,' declared La Fargue in a grave tone. He looked up at the darkening sky where the stars were beginning to come out. 'I can feel it. I know it . . .'

Treville was reading a note that one of his musketeers had just brought him. He nodded.

'Perfect,' he said to the musketeer.

The man withdrew with a martial step and, folding up the piece of paper, the comte de Troisvilles, more commonly cailed Treville, approached La Fargue and placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.

'You're obsessed with this Alchemist, my friend.'

'No doubt . . . But he is one of the kingdom's most formidable enemies. And I can sense his presence here.'

Treville shrugged his shoulders

'I can only repeat that all the necessary precautions to ensure His Majesty's safety have been taken.'

'They may not be enough.'

'I know. There are always unforeseen events.'

Both men were haunted by the spectre of Henri IV's assassination. They remained silent for a moment and then La Fargue said:

'The queen seems worried about something.'

Treville leaned forward to have a look.

'Indeed she does.'

Turning from the window, La Fargue went over to open the door and called in Almades who was waiting in the ante-chamber.

'Yes, captain?'

'Go and find Marciac. I want him to ask Agnes if the queen has any legitimate, admissible cause for concern.'

'Understood, captain.'

The Spaniard immediately complied, descending the stairs to find the Gascon, who was busy trying to work his charm on a very pretty and still very innocent young baronne. If there was little doubt that he wished for her to remain pretty, her nnocence, on the other hand, was under serious threat.

He was unflustered at seeing Almades, but promised the young woman that he would return, caressing her chin with his

index finger and grinning before going over to the austere fencing master.

'I'm listening.'

'The queen is preoccupied. Perhaps Agnes knows why.'

'All right.'

'And who is that you're with?

'Delicious, isn't she?'

At that very instant, Matamoros finished covering himself in ridicule, the Dottore married Colombina off to Arlecchino and the play ended to considerable applause.

'Don't delay, Marciac'

The Gascon thus hurried off, repeating his promise to the pretty young baronne as he passed, then seemed to change his mind by turning back and surprising the lady with a kiss on the cheek, before going in search of Agnes.

Thanks to Saint-Lucq's directions, Leprat located the secret passage leading to the black tower.

This edifice had long ago been taken apart stone by stone, before its very foundations were buried, no doubt so that all memory of it would be lost forever. But it had once stood in the middle of the pond at Dampierre, less than a cannon shot from the present castle belonging to the due de Chevreuse. Legend said that a dragon sorcerer had built it and lived there. Legend also said he had worked terrible, evil magic and added that he had been finally vanquished by valiant knights. The tale might have been mostly invention, but Leprat was convinced the underground vestiges of the cursed tower had not yet given up all of their secrets.

The entrance to the passage lay in the forest, not far from a granite cross that stood where two tracks met. The way had recently been cleared to an old gate set in the brush-covered flank of a mound topped by a large oak tree. Behind the gate were stone steps, the beginnings of a narrow spiral staircase that led down into the darkness.

Leprat tethered his horse a good distance away, where it would not be spotted.

Then he approached the gate cautiously, creeping through the underbrush, his sword in his fist. He had feared that the place might be watched, but there was no one about. However, he did see numerous boot prints scattered across the ground, no doubt left by Savelda's men when they had opened a path to the passage. And close by, at the beginning of one of the tracks, there were traces indicating that horses had been guarded here.

Leprat had brought a lantern. He lit the candle with his tinder lighter and, without re-sheathing his rapier, started down the stairs.

At the bottom he found a long corridor leading in the direction of the pond, and the island.

In the castle courtyard, the guests had watched the comedy standing behind the royal couple. Still chuckling over the antics of the players, they were slow to disperse, walking towards the salons and stairways, or lingering to converse in the light of the great torches held aloft by lackeys in livery aligned at regular intervals with their backs to the wall, standing as still as Atlases on a palace facade. Supper was due to be served before the costume ball and a fireworks display that promised to be splendid.

With a quick step that betrayed her anxiety, Anne d'Autriche regained the apartments that madame de Chev-reuse had assigned to her. Accompanied by the duchesse, she was trailed by the women of her suite, including Agnes de Vaudreuil who was doing her best to keep up her role as a lady-in-waiting. She tried to be discreet, helpful and considerate, taking care not to encroach where she was not wanted. With her hair and face prettily made up, this evening she was wearing a magnificent scarlet dress with a plunging neckline trimmed with lace, a starched bodice and a hooped skirt. She knew she looked beautiful. Nevertheless, she had missed having her rapier these past few days since she had joined the queen's household. The stiletto dagger tucked in her garter was a poor substitute.

One of the last ladies to start up the great stairway, Agnes felt someone take her by the hand . . .

. . . and allowed Marciac to drag her behind a pillar.

'Do you know what's wrong with the queen?' he asked without any preamble.

'No. But she was in a very sombre mood when she woke this morning, and it has only grown worse since. In fact, she has spent most of the day in prayer.'

'Try to find out more, all right?'

'All right. Where can I find the captain?'

'He is with Treville.'

'I'll do what I can.'

'Say . . .'

'Yes?'

'We've been seen going off together on our own.'

'So?' '

'Perhaps we should kiss. To keep up appearances, of course.'

'Or perhaps I should just slap you and adjust my attire as I leave. To keep up appearances, of course.'

With a quirk at the corner of her lips, Agnes climbed the stairs as quickly as her dress and manners allowed. She passed between two halberdiers, opened the door to the queen's apartments, entered an antechamber and smiled at the duc d'Uzes, who served as knight-of-honour. Proceeding to a second antechamber, she joined madame de Senecey, a lady-in-waiting, the elderly madame de La Flotte, a royal wardrobe mistress, and several other attending ladies, including two ravishing young women, Louise Angelique de La Fayette and Aude de Saint-Avoid. All of them were waiting in the antechamber unsure what to do because, bordering on tears, Anne d'Autriche had just shut herself up in her bedchamber with madame de Chevreuse.

On learning this news, Agnes adopted a suitably serious expression, asked whether there was anything she could do to assist and upon being told there was not, she withdrew. Then she moved quickly without seeming to be in any great hurry. She smiled again at monsieur d'Uzes, left the apartments and followed the corridor as far as a small door hidden behind a curtain. She wailed until no one was looking at her and then

promptly disappeared through this exit. She had discovered it that afternoon, during a discreet examination of the castle's layout.

The queen's bedchamber communicated with the antechamber where the ladies of her suite gathered, but also with another small room where the duchesse would sleep tonight, a bed having been installed there for the occasion. Agnes found this room lying empty. She slipped inside and, on tiptoe, went to press her ear to the door behind which Anne d'Autriche and madame de Chevreuse were alone.

One of them was pacing back and forth.

It was the queen who, in a nervous tone, was explaining that after much reflection and much prayer she no longer wished to go through with a certain project. That it was madness and she should never have agreed to it in the first place. How could she have ever believed in the success of this enterprise? But she saw things more clearly now. Yes, she was going to renounce the whole thing.

'Madame,' the duchesse replied calmly, 'there is still time to back out. Everything will be done according to your wishes. You only need to give the order.'

'Very well. Then I am giving the order.'

'What could be accomplished this evening may never be possible again. The stars are not —'

'I don't care about the stars!'

'Are you certain you have thought this through, madame? Your Majesty's duties—'

'My duties forbid me to betray the king! As for the rest, I must place myself in the hands of divine Providence. One day my prayers shall be heard.'

'I las it occurred to you that if you renounce this project, you will still have to confess everything to the king? For the secret will come out, madame. Believe me, secrets always come out in the end.

The cardinal's men are everywhere.'

'I shall beg for the king's pardon.'

'And for those who have lent you their assistance?'

'I will not allow you to be persecuted, Marie.'

'I was not thinking of myself, but of all the others.'

'How can one reproach them for having obeyed their queen ?'

