After he had assured himself of the identity of the baronne de Vaudreuil and had saluted respectfully, the wyvern rider held out a letter drawn from the great reptile’s saddlebags.
“Thank you. Is an immediate response expected?”
“No, madame.”
Seeing Marion appear on the kitchen threshold, Agnes directed the royal messenger to her so that he could partake of a glass of wine and whatever else he desired before setting out again. The man thanked her and left Agnes in the company of his wyvern which, calm and docile, twisted its long neck around to observe its surroundings with a placid eye.
Agnes broke the wax seal showing the Cardinal Richelieu’s arms and, without expression, read the contents.
“What is it?” asked Ballardieu coming over for news.
She didn’t reply at once, but turned her head and stared at him for a few moments.
And then, finally, for the first time in a very long while, she smiled.
27
That evening three riders passed through the Buci gate-or Bussy, as it was written then-entering the vast and peaceful faubourg surrounding Saint-Germain abbey. They rode down rue du Colombier at a slow walk, soon reached rue des Saints-Peres, passed Les Reformes cemetery, and, in front of La Charite hospital, turned into rue Saint-Guillaume.
“Here we are,” said La Fargue, stepping down from his horse.
Marciac and Almades shared the same expression as they looked toward the huge gates before which they had stopped-these were massive and gloomy, with two carved, rectangular wooden panels fixed in place with large round-headed nails. They also dismounted and, as their captain rapped the wrought-iron knocker three times, they observed the tranquil street which forked halfway along its length toward rue de Saint-Dominique. There were only a few people walking on its filthy paving stones beneath the golden and crimson skies at sunset, and its tradesmen were packing away their stalls. The vague odour of cooking mingled with the excremental scent of Parisian muck. Not far away, a fistful of knotted hay served as a sign for a local tavern.
“It’s barely changed,” said the Gascon.
“No,” the Spanish master at arms replied laconically.
A door for pedestrians had been cut into one of the great panels of the carriage gate. This door was pushed open slightly and, from within, a voice inquired: “Who’s there?”
“Visitors,” replied La Fargue.
“Are they expected?”
“Their presence has been called for.”
This curious exchange made Marciac smile with nostalgia.
“Perhaps we should change the passwords,” murmured Marciac to Almades. “It’s been five years, after all…”
The other made a face: right now, all that mattered was whether the door would open for them. And it did.
La Fargue going first, they passed through the small door one by one, leading their mounts by their bits to make them lower their heads. As soon as they crossed the threshold the horses’ shoes clattered loudly against the paving stones, filling the courtyard into which they emerged with echoes.
***It was a massive old residence built in a severe architectural style, entirely out of grey stone, which a strict Huguenot had commissioned according to his specifications, following the massacre on the feast day of Saint-Barthelemy in 1572. It evoked the ancient fortified manors which still survive in some parts of the French countryside, whose walls are veritable ramparts and whose windows can be used as embrasures. A high wall separated the courtyard from the street. To the right, as one entered, rose the scabby, windowless wall of the neighbouring building. Opposite the gates were two coach doors leading into the stables, which were topped by a hay loft. Finally, to the left, the main building stood at an angle. Flanked by a turret and a dovecote, it comprised a tier of tiny attic windows embedded in its slate rooftop, two rows of stone-mullioned windows looking on to the courtyard, a protruding study, and a ground floor which could be reached by a short flight of steps.
Abandoning his horse Marciac climbed these steps, turned toward his companions who had remained behind, and declared with affected pomposity: “And so we have returned to Hotel de l’Epervier, the House of the Sparrowhawk, which, as you can see, has lost none of its charms… Damn!” he added in a lower tone. “This place is even more sinister than I recalled, which I hardly believed possible…”
“This house has served us well in the past,” declared the captain. “And it will serve again. Besides, we are all familiar with it.”
Having closed the pedestrian door again, the person who had granted them admission now came to join them.
The old man limped on a wooden leg. Small, skinny, dishevelled, he had bushy eyebrows and his bald head was surrounded with a crown of long thin yellowish white hair.
“Good evening, monsieur,” he said to La Fargue, holding a large bunch of keys out to him.
“Good evening, Guibot. Thank you.”
“Monsieur Guibot?” interrupted Marciac, coming closer. “Monsieur Guibot, is it really you?”
“Indeed, monsieur, it’s me.”
“I thought I recognised your voice but… have you really been guarding these sorry stones for the past five years?”
The man reacted as though someone had insulted his family: “Sorry stones, monsieur? Perhaps this house is not very cheerful and no doubt you will find, here and there, a few cobwebs and some dust, but I assure you that her roof, her structure, her walls, and her floors are solid. Her chimneys draw well. Her cellars and stables are vast. And of course, there is always the small door at the bottom of the garden which leads to a dead-end alley which-”
“And her?” Almades interrupted. “Who is she?”
A young woman in an apron and white bonnet hovered on the threshold to the main building. Plump and blonde, with blue eyes, she smiled timidly while wringing her hands.
“This is Nais,” Guibot explained. “Your cook.”
“What about madame Lourdin?” inquired Marciac.
“She passed away last year, monsieur. Nais is her niece.”
“Is she a good cook?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Can she hold her tongue?” asked La Fargue, who had his own sense of priorities.
“She is, so to speak, mute, captain.”
“What do you mean, ‘so to speak’?”
“She is so timid and bashful that she almost never utters a word.”
“That’s not exactly the same thing…”
Nais hesitated to approach, and La Fargue was about to beckon her closer when the knocker on the carriage gate was heard again. It took everyone by surprise and even made the young girl jump.
“It’s him,” Guibot announced with a hint of worry in his voice.
The captain nodded, his silver hair touching the collar of his grey doublet.
“Let him in, monsieur Guibot.”
“‘Him’?” asked the Gascon while the porter obeyed. “Who is ‘he’?”
“Him,” said the captain lifted his chin toward the gentleman who entered the courtyard leading a bay horse by the bridle.
Somewhere between forty-five and fifty years old, he was tall, thin, and pale, patently smug and self-assured, dressed in a crimson doublet and black breeches.
Marciac recognised him even before he caught sight of the man’s well-groomed moustache and the scar on his temple.
“Rochefort.”
28
As was his habit, the young marquis de Gagniere dined at home, early and alone. An immutable ritual governed even the tiniest details of the meal, from the perfect presentation of the table to the silence imposed on the servants, as they presented a series of dishes prepared by a famous and talented rotisseur who was accustomed to the tastes of the most demanding of his customers. The crockery laid out on the immaculate linen tablecloth was all made of vermeil, the glasses and decanters were all crystal, the cutlery silver. So luxuriously dressed that he would dazzle at court, Gagniere ate with a fork according to an Italian fashion which had not yet become commonplace in France. He cut small, equal pieces which he chewed slowly, emotionless and stiff, his gaze always directed straight ahead, and pausing between each dish he placed his hands flat to either side of the plate. When he drank he took care to wipe his mouth and moustache in order to avoid dirtying the edge of the glass.