He approached the notary in the hope of encouraging him to get a grip on himself. The notary rose suddenly and hugged him hard. The half-blood braced himself as the other spoke: “Thank you, monsieur. Thank you… I don’t know who you are, in truth. I don’t know who sent you… But without you… my God, without you…! Believe me when I say that you have my eternal regard, monsieur. There is nothing, from now on, that I could refuse you. You saved me. I owe you my life.”
Slowly but firmly, Saint-Lucq moved away from him.
Then, his hands resting on Bailleux’s shoulders, he gave him a shake and ordered: “Look at me, monsieur.”
The notary obeyed and the crimson spectacles returned his gaze.
“Do not thank me,” continued Saint-Lucq. “And do not trouble yourself any further with the question of who employs me, or why. I do what I do because I’m paid to. If I had been required to kill you, you would be dead. So never thank me again. My place is neither in sensational novels, nor in the chronicles of our times. I’m not a hero. I’m only a swordsman. Contrary to your opinion, I do not deserve anyone’s esteem.”
Initially incredulous, Bailleux was visibly hurt by this declaration.
Finally, still looking dazed, he nodded and pulled on the beret the half-blood had brought him.
“We should hurry,” concluded Saint-Lucq. “Each minute that passes is a minute lost.”
The notary left the room first and while he climbed gracelessly into the saddle in the courtyard the half-blood paused inside for a moment to pay the landlord and slip a few words into his ear. The man listened to his instructions attentively, then nodded and pocketed an additional piece of gold.
Less than half an hour after Saint-Lucq and Bailleux left, armed riders arrived. The landlord was waiting for them on the doorstep.
10
In the dining room of the Hotel de l’Epervier, the Cardinal’s Blades finished their lunch.
Seated at the head of the rough oak table, La Fargue spoke very seriously with Leprat and Agnes. Marciac listened, close by, and occasionally made an interjection but otherwise contented himself with rocking back and forth on his chair and shuffling a deck of cards which, inevitably, then turned out to have all four aces on top. Almades, silent, waited. As for Ballardieu, he digested his lunch while smoking a pipe and sipping the last of the wine, not without casting longing glances at Nais’s backside as she cleared the table.
“Pretty girl, isn’t she?” Marciac said to him, seeing the old soldier ogling the comely young woman.
“Yes. Very.”
“But not very talkative. Almost mute.”
“I see an advantage there.”
“Really? What a strange idea…”
They had all been somewhat apprehensive of this meal, which, following the immediate and genuine rejoicing of their initial reunion, would force them to take the true measure of their friendship. What remained of the people they had been? One never knows what friends lost from sight for a long time may have become and the circumstances which led to the disbanding of the Blades during the siege of La Rochelle had laid a mournful veil over the memories of its members. This veil, however, soon lifted and the previous ties between them were quickly reestablished.
As was entirely natural, the distribution of the Blades around the table indicated their affinities as well as the resumption of old habits. Thus the captain presided over the table, in close council with Agnes and Leprat, whom he consulted with ease, the musketeer even acting as a lieutenant within the very informal organisation of the Blades. Marciac, remaining somewhat aloof, was one of those who knew their own value and abilities but preferred to stay on the margins, never showing himself to be unworthy and who would consider it an insult if he were ordered about. Serious and reserved, Almades waited to be called upon. And Ballardieu, accustomed to long preludes before battle, took advantage of any moment of peace.
Only three Blades, out of the original band, were missing. One of them had vanished as if the twisted shadows from which he had emerged had engulfed him once again after La Rochelle. The other had been a traitor and no one, yet, had dared to speak his name. And the last one, finally, had perished and his loss was a wound which continued to bleed in the memories of all present.
As Nais left the room with the last plates, Agnes glanced with a question in her eye at La Fargue, who understood and nodded. The young woman rose and said with deep feeling: “I believe, messieurs, that the time has come to raise our glasses in honour of he whom only death could keep from being here.”
They all stood, glasses in hand.
“To Bretteville!” said La Fargue.
“To Bretteville!” cried the others in chorus.
“To Bretteville,” Agnes repeated in a strangled voice, as if to herself.
The Blades reseated themselves, divided between the joy of having known Bretteville, the pride of having loved this man, and the sorrow of having lost him at the last.
“We have a mission,” La Fargue said after a moment.
They listened.
“It is a matter of finding a certain chevalier d’Ireban.”
“What has he done?” Agnes inquired.
“Nothing. He has disappeared and there is concern for his life.”
“People who have not done anything do not disappear,” Almades declared in a neutral voice.
“A Spaniard?” Marciac was surprised.
“Yes,” said the captain.
“So Spain will be busy trying to find him!”
“That is precisely what the cardinal wishes to avoid.”
La Fargue rose, walked around his chair, and leaned against the back, his hands folded.
“The chevalier d’Ireban,” he repeated, “is the heir to a Spanish grandee. A secret and unworthy heir to the title. A corrupt young man who, under an assumed name, has come to Paris to spend his coming fortune.”
“What is his real name?” asked Almades.
“I don’t know. It seems Spain would like to keep it a secret.”
“No doubt for fear of a scandal,” Ballardieu guessed. “If his father is a grandee-”
“‘If’!” Marciac interrupted. “Should we take everything Spain says at face value?”
La Fargue silenced the Gascon with a glance and continued: “His father is not well. He will soon be dead. And Spain has been seeking the safe return of the son since she first realised he had disappeared. Ireban seems to have vanished suddenly and it is feared he has met with some mishap in Paris.”
“If he was leading a life of debauchery,” noted Agnes, “that’s probable. And if he was keeping bad company, and they realised who he really is-”
“Once again, ‘ifs,’” Marciac emphasised in a low voice.
“Via a special emissary,” La Fargue went on, “Spain has explained the situation, her concerns, and her intentions to our king.”
“Her ‘intentions’?” queried Ballardieu.
“Spain wants Ireban returned and to this end, not to mince words, she is threatening to send her agents into our kingdom if France is not prepared to do what is necessary. That is where we become involved.”
Leprat’s self-restraint finally wore away.
Unable to hear any more he rose and paced a hundred steps in livid silence, his expression hard and a fire in his eyes. Firstly, he was displeased that Spain was imposing conditions upon France. But secondly, and more importantly, he had not intended to hang up his musketeer’s cape only to discover, on the very same day, that he had done so in order to serve another country.
An enemy country.
La Fargue had been expecting this reaction from his Blades.
“I know what you’re thinking, Leprat.”
The other stopped his pacing.