'Richelieu can, and he will.'

There was a silence.

Then Agnes heard madame de Chevreuse rise and take a few steps ... A drawer was opened and closed . . . Then her steps returned . . . And the duchesse said:

'I had hoped to spare you this ordeal, madame. I'd hoped that . . . Well, look at this.'

'What is it?'

'I beg you, madame, read. And see what they have been hiding from you.'

There was a rustling of heavy silk fabric: Anne d'Autriche had just sat down. The two women remained silent, until the queen asked in a strangled voice:

'All this ... Is it true?'

'I believe so. I fear so.'

'The king really intends to repud—'

'Yes, madame.'

The queen began to sob.

It might have been a spectral rider passing in the night.

But in fact it was a dust-covered Laincourt who was galloping on an ashen horse. He had been riding since Paris at a speed that risked killing his mount. He charged through villages, cut across fields and farmyards whenever possible, leapt over hedges, ditches and streams, taking all manner of risks. He now knew the purpose of the pentacle. And thanks to his friend the bookseller, he also knew that the master of magic serving the duchesse de Chevreuse was not who he claimed to be.

Faster, boy! Faster!

Laincourt would arrive at the Chateau de Dampierre within the hour.

But would he be in time?

At Dampierre, supper was being served, the queen having reappeared before anyone began to wonder about her absence.

Three tahles had been set up in the castle's great hall. The high table was at the rear. The two others, much longer, faced one another and were perpendicular to the first. At these tables, the guests were seated on only one side, with their backs to the wall, while the servants waited on them from the space in the middle. Helped along by wine, the proceedings were very merry. Men and women ate with their fingers, exchanging anecdotes and jests, making fun of one another and laughing. Toasts were made, where a glass was passed from hand to hand, each person taking a small sip, until it reached the person to whom the toast was addressed. The recipient had no choice but to finish off the drink and, accompanied by cheers, eat the tostee, the piece of toasted bread that lay soaking at the bottom of the glass. These toasts went back and forth along the tables like playful challenges and provided an excellent pretext to become drunk. The selection of a new victim was greeted with expectant joy by all present and of course no one dreamed of declining.

Naturally the king and queen sat at the high table, in the company of the duc de Chevreuse, the duchesse and a few privileged individuals such as monsieur de Treville and the marquis de Chateauneuf, the kingdom's Keeper of the Seals. The atmosphere was a little more formal than at the longer tables, although Louis XIII did honour to all the dishes — as was usual for him, since he had the same solid appetite as his father, Henri IV. Still looking pale, Anne d'Autriche only picked at her plate. Her eyes were a little red, causing madame de Chevreuse to worry aloud, as if on cue.

The queen explained that she was suffering irritation from the heavy fragrance of a bouquet of flowers in her bedchamber. Did this little comedy fool anyone? It made the king smile, at any rate.

Retained by her duties as a lady-in-waiting, Agnes was unable to escape until halfway through the meal. Slipping out of the hall, she found La Fargue and Marciac in the dimness of an out-of-the-way antechamber. Almades closed the door behind her as soon as she arrived.

'Well?' demanded the Gascon.

Agnes recounted the conversation she had overheard between the queen and madame de Chevreuse.

'So La Chevreuse has indeed hatched a plot against the king,' concluded La Fargue. 'A plot that will unfold tonight. And the queen is an accomplice . . .'

'But what exactly is it all about?' asked Marciac. 'Are they going to make an attempt on His Majesty's life?'

'I don't know,' Agnes admitted.

'Was there any mention of the Alchemist?'

'No. But I think I know the queen's motives . . . After she and the duchesse left, I slipped into her bedchamber to look for whatever the duchesse gave her to read in order to persuade her. And I found it. It was the pamphlet that the queen mother's emissary was1 carrying hidden in the lining of his doublet.'

'The pamphlet that accuses the king of planning to repudiate the queen because she has not borne him an heir?' asked La Fargue.

'And claims that the king has begun negotiations with the Pope on the subject, yes.'

'So the queen has become involved in a plot against the king because she fears repudiation . . .'

'Well, yes . . .'

'But the king will never repudiate her!' exclaimed Marciac. 'Anne is the sister of the king of Spain.

It would be an insult! It would mean war!'

'It is enough that the queen believes it to be true,' Agnes pointed out. 'Or rather, it is enough that the duchesse has persuaded her that it is so . . .'

The captain of the Blades nodded.

'Very well,' he said. 'I must speak to Treville. Agnes, you must return to the queen and try not to let her out of your sight. The ball will begin soon.'

Leprat ran through a syle as it tried to scurry between his legs and, on the point of his sword, held it up to the light from his lantern. With thick red arabesque patterns running down its black back, the salamander was as long and as heavy as a

fair-sized rat. It squirmed on the sharp steel that was tormenting it, spitting and seeking to bite and claw at him rather than to work itself free.

Filthy creature, thought Leprat as he cleared his blade with a quick flick that sent the reptile flying.

The syle crashed into a wall, then fell to the ground with a soft thump. It was still alive, however. In the dark, forked tongues hissed. The sound preceded the massed rush that the musketeer was expecting. With claws clattering and bellies scraping against the stone, syles closed in from all directions to devour the injured member of their own kind. The excitement of combat and the scent of blood soon produced a predictable effect. The reptiles' scaly backs began to glow and their furious melee, invisible up until now, became wreathed in a faint halo. The sacrificed syle was not the only victim of this savage frenzy. Others, wounded in turn, were attacked and eaten by bigger and more ferocious individuals.

Leprat turned away from the carnage.

Sword in hand, he continued his exploration of the underground chambers of the black tower, chambers whose scale he was still attempting to grasp. They were vast, perhaps immense, in any case far bigger than the two or three cellars he had imagined he would find beneath the ruins of a mediaeval donjon. Most of the rooms had flagstone floors with short round pillars supporting low, vaulted ceilings. Standing empty and bare, haunted only by the furtive movements of the syles guarding them, and dotted with puddles that the musketeer disturbed with his tread, these chambers had survived the passing centuries down here in a dark, abysmal silence.

La Fargue managed to send a note to Treville and met him privately after the banquet. He informed him of the conversation Agnes had overheard between the queen and the duchesse de Chevreuse, affirmed that there was no longer any doubt that a plot was about to be sprung and insisted that the king's security be reinforced until morning. In vain.

'I will not increase the patrols or the number of sentries,' replied the captain of the Musketeers.

'The king's safety is under threat, monsieur.'

'Perhaps. But I cannot go against the will of His Majesty, who has demanded that my musketeers be as little visible as possible, in order to display his lack of concern over sleeping within these walls

—'

'—and thereby further relax the vigilance of those he will have arrested tomorrow,' deduced La Fargue.

'Precisely. On the other hand, if the castle, for whatever reason, should suddenly be swarming with blue capes . . .'

The old gentleman nodded in resignation.

His left hand on the pommel of the old Pappenheimer in his scabbard, the other? hand gripping the loop of his heavy belt, he turned to the window and lifted his eyes to the night sky.

'Besides,' added Treville, 'the ball is about to begin. The king will open it with the queen and then, as he said he would, he will retire for the night, on the pretext that that he needs his rest before the hunt the duc de Chevreuse has organised for him in the morning ... So the king will soon be in his apartments, with musketeers at his door and even in his antechamber.'

A musketeer entered and announced to his captain:

'A rider has just arrived. He claims to have urgent information concerning the safety of the king.'

'His name?'

'Laincourt. A former member of the Cardinal's Guards.'

La Fargue spun round.

After the ordeal of his long ride, Laincourt was trying to make himself presentable when Marciac found him in the stable courtyard. In his shirt sleeves, he was washing his face and neck with water from a bucket. Upon seeing the Gascon, he quickly dried himself with a towel and pulled on the freshly brushed doublet held out to him by a servant.

'I must speak to the captain,' he declared, giving a coin to the servant and accepting his hat in return.

