Laincourt set the log-book down.
He drew a key from the pocket of his doublet and opened a cupboard. He had to be quick, as every minute now counted. On a shelf, a box sat between two tidily bound manuscripts. This was the object of his search. Another key, a tiny one, opened its secrets to him. Inside were letters waiting to be initialled and sealed by the cardinal. The ensign thumbed through them impatiently, and took out one which he perused more closely.
“That’s it,” he murmured.
Turning, he brought the letter closer to the candle and read it twice in order to memorise its every comma. But as he refolded the document, he heard a noise.
The squeak of a floorboard?
The ensign froze, heart thumping, with all his senses alert.
Long seconds passed…
Nothing happened. No one entered. And, almost as if it had never occurred, the sound was not repeated.
Pulling himself together, Laincourt replaced the letter in the box and the box in the cupboard, which he relocked with his key. He assured himself that he had disturbed nothing, and then departed silently, taking his log-book with him.
But Laincourt had barely gone when someone pushed open another door, left ajar and hidden behind a wall hanging.
Charpentier.
Returning in haste from the Louvre to fetch a document which Cardinal Richelieu had not thought he would need, he had seen everything.
10
Having saddled his horse, La Fargue was strapping on the holsters of his pistols when Delormel joined him in the stable, amidst the warm smell of animals, hay, and dung.
“You’ll come see us again soon?” asked the fencing master. “Or, at least, not wait another five years?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know you are always welcome in my home.”
La Fargue patted his mount’s neck and turned round.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Here. You left this in your room.”
Delormel held out a small locket on a broken chain. The old gentleman took it. Worn, marked, scratched, and tarnished, the piece of jewellery seemed worthless, lying there on his big gloved hand.
“I didn’t know you still kept it after all this time,” added the fencing master.
La Fargue shrugged.
“You can’t give up your past.”
“But yours continues to haunt you.”
Rather than answer, the captain made to check his saddle.
“Perhaps she didn’t deserve you,” Delormel commented.
His back turned, La Fargue went rigid.
“Don’t judge, Jean. You don’t know the whole story.”
It wasn’t necessary to say anything more. Both men knew they were speaking of the woman whose chipped portrait was to be found inside the locket.
“That’s true. But I know you well enough to know that something is eating at you. You should be delighted by the prospect of reuniting the Blades and serving the Crown once again. So I’d guess that you only accepted the cardinal’s proposal under duress. You yielded to him, etienne. That’s not like you. If you were one of those who yielded easily, you would already be carrying a marshal’s baton-”
“My daughter may be in danger,” La Fargue said suddenly.
Slowly, he turned to face Delormel, who looked stunned.
“You wanted to know the whole truth, didn’t you? There, now you know.”
“Your daughter…? You mean to say…”
The fencing master made a hesitant gesture toward the locket which the captain still held in his fist. La Fargue nodded: “Yes.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty. Or thereabouts.”
“What do you know of the danger she’s in?”
“Nothing. The cardinal simply implied there was a threat against her.”
“So he might have lied to you in order to secure your services!”
“No. I doubt he would have played this card with me without good reason. It is-”
“-despicable. And what will you say to your Blades? These men give you their blind trust. Some of them even look on you as a father!”
“I shall tell them the truth.”
“All of it?”
Before mounting his horse, the old captain admitted, at some cost: “No.”
11
Fiddling distractedly with his steel signet ring before returning it to the third finger on his left hand, Saint-Lucq watched the everyday drama on display in the crowded tavern.
Located on a miserable-looking courtyard in the Marais neighbourhood, tucked away from the beautiful private mansions with their elegant facades being built in the nearby Place Royale, the Red Ecu was a cellar tavern whose poor-quality candles gave off more soot than light, in an atmosphere already poisoned by sweaty bodies, bad wine-soaked breath, tobacco smoke, and a potent whiff of the muck picked up by shoes walking the streets of Paris. Here, everyone spoke loudly and forced others to raise their voices in turn, creating an infernal uproar. The wine being drunk had something to do with this. Loud laughter burst out, as did the occasional sharp quarrel. A hurdy-gurdy played songs on demand. From time to time, cheers and applause greeted a lucky throw of the dice, or the antics of a drunkard.
Saint-Lucq, without appearing to do so, kept a close eye on all.
He observed who entered and who left through the small door at the top of the stairs, who used that other door normally reserved to the tavern keeper and the serving girls, who joined someone else and who remained alone. He stared at no one, and his gaze slid away whenever it met that of another. But those present barely took any notice of him. And that was exactly as he liked it, in the shadowy corner where he had chosen to sit. He was constantly on the lookout, keeping track of any anomalies that might indicate a threat. It could be anything: a wink between two people who otherwise pretended not to know one another, an old coat concealing new weapons, a faked fight designed to distract attention. Saint-Lucq was always wary and watched for such things automatically, out of sheer force of habit. He knew that the world was a stage filled with deception, where death, disguised in everyday rags, could strike at any moment. He knew this all the more, for it was often he who delivered the mortal blow.
Upon his arrival, he had ordered a jug of wine, none of which he drank. The young woman who served him offered to keep him company, but he declined the offer with a calm, cold, definitive “No.” She went off to talk with the other two serving girls, who had watched her approach the new customer. From their reaction, it was obvious that they found Saint-Lucq both attractive and intriguing. He was still young, well dressed, and a handsome man in a dark way which hinted at sinister and exciting secrets. Was he a gentleman? Perhaps. In any case, he wore his sword naturally, his doublet with elegance, and his hat with a quiet, gallant confidence. His hands were exquisite and his cheeks freshly shaven. Of course, his boots were muddied, but despite that they were made from excellent leather, and who could go unsullied by the disgusting muck of Paris, unless they travelled by coach? No, clearly, this cavalier dressed in black had plenty of pleasing assets. And then he had those curious spectacles with red lenses perched on his nose, which concealed his eyes and rendered him still more mysterious.