Once they reached the faubourg Saint-Germain, Athos and Leprat passed before the church of Saint-Sulpice and, taking rue du Vieux-Colombier, entered the gates to the Treville mansion.
Monsieur de Treville being the captain of the King’s Musketeers, this building was more like a military encampment than a great man’s residence. It was filled with a jostling crowd and one ran a constant risk of bumping shoulders with some proud gentleman of no fortune but with a murderous eye. Although lacking in wealth, all of His Majesty’s Musketeers had hot blue blood. All were ready to draw swords at the first provocation. And all of them, whether they were on duty or not and whether they wore the blue cape with its silver fleur-de-lis cross or not, tended to congregate here in their captain’s house. They gathered in the courtyard, slept in the stables, mounted guard on the stairs, played dice in the antechambers, and, on occasion, even joyfully crossed blades in the hallways for entertainment, training, or the demonstration of the excellence of a particular series of moves. This picturesque spectacle that visitors found so striking was by no means extraordinary. In these times, most soldiers were recruited only when war loomed and then dispersed, for reasons of economy, once their services were no longer required. As for the few permanent regiments that existed, they were not barracked anywhere… due a lack of barracks. As members of the king’s own prestigious military household, the Musketeers were among these few troops who were always available and not disbanded in peacetime. Nevertheless, no particular arrangements were made for housing them, equipping them, or supplying their daily needs: the pay they received from the king’s Treasury, as paltry and irregular as it was, was supposed to suffice for these provisions.
Within the Hotel de Treville, everyone had heard about the ambush into which Leprat had fallen. Rumour had said that he was dead or dying, so his return to the fold was warmly greeted. Without participating in the effusive cries of joy and other virile manifestations of affection, Athos accompanied Leprat as far as the great staircase littered with musketeers, servants, and various seekers of favour. There, he took his leave.
“Remember to conserve your strength, my friend. You’ve received a hard knock.”
“I promise you I will. Thank you, Athos.”
Leprat was announced and did not have to wait long in the antechamber. Captain de Treville received him almost immediately in his office, rising to greet him when he entered.
“Come in, Leprat, come in. And have a seat. I am delighted to see you, but I did not expect to see you on your feet again so soon. I was even planning to come and visit you at home this evening.”
Leprat thanked him and took a chair, while monsieur de Treville sat down again at his desk.
“First of all, how are you?”
“Well.”
“Your arm? Your thigh?”
“They both serve me once again.”
“Perfect. Now, your report.”
The musketeer began, recounting how he had initially overcome Malencontre’s henchmen but allowed the leader himself to escape.
“‘Malencontre,’ you say?”
“That’s the name he gave me.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
Then Leprat quickly outlined the ambush on rue Saint-Denis and the mysterious gentleman who had shot him down without a second thought. When he finished his recital the captain rose and, hands behind his back, turned toward the window. It offered a view of the courtyard of his private mansion, a courtyard full of the musketeers he adored, protected, and scolded like a father. As undisciplined and unruly as they were, there was not one of them who was not prepared to risk a thousand dangers and give his life for the king, for the queen, or for France. Most of them were young and, like all young men, they believed they were immortal. But that was not enough to explain either their fearlessness or their extraordinary devotion. Although they might not look like much, they were an elite force equal to the Cardinal’s Guards.
“You should know, Leprat, that the Louvre is well pleased with you. I saw His Majesty the king this morning. He remembers you and sends his compliments… Your mission has been a success.”
Turning his gaze from the courtyard, Treville faced Leprat again.
“I have been charged with sending you on leave,” he said in a serious tone.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It is to be an unlimited leave of absence.”
The musketeer stiffened in shock and disbelief.
A few days or weeks of leave were a reward. But unlimited leave signified that, until given new orders, he was to hang up his cape.
Why?
8
Entering Paris through the Richelieu gate, a two-horse coach descended the street of the same name between the Palais-Cardinal gardens and Saint-Roch hill, followed the quays of the Seine, and crossed the river over a recently built wooden toll bridge: the Pont Rouge, so-called because of the red lead paint with which it was daubed. And so the coach reached the faubourg Saint-Germain which was prospering in the shadow of its famous abbey and almost constituted a city in its own right.
A new neighbourhood had sprung up, just at the far end of the Pont Rouge. Before Queen Marguerite de Navarre decided, at the beginning of the century, to make the Pre-aux-Clercs her domain the area had been nothing but a muddy riverbank and a vast empty ground. Now it comprised a new quay, a luxurious mansion, a large park, and the convent of Les Augustins Reformes. The queen, who was Henri IV’s first wife, had borrowed money to finance her projects and had even gone as far as to misappropriate funds-from which, it was said, came the name of Malaquais quay, meaning “badly acquired.” Upon her death in 1615 she left behind a magnificent property, but also 1,300,000 livres in debts and a host of creditors who were still anxious to collect. To satisfy them, the domain was put up for auction and sold off in lots to various entrepreneurs who laid out new streets and started building.
Guided by the sure hand of a solidly built grey-haired coachman who chewed at the stem of a small clay pipe, the coach followed the Malaquais quay and then took rue des Saints-Peres. At Hopital de la Charite he turned the coach onto rue Saint-Guillaume and soon came to a halt before a large and sombre looking nail-studded door.
Within the coat of arms, worn away over time, a bird of prey carved from dark stone presided on the pediment above the gate.
Sitting at the bottom of the steps to the Hotel de l’Epervier, Marciac was bored and playing dice against himself when he heard the heavy thud at the coach door. He lifted his head to see monsieur Guibot hobbling on his wooden leg across the courtyard to see who was knocking. At the same time, Almades leaned out of an open window.
A moment later a woman entered through the pedestrian gate. Very tall, slender, dressed in grey and red, she wore a dress whose skirt was hitched up on her right side to reveal male hose and the boots of a cavalier beneath it. Her wide-brimmed hat was decorated with two large ostrich feathers-one white and the other scarlet-and a veil which hid her face while protecting it from the dust to which anyone undertaking a long coach journey on the terrible roads was exposed. But the shape of her mouth could be discerned: pretty, with full, dark lips.