'I will take you to him,' replied Marciac.

'Good.'

Grabbing his sword as he passed, Laincourt matched his stride to that of the Gascon, who asked him:

'Any news from Teyssier?'

'Yes. He finally recognised the pentacle.'

'So?'

'It is a pentacle of fecundity, employed in a ritual intended to make a barren womb fertile.'

'Are you sure of that?'

'No. But according to Ballardieu, His Eminence's magic master was positive. That's enough for me.'

They crossed the small drawbridge just as the first notes of music from the ball sounded within the castle.

As he continued exploring the ancient underground spaces beneath the black tower, sword in one hand and his lantern in the other, Leprat wondered who had built them and to what end.

They called to mind a sanctuary or refuge that might have once sheltered a community of sorcerers, or members of a heretical sect, or dragons. Who could say? The only thing for certain was that this place was no longer — if it had ever been — a peaceful haven. It was as if its walls were impregnated with an evil that weighed upon the soul. Its silence seemed haunted by painful echoes and its shadows hid lurking nightmares. And the air he breathed had . . .

Leprat suddenly realised his mind was starting to wander.

He shook his head and shoulders in an effort to gather his wits.

He could not allow these sinister chambers to take control of his thoughts. No doubt he had been wandering down here for too long. How long had it been, in fact? No matter. The musketeer deemed that he had seen enough. Besides, he noticed that the syles were starting to become dangerously hold and, to make matters worse, the flame in his lantern was showing signs of weakness.

Rather than retrace his steps, Leprat looked for stairs leading upwards. But it was, instead, a door caught his eye: a large, black double door whose stone lintel was decorated with entwined draconic motifs. Intrigued, he approached cautiously. He listened closely and heard nothing within, then drew in a breath before pushing one half of the door open . . .

... to find himself in a circular room beneath an onyx dome.

Vast but empty, it was plunged in a dim amber light, coming from the glowing golden veins in the black marble that lined the floor and ran around the room in a frieze where the dome rose from the wall. The room had a large well at its centre. And four identical doors — including the one by which Leprat had entered — which faced one another in pairs as if marking the cardinal points of a compass.

The musketeer set down his now useless lantern and stepped forward, keeping his rapier unsheathed. He became filled with the conviction that the black tower had once risen directly above this dome which he examined with an attentive eye. But his thoughts were interrupted by a sound that made him turn round.

Mirebeau was aiming a cocked pistol at him.

'A fertility ritual,' repeated La Fargue after listening to Laincourt's report.

'That's what Teyssier claims. And we already knew that this pentacle was not harmful in purpose . . .'

They were in a small room adjoining Treville's bedchamber. The captain of the Musketeers had allowed the Blades to meet here while he watched over the opening of the ball. The orchestra was playing at the other end of the castle. They could hear the music rising through the open windows into the warm night.

'Might the pentacle be for the duchesse de Chevreuse?' suggested Marciac. 'After all, we're here in her home and it is her master of magic who—'

'She has already had six children,' Laincourt pointed out.

'No,' said La Fargue. 'The ritual is intended for the queen.

She has not yet provided an heir to the throne and we know she now fears being repudiated.'

'We do?'

'This evening Agnes overheard a conversation between the queen and the duchesse,' the Gascon explained to the cardinal's former spy. 'Very upset, the queen said that she wanted to renounce . . .

we don't quite know what. In order to overcome her misgivings, the duchesse gave her the pamphlet that the queen mother's secret emissary had on his person. You recall it?'

'Yes. Claiming the king intends to repudiate the queen.'

'We believed this prospect was enough to convince the queen to participate in the final act of a plot against the king. An act that would take place this evening or later in the night.'

'It seems we were wrong,' concluded La Fargue.

His eyes became absorbed in thought.

Anne d'Autriche was desperate to become a mother. But the years had passed leaving her prayers unanswered and now, in addition to suffering from the king's estrangement and attacks from within his court, she faced the despicable threat of repudiation . . .

'So the queen has decided to resort to magic in order to become fertile,' Marciac reflected out loud.

'As for the duchesse de Chevreuse, she has taken it upon herself to arrange the whole matter with the aid of her new master of magic. And all this is taking place in utmost secrecy, as one might imagine. For if it were discovered that a queen of France—'

'A queen of Spanish origin, moreover,' added Laincourt. —was subjecting herself to a draconic ritual . . .'

The Gascon judged that there was no need to finish his sentence.

'Whatever the queen's motives,' said Laincourt, 'the king will not pardon her. In addition to other considerations, he has despised all magical arts ever since La Galigai was beheaded for bewitching his mother.'

'Not to mention the fact that an heir born in such circumstances could only be—'

Once again, Marciac did not complete his sentence, but this time because Almades had knocked on the door and entered.

La Fargue shot him a questioning look.

'Their Majesties have just opened the ball,' the Spaniard reassured him. 'All is well.'

'And Agnes?'

'I saw her and she saw me. She did not seem alarmed.'

'Very well. Thank you.'

Almades nodded and returned to keeping track of the comings and goings in the castle.

'The king must be warned about what is afoot,' said Marciac after a moment of silence. 'But there is no plot. Only a desperate queen.'

'You're forgetting a little quickly that the Alchemist and the Black Claw are also mixed up in this,'

replied the old captain. 'Last night, Saint-Lucq formally recognised Savelda in the company of the duchesse and Mauduit.'

'True, at least as far as Savelda and the Black Claw are concerned. But as for the Alchemist, we only have La Donna's word that—'

'What does it matter?' asked La Fargue, raising his voice. 'Why would the Black Claw want to help the queen have a child? Why would it favour the birth of a royal heir and thereby put an end to the divisions weakening the kingdom? And why the devil would it seek to prevent a repudiation of the queen which, if it were merely hinted at by the king, would be enough to provoke a war between France and Spain . . . ? Do you even have the beginning of an answer to any of these questions?'

'No,' admitted Marciac, lowering his eyes.

'There is a plot!' declared the captain of the Blades between clenched jaws. 'There is a plot, and the Alchemist is at its head!'

The Gascon did not reply, but turned his head away.

'Captain,' ventured Laincourt.

What?'

'It's about Mauduit. I'm not sure, but . . . well, here's the thing. One of my friends is a bookseller and I was able to

consult a very rare work that he has in his shop, of which Mauduit is the author. There was a portrait at the front of the book and ... I know these engravings can often be misleading, captain. But this picture looked nothing at all like the man serving the duchesse de Chevreuse as her magic master.'

For a long moment La Fargue remained immobile, silent and expressionless. Could Mauduit be the Alchemist? The conviction slowly took shape in his mind, and at last he began to grasp the nature of the plot against which La Donna had warned them . . .

'The Alchemist,' he said in a grave voice, 'plans to abduct the queen.'

His pistol aimed at Leprat, Mirebeau crossed the threshold of the circular room but did not come any closer. Perhaps he feared to advance any further beneath the rock dome. Perhaps he was reluctant to step on the slabs of black marble with their strangely glowing golden veins. Perhaps he preferred to keep his distance from the man who, sword in hand, was looking him straight in the eye without blinking.

They stood about seven metres apart. The musketeer had his back to the well, the other man had the dark cellars of the black tower behind him.

'What is this room?' asked Leprat. 'What is its purpose?'

'I don't know. Just as I didn't know of the existence of these underground chambers until I followed you. Indeed, one might be surprised to find you of all people down here . . .'

Leprat did not reply.

'But considering that I am the one holding the pistol,' Mirebeau continued, 'let us agree that I shall be the one who asks the questions. All right? Good. Who are you, monsieur?'

'My name will tell you nothing.'

'Nevertheless, please satisfy my curiosity.'

'I am Antoine Leprat, chevalier d'Orgueil.'

'A musketeer?'

'Yes.'

'Nothing else?'

'No.'

'A spy, then.'

'I obey the cardinal's orders in the service of the king.'

'A musketeer who obeys the cardinal? Is that possible?'

'It is in my case.'

'And the real Gueret?'

'Dead.'

'Killed by your hand?'

'No.'

'On that point, I'll have to take your word, won't I? Since you are a gentleman, I won't ask you to relinquish your sword. But please return it to its scabbard . . .'

Leprat honoured his request.

Mirebeau looked at him sadly. He was slightly more relaxed but still had not lowered his weapon.

'What am I to do with you, monsieur le chevalier d'Orgueil?'

'As you said: you are the one holding the pistol.'

'I offered you my friendship. I offered you my friendship and you accepted it.'

'Yes.'

'You betrayed my trust.'

'I know.'

'Don't misunderstand me. I don't blame you. It was me. I made a mistake. Why didn't I listen to Rauvin's initial warnings? Unlike me, he saw right through you from the beginning. Did you know I took your side this morning when Rauvin claimed to see you returning on horseback before dawn from some mysterious errand? I thought he was slandering you out of jealousy, that he had not forgiven you for behaving better than he did on that famous night when the comte de Rochefort arrested me. After all, he fled while you stayed behind to free me. But I imagine that was just to safeguard your mission, wasn't it? And to win my trust.'

When Leprat failed, again, to reply, Mirebeau let out a desolate sigh.

'Fortunately, the friendship that I felt for you did not completely blind me. And that brings us to this . . . What am

I to do with you, monsieur le chevalier d'Orgueil? Rauvin would shoot you down.'

'You won't do that. You're a gentleman.'

'So are you. Let us settle this affair as gentlemen, then.'

The musketeer shook his head.

'I feel both friendship and esteem for you, Mirebeau. Don't make me cross swords with you . . .

Besides, it would be futile.'

'Futile?'

'Tomorrow, at the break of dawn, the marquis de Chateau-neuf will be arrested for treason, among other things. So will the duchesse de Chevreuse and all those who have plotted the downfall of the cardinal, or against the king. Everything is ready. The orders have already been signed and Treville's musketeers are masters of Dampierre. His Majesty has already won the match. But you are guilty of nothing but loyally serving a master who proved unworthy.'

"What do you know about that?'

'I know you to be a man of honour, Mirebeau. Nothing obliges you to pay the price for the crimes of Chateauneuf. Nothing.'

'One is not always free to choose.'

'Chateauneuf fancied that he might one day replace the cardinal. Forgetting all that he owed Richelieu, he schemed against him. His ambition has made him lose everything. Don't accompany him in his downfall.'

Mirebeau hesitated.

'It's . . . It's too late,' he finally said.

'No!'

Leprat felt that he could persuade — and save — this gentle-man.

'Leave,' he said. 'This very night. Take a horse and go without further delay. Don't let the king's justice catch up with you. And before long you'll be forgotten . . .'

Mirebeau reflected for a moment. The arm holding the pistol was no longer quite as steady as before when the point of a blade suddenly punched through his chest. He stiffened and gazed down with eyes widened in shock at the length of

bloody steel which then vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. He hiccupped, coughed up blood and gave Leprat a last incredulous look before falling to his knees, then face down against the hard marble floor.

Rapier in his fist, Rauvin stepped over the dead body and advanced, followed by five hired swordsmen.

'I do believe he would have accepted your offer,' he said, 'but I grew tired of waiting . . .'

Having opened the ball with the queen and paid her a much remarked-upon compliment, the king retired to his apartments. He had announced his intention to make the most of the game-filled forests of the Chevreuse valley, and go hunting early the following morning. He had promised, however, to watch the fireworks display that would be the high point of the evening from his window. The gentlemen who were his closest attendants, including the comte de Treville, had followed him. And since the castle could not be taken by assault, the musketeers now reduced their watch over the area outside to mount an extremely vigilant guard at the doors, along the corridors and in the antechambers.

Arnaud de Laincourt discreetly stole a mask that he saw lying on a bench, put it on and began to mingle with the courtiers who chattered, drank and nibbled as they watched the dancers — two by two - execute a graceful choreography to the sound of the music played by the orchestra. Everyone had disguised the upper portion of their face behind a mask. But if those worn by the men were relatively sober, those of the women — matching their dresses — boasted a profusion of gold and silver brocade, plumes and ribbons, pearls and jewels. Wearing their finest attire, the royal court provided a superb spectacle that evening, beneath the gilt of Dampierre. In their display of elegant luxury and playful insouciance, the courtiers seemed completely unaware of the danger threatening them.

Laincourt tried to find Agnes.

He caught sight of her near the dais reserved for Their Majesties. Now only the queen occupied her armchair. It was impossible to approach her. She was surrounded by madame de Chevreuse and by her ladies-in-waiting, who were seated according to their rank on chairs, stools or cushions. They gossiped and laughed behind their fans, the youngest and least dignified among them pointing out the gentlemen they liked best. Among the dancers, the marquis de Chateauneuf in particular attracted much commentary, although most of it was not in praise. Watching out of the corner of his eye to see if the duchesse de Chevreuse was glancing in his direction, he exerted himself with each movement to adopt the most advantageous poses. But his age of over fifty rendered all these efforts somewhat ridiculous.

Spotting Laincourt, Agnes joined him by a window overlooking the moat and the great Renaissance flower beds among which couples strolled in search of a quiet corner.

'Did La Fargue let you know?' asked the young man.

'Yes.'

'It's now more important than ever that you remain with the queen.'

'I know.'

It was a trap.

The fertility ritual which the queen was supposed to undergo was nothing but a trap intended to lure her away, with her own consent, from the guards who watched over her. The Chatelaines' Superior General had been right: there was a plot threatening the queen. A plot in which madame de Chevreuse was a participant, acting in the belief that she was serving Anne d'Autriche's interests. A plot hatched by the Black Claw and the Alchemist, who had usurped the place of the duch-esse's master of magic. A plot, lastly, whose object was to abduct the queen.

But after that?

'It will happen tonight,' said Laincourt. 'And it cannot be done without the complicity of others. That of the duchesse, certainly. But also that of most of the ladies in her entourage, whom the queen has probably won over to her cause . . . Since you are not a part of the plan, they will try to divert you at the crucial moment. Keep your eye out. And be careful.'

'Don't worry.'

'Marciac was looking for you a short while ago and could not find you.'

The baronne de Vaudreuil reflected for short instant.

'Yes. It must have been when I went to fetch the queen's jewel box. Her pearl necklace broke just after the king retired to his quarters.'

'And the queen? Where was she?'

'She was waiting in the antechamber for me to return so that we could change her finery.'

Laincourt nodded distractedly as his gaze slowly swept over the queen and her entourage.

Then he frowned.

'I don't see Aude de Saint-Avoid,' he said.

Agnes turned toward the group formed by the maidens-of-honour and their governess, at the foot of the royal dais.

'You're right,' she replied.

'Do you know where she is?'

'No.'

The cardinal's former spy became worried. If Agnes — because she was a newcomer to the queen's suite — could be diverted when it came time to execute the plot, Aude was a different matter.

Like everyone else, the queen was wearing a mask.

Without meaning to, Laincourt caught her eye . . .

. . . and suddenly recognised — now looking alarmed as she realised she had been found out - the face of Aude de Saint-Avoid.

'They've already abducted the queen!' he shouted as he left Agnes standing there.

Unlike Mirebeau, Rauvin had not ventured alone into the underground chambers. He was accompanied by five mercenaries whom he immediately ordered to attack Leprat.

That's one, counted the musketeer as he ran his sword through the first man to come within reach.

He freed his blade, dodged an attack, parried another and forced his opponents to retreat with a few furious moulinets.

He then returned to the en garde position and waited with his back to the well which, beneath the dome, marked the centre of the circular room. The four mercenaries supposed that he was allowing them the initiative in making the next assault. They started to deploy in an arc. If the man before them was foolish enough to let them organise themselves, they would take advantage of the fact . . .

But in fact he wanted them to spread out in a row.

And to gain confidence.

So that they would lower their guard slightly.

Leprat suddenly attacked with a great shout. He deflected one mercenary's sword, stunned another with a blow of his fist to the chin, spun around as he raised his blade to shoulder height and carried through his motion by slitting the throat of the freebooter who was about to strike him from behind.

That's two.

The man staggered backwards, choking, his right hand trying desperately to staunch the wound from which blood was flowing freely, while his left hand flailed in the air, seeking a shoulder, a support, help of any kind. He finally fell backwards and lay still.

Leprat gave himself space to face a renewed attack. It was led by two mercenaries who knew how to fight a lone opponent without hindering one another. Taking a step back, and then another, the musketeer had to defend himself against two men and two sets of skills. Against two blades which he finally managed, with a single slash of his own weapon, to force away from his own body and downwards to the ground. His move unbalanced both his adversaries and made one of them particularly vulnerable. Leprat delivered a blow with his fist that caused the man to stumble forward, right into the waiting knee that lifted his chin sharply and broke his neck with a sinister crack.

Three down.

Only two mercenaries remained.

Parrying a high sword stroke from one man, Leprat pushed the other back with a violent kick to the stomach. Then he surprised the first by elbowing him in his Adam's apple and finished him off by head-butting him right in the (ace. His

nose and mouth covered in blood, the man crumpled to the black marble floor.

Four.

The last mercenary was already charging him from behind.

Leprat spun and riposted in a single movement of lethal fluidity. He was still only halfway round and bending his knees when he blocked a vicious cut. Then he rose, letting the other man's blade slide down his own until it reached the hilt. Finally, he completed his turn by plunging a dagger he had snatched from the belt of his previous opponent into the mercenary's belly. The unfortunate wretch froze, dropping his blade and fumbling at the dagger's hilt. He collapsed after managing a few erratic steps.

And that mattes five.

Out of breath, his brow shining with sweat and his eyes blazing, Leprat turned towards Rauvin and once again placed himself en garde.

'My congratulations,' said the hired killer as he drew his sword. 'Now it's just the two of us.'

He slashed at the air with his blade and the duel commenced.

At Dampierre, three silhouettes were crossing the duchesse de Chevreuse's private garden. Closed to guests on a false pretext, this little park adjoining the castle was now standing empty except for shadows. The trio, all wearing dark cloaks, were obviously in a hurry. They turned back several times towards the windows as if they feared being seen and hid themselves whenever the moon peeped out from between the clouds.

The one who claimed to be Mauduit, master of magic, was leading them.

'This way, madame.'

Anne d'Autriche followed him, unaware that she was placing her fate in the hands of the Black Claw's most formidable agent. She was accompanied by a chambermaid who, when the moment came, she believed, would help her to disrobe and put on the ritual garment before the ceremony that would at last let her become a mother. The young servant girl was trembling and casting frightened looks all around, but was

ready to do anything in the service of her queen. Both of them were wearing black velvet masks beneath their large hoods.

At the rear of the garden, they came to a gate set in the wall.

'Be brave, madame,' murmured the Alchemist. 'The hardest part is over. Once we reach the cover of the trees, we can no longer be seen from the castle.'

He opened the gate with a key the duchesse de Chevreuse had given him and then held his hand out to the queen to assist her passage over a small wooden bridge, a sort of covered walkway that allowed strollers to cross the moat and enter the orchard.

There were armed men waiting on the other side, beneath the trees, some of them carrying dark lanterns.

'Who are these men?' asked the queen in a worried voice, but stopping herself from retreating.

'Your escort, madame. Don't be afraid.'

Anxious but still resolved to see the matter through, Anne d'Autriche nodded. She drew closer to her servant, however, and took her hand while the Alchemist exchanged a few words in a low voice with a one-eyed man whose face was visibly marked by the ranse. With an olive complexion and craggy features, the man was wearing a black leather patch adorned by silver studs over his missing eye. It was Savelda, although the queen remained ignorant of his name. Just as she was unaware that he was the henchman most valued by the masters of the Black Claw.

He finally nodded in agreement and the false magic master returned to the two women.

'All is well, madame,' he affirmed. 'However, we must hurry because it will soon be midnight. The coach that will take us to the place of the ceremony is waiting at the gate to this orchard.'

But Savelda, who was about to take the lead, suddenly froze, with the absent gaze and slightly tilted head of someone listening very intently.

What is it now?' asked the Alchemist in an irritated tone.

Without turning round, the Black Claw's envoy lifted an imperious index finger: he demanded silence. Alter which, he

called out softly to the three men he had left as sentries in the orchard.

There was no answer.

Savelda snapped his fingers and two of the hired swordsmen accompanying him approached.

'Go and have a look,' he said with a strong Spanish accent that drew the queen's attention.

The two men unsheathed their swords and ventured out cautiously. One of them held a lantern in his left hand and a pistol in his right.

They had not taken ten steps when they came across a dead body, while an individual emerged from the shadows beneath the fruit trees. The proud, elegant assurance of the stranger worried them only slightly less than the faint smile they detected on his lips. He was dressed entirely in black, except for the slender feather decorating his hat: it was scarlet, as were the round spectacles hiding his eyes. His left hand rested nonchalantly on the pommel of his rapier in its scabbard.

The two hired swordsmen placed themselves en garde. The one with the pistol aimed it at Saint-Lucq but as he continued to advance they slowly retreated until they had rejoined Savelda and the others.

The half-blood halted and brandished a pistol of his own in his right hand. In response, three more pistols pointed at him and blades were unsheathed. The queen and her chambermaid jumped, stifling startled cries. Saint-Lucq did not even blink.

'You will go nowhere with the queen,' he said in an even tone.

'Do you intend to stop us on your own?' asked Savelda with a sneer.

'I've already started to.'

'Give it up. The numbers are in our favour.'

Saint-Lucq conspicuously pointed his pistol at the one-eyed man's brow.

'If I fire, or you do, the place will be swarming with musketeers. Is that really what you want?'

'Monsieur, tell me what is going on?' the queen asked the Alchemist. 'Who is this man and why is he trying . . .'

She trailed off, shocked at finding herself ignored by the master of magic, who instead stepped forward among the swordsmen to address the half-blood:

'Then why don't you shoot? Are you afraid of wounding Her Majesty?'

'My pistol ball will not miss its target.'

'To be sure, but after that? You are familiar with the hazards of battle, aren't you?'

'I am also familiar with them,' said a voice that no one had expected to hear.

Flanked by Marciac and Laincourt to his left and right, La Fargue had entered the orchard. They had arrived from the garden, their blades already pointed in the direction of their enemies.

'And I tell you that if you harm the queen in any way,' the captain of the Blades added, 'your death will owe nothing to the hazards of battle . . .'

Defended by steep moats, the Chateau de Dampierre had only two exits: its guarded drawbridge and the small gate at the rear of the deserted garden. Thus the Blades had no difficulty in guessing which way Anne d'Autriche had been taken. Leaving Almades behind to gain access to the king's apartments and alert Treville as quickly as possible, La Fargue had decided to go in pursuit of the queen without delay.

And in pursuit of the Alchemist of the Shadows.

The Alchemist now turned to the old gentleman. He recognised him and gave a twisted smile.

'La Fargue? Is that you?'

'It's me, Alchemist. Or whatever your real name is.'

'We meet at last! We almost met at La Rochelle, but . . . Ah! We both know what happened there, don't we?'

Savelda and his swordsmen had clustered round the Alchemist and the two women. Calm and resolute, they placed themselves on guard against attack from either direction. Rapiers in their hands, some of them also had pistols aimed at Saint-Lucq, on one side, or at La Fargue, Laincourt and

Marciac, on the other. They waited for an order, conscious of the fact that the first pistol to he fired would raise an alarm. The music coming from the castle would not be loud enough to cover the sound of shots. It merely drifted hauntingly through the otherwise silent orchard.

Anne d'Autriche and her chambermaid were clinging to one another in fright.

'This man has abused your trust, madame,' said the captain of the Blades. 'He is in the service of the Black Claw and is conspiring to bring about Your Majesty's ruin.'

The queen turned her worried but furious eyes to the Alchemist.

'What do you have to say, monsieur? Will you deny it?'

He shrugged. "

'What good would it do?' he replied before coughing, short of breath, into his handkerchief. 'It would seem the play is over, is it not?'

La Fargue frowned.

There were four Blades. Savelda and his men numbered ten in all and they were in possession of a most precious hostage. Taking that into consideration, the Alchemist's defeatism was troubling, to say the least.

It proved unbearable to Savelda.

'Enough!' he spat.

The queen's attendant screamed and promptly fainted when the one-eyed man seized her by the wrist and roughly threw her aside. Before anyone else could react, the Spaniard was clutching Anne d'Autriche against his body, threatening to slit her throat with a dagger.

The same exclamation escaped from the lips of both La Fargue and the Alchemist.

'No!'

'I won't hesitate!' Savelda promised.

'You fool!' the Alchemist swore at him.

'I won't surrender!'

'Don't you understand? We just need to wait!'

'Wait for what?'

In the castle, the musicians ceased playing.

The silence became immense.

'Oh, Lord!' murmured Marciac as realisation dawned on him.

There was a whistling noise . . .

. . . and the first rocket exploded in the night sky.

The Spaniard's men immediately fired their pistols. The detonations cracked and balls whizzed past the ears of the Blades as they charged forwards. One of them struck Lain-court in the shoulder, halting him in his tracks. A chaotic battle broke out beneath the boughs of the trees in the orchard.

In the underground chambers of the black tower, under the dome of the room paved with golden-veined black marble, Leprat was engaged in a duel to the death with Rauvin.

And he was losing.

It had not taken him long to realise that his opponent was of a different calibre to the mercenaries whose bodies lay scattered across the luminescent floor. Like them, Rauvin had experience. But he also had talent. His strokes were quick, precise and powerful. Although driven by a ferocious hatred of the musketeer, he kept his calm.

Surprised by a thrust, Leprat was forced to step back and parry several times as Rauvin launched a series of attacks, high and low, in rapid succession. Their blades ended up crossed near the hilts and the two men circled before shoving one another away roughly, both of them nearly stumbling.

Leprat moved back, seeking room to manoeuvre.

No longer able to conceal the fact that he was struggling, he feared Rauvin would try to wear him down. His combat with the freebooters had drained him and he sensed that he had still not recovered from the worsening of the ranse that had struck him the previous day. Indeed, he wondered if he would ever truly recover. He was also wielding a rapier made of ordinary steel, which demanded far more of his wrist than the elegant ivory blade to which he was accustomed.

All things considered, the only point in his favour was the fact that he was left-handed.

It was not much of an advantage.

Rauvin attacked, obliging Leprat to step back again. But with a wide swing of his blade, the musketeer forced the other man to expose himself and landed a nasty right hook with his fist. The hired swordsman staggered. Emboldened by this success, Leprat seized the upper hand and made his opponent retreat. Rauvin quickly pulled himself together, however, feinting and slashing at face height. That stopped Leprat's momentum as he had to duck in order to avoid being disfigured.

Rauvin managed to disengage and quickly discarded his doublet which was making him uncomfortably hot.

For his part, Leprat caught his breath.

He had lost a lot of energy in this last assault and his wrist was hurting him more and more. Sweat was making his hair stick to his brow and his eyes sting.

'It looks like you're having a hard time,' observed Rauvin ironically. 'Age, no doubt . . .'

Leprat, who was approaching forty, displayed a weary smile.

'I ... I still have some resources left . . .'

'Really? And for how much longer?'

Both remained en garde, circling and giving each other a measuring stare.

Rauvin suddenly delivered a cut, which Leprat parried and then riposted. After that, there was a whole series of parries and ripostes, one man retreating while the other advanced, and then vice versa as the advantage switched direction. Their soles slipped on the dark marble and the heels of their boots clattered beneath the great dome. Their blades clashed with a clear ringing sound. Their features tightened and their gaze became fixed with the strain of their efforts.

Leprat was weakening.

He wanted to put an end to matters and delivered a false attack. It fooled the hired swordsman who was expecting a flurry of strikes and had modified his guard position accordingly, exposing himself to a thrust which he saw coming too late. The musketeer lunged and scored a hit. Unfortunately he lacked reach and could not press the blow hard enough.

Nevertheless, Rauvin took an inch of steel in his left shoulder. His surprise and pain made him cry out. He stepped back in a panic, pressed one hand to his wound and watched the blood trickling down over it with astonishment.

'Hurts, doesn't it?' said Leprat.

Humiliated and furious, Rauvin launched an assault so vigorous that the musketeer could only defend himself, parrying, dodging and retreating, again and again. For too many long seconds, Leprat had to mobilise all of his strength and attention for the sole purpose of surviving, blocking and deflecting attacks that became increasingly sly and dangerous. He was being overpowered.

Which was as good as saying that he was vanquished in the long run, because eventually he would make a mistake.

So he was already seeking some way out when the course of the fight took a disastrous turn for the worse.

His rapier broke.

The steel snapped cleanly and most of the blade bounced on the marble floor with a clang. It was a moment of amazement for Rauvin, and absolute horror for Leprat ...

. . . after which the hired swordsman smiled and resumed his attack with even greater energy than before.

Leprat leapt backward to avoid a cut, quickly stepped aside to stay clear of a thrust and parried another with the remaining stub of his sword. Other desperate manoeuvres permitted him to stave off the inevitable. But he finally lost his balance and only managed to avoid falling thanks to his right hand, which reached out and grabbed the blade of his enemy. In spite of his glove, the steel cut viciously into the palm of his hand. The musketeer screamed in pain before retreating from Rauvin who stalked towards him, jabbing with his rapier, his arm outstretched. Leprat reeled like a drunkard, unable to take his eyes off the metal point threatening him. Finally, he felt his calves bump against the rim of the central well and almost fell backwards into it, in danger of being swallowed up by the shadowy void.

It was here that all strength abandoned him.

He fell to his knees and, with a confused gaze, watched Rauvin looming over him.

The mercenary was cold-bloodedly preparing to deliver the fatal blow.

So this is how it ends, Leprat thought to himself.

'Any last words?' asked Rauvin.

The musketeer somehow found the force to utter a painful snort and, in defiance, spat out some bloody phlegm.

'No? As you wish,' said the hired swordsman. 'Goodbye.'

He lifted his arms up high, both hands gripping the pommel of his rapier, holding the weapon point downwards, ready to plunge it into Leprat's unprotected chest . . . . . . when someone said:

'Just a moment.'

Rauvin halted his gesture to glance over his shoulder . . . and saw Mirebeau.

Stunned by this development, he turned around.

It was indeed the gentleman in the beige doublet who had somehow risen from among the dead and, pale and bloody, approached with a stiff, hesitant step, his left arm held against his body and his right straining to lift his sword.

Leprat struggled to stand, leaning on the rim of the well.

'I wanted . . .' Mirebeau said to Rauvin. 'I wanted . . .'

'What?'

'I wanted you to know who was going to kill you.'

The mercenary sneered at this: Mirebeau was unable to even hold his rapier up, much less fight with it . . . But the sneer vanished when Rauvin saw the gentleman suddenly lift the pistol held in his left hand.

The gun fired.

The ball hit Rauvin in the middle of his forehead and he fell over backwards, arms extended, as Mirebeau sank to the floor in exhaustion.

Having made sure that the mercenary was quite dead, Leprat hurried over to the dying gentleman.

He gently lifted his head. The other man could barely open his eyes.

The musketeer didn't know what to say. He could not utter any words at all, with his throat constricted and tears welling in his eyes.

'Th . . . thank you,' he finally managed to croak.

Mirebeau nodded very faintly.

'A ... A favour . . .' he murmured. 'For me . . .'

'Ask it . . .'

'I do not ... I do not . . . want ... to die here . . . Please . . . Not here . . .'

Beneath the trees of the orchard at Dampierre a bitter fight had ensued during the fireworks display.

The Blades and Savelda's mercenaries engaged one another while dazzling Hashes accompanied by loud bangs lit up the foliage before gradually fading into flickers. The changing light sculpted their faces and silhouettes as the steel of their rapiers reflected back the same light as the blood of their wounds and the feverish gleam in their eyes.

A nasty kick and a two-handed blow with the pommel of his sword delivered between the shoulder blades allowed La Fargue to eliminate his first opponent. At last enjoying a moment's respite, he looked around him at the scene revealed by a crackling bouquet that illuminated the whole sky and dispersed into thousands of multicoloured sparkles.

Saint-Lucq, having coolly shot down, at close range, one of the three mercenaries who had rushed him at the beginning of the assault, was now battling the other two with his rapier, holding his pistol by the barrel in his left hand as a parrying weapon. He did not seem to be in any difficulty, in contrast to Laincourt who, having received a pistol ball in the right shoulder, was backed up against a tree and defending himself as best he could. Fortunately Marciac had come to his aid and was fending off three men with his sword and dagger, despite a wound to the arm. The Alchemist had disappeared. But where was the queen?

La Fargue saw her.

Savelda was carrying her off towards the wooden walkway that crossed over the moat. Was the Black Claw's agent intending to reach the garden and then seek refuge in the castle? It would be like throwing himself into the wolfs jaws, but there was no time to ponder the matter.

'The queen!' La Fargue yelled, just before another mercenary engaged him in a duel. 'Savelda has the queen!'

Only a short distance away in the orchard, Saint-Lucq heard his captain's call over the explosions of the fireworks. But he also heard an order to surrender. He had just eliminated a second opponent and, keeping the point of his elegant rapier pressed to the throat of the third, he glanced over his shoulder. Some musketeers were taking aim at him . . .

Alerted by the sound of shots being fired, members of the King's Musketeers patrolling in the domain had rushed to the orchard.

'In the name of the king, cease fighting!'

La Fargue froze, having planted his sword to the hilt in the belly of a freebooter who now clung to him in a close embrace, glassy-eyed, and had started to drool a reddish foam. He allowed the dying man to sink to the ground as he freed his blade with a flick of his wrist and then looked around him.

The musketeers had already surrounded the site and, acting on the commands of their ensign, tightened their ring. They obviously intended to push everyone out from beneath the cover of the trees.

Savelda and the queen were almost at the small wooden bridge.

'Throw down your swords and surrender!' the ensign ordered.

The fight had come to a halt but everyone present still hesitated. The threat of being shot down on the spot, however, overcame any inclination on the part of the Black Claw's mercenaries to resist further. Weakened by his wound, Lain-court was only too happy to slide down to the foot of the tree he had been leaning against . . . and then he passed out. Cautiously, La Fargue and Marciac re-sheathed their swords and slowly backed away from the musketeers, their arms extended from their bodies.

'In the service of the cardinal!' called the old gentleman, between two pyrotechnical explosions.

'Don't shoot!'

'Who's speaking?' demanded the ensign, keeping his distance.

'Captain Etienne-Louis de La Fargue.'

'Never heard of you!'

'Monsieur de Treville knows me.'

But something else drew the young officer's attention.

'What the . . . You! Halt! Don't move!'

La Fargue was horrified to see several muskets turn away from Marciac and him to point instead at Savelda and the queen by the bridge. Anne d'Autriche seemed more dead than alive in the arms of the one-eyed man with the ranse.

'No!' EXCLAIMED THE CAPTAIN OF THE BLADES. 'YoU RISK KILLING THE QUEEn!'

'You should listen to him!' cried Savelda as he retreated up the few short steps leading to the walkway.

The fireworks' grand finale was now bursting overhead. The rockets' explosions sounded like cannon fire and, in the deafening din, no one could be certain of being heard.

'Halt, or we'll shoot!' warned the ensign.

'It's the queen!' La Fargue screamed. 'By all the SAINTS, LISTEN TO Me! It's THE QUEEN?'

He tried to take a step forward to explain. Three muskets immediately took aim at his chest and forced him to stop.

Savelda and the queen were now crossing the bridge. They would soon be out of sight.

'Musketeers, on my command!' ordered the young officer raising his hand.

'No!' yelled La Fargue at the top of his lungs.

But the order he dreaded so much never came.

Bringing the fireworks to a culmination, two immense gold and blue comets exploded at the same time as dozens of more ephemeral stars. The lights dazzled everyone except Savelda who had his back to the spectacle. The others averted their eyes, squinting or protecting them with their forearms.

It was the moment the Black Claw agent had been waiting for.

Pushing Anne d'Autriche over the railing on the left, he leapt over the one on the right. The two bodies splashed into

the moat's deep waters only a second apart. That of the unconscious queen immediately began to sink.

Marciac was the first to react.

He took off running, making himself the target of a volley of musket fire, the balls buzzing past him as he dove into the moat. He vanished without it being clear whether or not he had been hit.

Everyone present — La Fargue and the ensign leading the way - rushed to the edge of the steep ditch. The incandescent remains of the fireworks falling back to earth were reflected in the black waters while, at the other end of the castle, the duchesse's guests applauded the end of the display.

Unbearable seconds passed by as they all waited . . .

. . . until Marciac finally resurfaced holding the queen, who was coughing.

And therefore alive.

'Her Majesty is safe,' the Gascon announced to the dumbfounded musketeers. 'Could you lend me a hand? If you please?'

They hurried to assist him just as Almades and Treville arrived from the garden along with more men in blue capes, the captain of the Musketeers quickly taking charge of the situation.

Unnoticed by anyone, La Fargue stood apart from the others and looked out at the orchard for a long while, hands on his hips. The queen had been saved and that was the main thing, but the Alchemist had once again escaped . . .

Then he heard that two musketeers had been found unconscious among the fruit trees and, noticing that Saint-Lucq had also vanished, he smiled.

Saint-Lucq moved through the forest skirted by the road upon which the Alchemist's coach was travelling. He had heard the horse-drawn carriage leaving by way of the gate to the orchard and since then he had been following its progress by sound, pushing aside the low branches and eating up the distance with his steady, powerful strides. Thanks to the days spent watching the Dampierre domain, he knew which route

the coach would be forced to use. Right now, the road curved around the woods while the half-blood was able to take a shortcut. The vehicle would have to slow down as it approached a small bridge, and that was where Saint-Lucq hoped to intercept it.

The trees became more spaced out as the noise of the carriage came closer. Saint-Lucq realised that he was in danger of arriving too late. He picked up his pace, plunging through the underbrush and emerged from the forest, face covered in scratches, only to see the coach disappearing over the bridge.

He'd missed it!

But the Alchemist was escorted by several riders, including one straggler who was only now arriving.

Saint-Lucq seized this last chance available to him. He did not slow down, but instead adjusted his trajectory and gathered his momentum to take a flying leap from a mound close to the road. The rider never saw him coming. The horse whinnied and crashed to the earth in a great cloud of dust . . .

And stood back up, full of fright, but now mounted by the half-blood who urged it to a gallop.

Inside the coach, instinct warned the Alchemist that he was in danger. Leaning his head out the passenger door, he looked back and saw Saint-Lucq hot on his trail.

'Back there!' he alerted his escort, yelling to be heard over the thunderous hoof beats and the creaking of the axles. 'A rider! Stop him!'

Then he sat back and rapidly came to a decision.

Leaning forward, he opened a compartment beneath the bench opposite him and took out a case which he placed on his knees before opening its inlaid lid. Inside was a flask containing the liqueur of golden henbane.

He would have to transform himself.

His last metamorphosis, in Alsace, had exhausted him to the point that he was still unable to regain his primal form, but even an intermediate stage might be enough to save him now. He removed the stopper from the flask and greedily emptied

its contents before he was overcome by a fit of coughing, shortly followed by violent pains.

Three riders on horseback were escorting the coach, one before and two behind. Warned by the Alchemist, those two slowed down to detain Saint-Lucq who had already caught up with them.

Shots were exchanged, using pistols that had been tucked into the saddle holsters. The half-blood came under fire first and responded in kind. He hit one of the mercenaries, who toppled out of his saddle. His companion fired at the half-blood in turn. The ball narrowly missed Saint-Lucq who drew closer still. The other man then took hold of his second pistol and turned to shoot, but the Blade was quicker and succeeded in lodging a ball in the middle of his brow. The mercenary fell forward and was carried off into the distance by his mount.

Seeing the turn that events were taking, the coachman screamed and was heard by the rider galloping in front. The latter drew aside from the road and, hidden behind a thicket, allowed himself to be passed by. Saint-Lucq remained unaware of this trickery. He drew abreast of the horse belonging to the first mercenary he had shot and only had eyes for the pistol remaining in its saddle holster. He grabbed the weapon as he went by and tucked it into his belt, then spurred his own mount forward.

He caught up with the coach in the long dusty cloud raised by the hooves of the horses and the iron-rimmed wheels. He drew as close as possible, reached out his arm, found a handhold and clambered on to the narrow platform used by the footman. He thought he could then catch his breath, but a detonation sounded and a ball smashed into the coach next to his head. Still hanging on, he turned to see the last escort rider coming up the road at breakneck speed, already brandishing his second pistol. The shot, luckily, misfired, the powder burning without exploding and the weapon only spitting out a jet of flame. The mercenary threw it away and drew his sword. Saint-Lucq did the same. A fight commenced between the two men. The half-blood only had the one handhold and one foot on the platform, and he found himself hanging

hallway out over open space, at the rear of the coach whose jolting caused him to sway back and forth, thumping violently against the cabin. As for the rider, he was making wild slashes with his sword which Saint-Lucq sometimes parried and sometimes evaded by swinging a quarter turn to the left or right. But finally the half-blood struck back. Reaching out as far as he could, he planted the point of his blade into the mercenary's flank, who hiccupped and dropped his weapon in order to hold his belly with both hands. His horse slowed to a trot and then a walk, before coming to a halt as the coach vanished into the night.

Saint-Lucq replaced his rapier in its scabbard and took three deep breaths. He now needed to eliminate the coachman or at least force him to bring the carriage to a halt. Gripping the edge with both hands, he climbed up to the roof of the cabin and crawled over it face down. Unable to leave his station, the coachman tried to drive him away him with blows from his whip. Saint-Lucq protected himself with his forearm before managing to seize the leather cord and pull the whip towards him. The coachman gave it up, too busy trying to negotiate a curve which the vehicle was approaching at excessive speed. It leaned dangerously and the two wheels that lifted off the ground on one side fell back with a thump that shook both the axles and Saint-Lucq. Sliding across the roof, the half-blood caught hold at the last second and found himself once again hanging from the rear of the coach.

There were a series of thuds coming from inside the cabin and a scaly fist punched through the roof once, twice, three times, until it shattered the wood completely. Then a creature, combining the features of both a man and a dragon, emerged from the cabin, forcing a passage with the help of its muscular shoulders. More than two metres in height, it stood up straight, screaming to the sky as it unfurled huge membranous wings. Stricken with panic by the sight, the coachman jumped from the vehicle. As for Saint-Lucq, he kept his wits. He understood that he was dealing with the product of an intermediate metamorphosis. The Alchemist was truly a dragon. It remained to be seen whether it was capable oi regaining its

primal form. For Saint-Lucq's sake, it would be better if it couldn't.

The creature looked down at the half-blood. If its features still evoked those of the Alchemist, the reptilian eyes blazed with a primitive, bestial fire.

It roared and abruptly took flight.

A riderless horse was still galloping alongside the coach. Saint-Lucq leapt towards it, managed to grab the pommel of the saddle with both hands, hit the ground with both feet together and bounced back up to straddle the animal, which he promptly urged off the road in pursuit of the draconic creature. Seconds later, the runaway coach tipped over as it came to a bend in the road and broke apart with a crash, the team of horses whinnying as they fled.

Saint-Lucq's horse jumped a ditch, then a fence, and galloped through the fields. He kept his eyes on the creature whose scales glittered beneath the moon and the stars. He feared that he would soon be outdistanced. His horse was tired, not to mention the obstacles he was encountering on the ground. But he still had a pistol, the one he had snatched from the saddle holster as he passed and tucked into his belt.

Which meant he had one shot left.

One last hope.

Sensing it was being chased, the creature turned back and as if suspended in mid-air, it lingered for a moment, beating its wings and considering this miserable mortal determined to hunt it down. It hesitated. But a proud and ferocious instinct had already taken control of its mind, banishing all intelligent thought. It let out a great warlike scream and then dove towards the rider.

The creature and Saint-Lucq rushed at one another. The hybrid being came from above with great flaps of its wings, displaying vicious fangs and extended claws. The Blade was riding flat out, controlling his mount with his knees in order to hold the pistol with both hands. Neither of them was willing to turn aside. The creature gave another menacing scream. Saint-Lucq took careful aim.

He needed to hold on until the last moment before firing.

To wait, hoping that his horse would not suddenly veer off . . .

To wait, just a little longer . . .

One shot. One hope.

Now!

Saint-Lucq pulled the trigger. For an awful instant, he was convinced it had misfired, but the gun went off just before the hybrid collided with him.

The impact was tremendous. It threw the half-blood out of his saddle and he rolled across the ground as the creature crashed a short distance away, and his horse continued its mad gallop.

Nothing moved and the nocturnal silence returned, disturbed only by the fading hoof beats of the fleeing steed.

Saint-Lucq opened his eyes, spitting out blood and dirt, and stood up painfully on trembling legs.

Drawing his sword, he turned around seeking any sign of danger and almost tripped over.

He saw the form lying on the ground and limped over to take a closer look.

It was the creature who, unconscious and bleeding from a pistol ball in the shoulder, was recovering a more human appearance. As Saint-Lucq watched, its size diminished, its wings atrophied, the scales were absorbed into smooth skin and its features once again became those of the Alchemist.

The latter came to his senses and saw Saint-Lucq standing over him with a sword at his throat.

Bare-headed, Saint-Lucq was covered in dust and blood. A long lock of hair hung down before his bruised face. One of the lenses of his spectacles was missing, revealing a bloodshot draconic eye.

He was struggling to remain on his feet and kept his left elbow tucked against his side to protect his damaged shoulder.

But his determination was made of the same steel as the blade of his elegant rapier.

'It's over,' he said.

*

With Leprat supporting Mirebeau's weight, the two men returned to the surface by way of the foundations of the ancient tower. They emerged from the covered pit and remained for a moment, tottering but nevertheless standing, beneath the great starry sky, enjoying the cool air and the quiet of the night. Then Mirebeau, who was having more and more difficulty breathing, coughing up the blood filling his lungs, pointed to the outer wall of one of the pavilions under construction.

'Over there,' he said. 'That would be . . . good.'

Leprat helped the gentleman walk to the spot he had chosen. He installed him against the wall, facing east, and sat down next to him.

'And now,' said Mirebeau. 'We only need . . . We only need to wait for the sun . . .'

He died a short while later.

Leprat still hadn't moved when dawn broke.