“I want this letter,” the cardinal declared after a moment. “Given that you are not prepared to divest yourself of it, I could turn you over to the torturer. He will make you reveal where you have hidden it.”
“I have placed it in the care of a reliable person. A person whose rank and birth protects them. Even from you.”
“Such people are rare. Throughout the entire kingdom, they can be counted on the fingers of one hand.”
“A hand wearing a steel glove.”
“English steel?”
“Perhaps.”
“A clever move.”
Laincourt bowed slightly.
“I attended a good school, monseigneur.”
Richelieu dismissed the compliment with a vague gesture, as one might wave away an annoying insect.
“This person of whom we speak, do they know the nature of the paper you have entrusted to them?”
“Certainly not.”
“So what do you propose?”
“Monseigneur, you are misleading when you say you desire to find this letter.”
“Really?”
“Because instead you wish to destroy it, don’t you? What you desire, above all, is that this letter should remain unread by anyone, ever.”
The cardinal sat back in his armchair and signalled to the secretary to stop writing.
“I think I guess your intentions, monsieur de Laincourt. You want your life and your liberty, and in return you would pledge that this overly compromising letter remains where it is. And thus it would continue to guarantee your safety: if I were to incarcerate you for too long, or kill you, its secret would be revealed. But what guarantees can you offer me in return?”
“Nothing will protect me from you if I reveal the secret of this letter, monseigneur. And I know that wherever I go, it will never be far enough to escape you. If I want to live-”
“But do you want to live, monsieur de Laincourt?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, think instead of your masters. Think of the Black Claw. The lever that you employ with me will not work with them. On the contrary, the Black Claw has every interest in seeing the secret that binds us be revealed. So, who will protect you from them? I should even say: who will protect us from them?”
“Do not trouble yourself on that account, monseigneur. With respect to the Black Claw, I have also made certain arrangements.”
The cardinal then drew the secretary’s attention and indicated the door. The man understood and went out, taking his writing tablet with him.
“You also, monsieur,” said Richelieu addressing Saint-Georges.
The captain at first thought he had misheard.
“Excuse me, monseigneur?”
“Leave us, please.”
“But monseigneur! You cannot seriously think I would leave you!”
“Never fear. Monsieur de Laincourt is a spy, not an assassin. Besides, I only need to call out to have you return, is that not so?”
Regretfully, Saint-Georges left the room and as he was closing the door, he heard: “You are most decidedly a very prudent man, monsieur de Laincourt. Explain to me what this is all about…”
14
“He no longer lives here, messieurs.”
“Since how long?”
“Some time.”
La Fargue and Leprat were questioning the owner of an inn on rue de la Clef, in the faubourg Saint-Victor. While Almades guarded the horses outside, the other two had taken a table, ordered wine, and invited the innkeeper to bring a third glass for himself.
“Have a seat, monsieur. We’d like to talk to you.”
The man hesitated for a moment. Wiping his big red hands on his stained apron, he looked around the room, as if making sure that he had nothing better to do. Then he sat down.
La Fargue knew that Castilla, the chevalier d’Ireban’s companion in debauchery, had been lodging here. Unfortunately, that was no longer the case.
“Be more precise, if you please. When did he leave?”
“Let me see… It was about a week ago, I think. He took his things one night and never returned.”
“In a hurry, then.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Had he been lodging here long?” asked Leprat.
“About two months.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“No visitors?”
Suddenly wary, the innkeeper moved back in his chair.
“Why these questions, messieurs?”
The other two exchanged a look and La Fargue spoke again.
“Castilla has debts. He owes money, lots of money, to certain people. These people wish to recover what is owed them. They would prefer that their names not be mentioned but they are willing to be most generous. You understand?”
“I understand. Gambling debts, is it?”
“Indeed. How did you guess?”
The innkeeper had the satisfied smile of one who, without saying anything, wants to give the impression of knowing much.
“Bah… Just an idea, like that-”
“His room,” Leprat interrupted. “We want to see it.”
“Well…”
“What? Have you let it to someone else?”
“No, but Castilla has paid for the month. Whether he uses the room or not, it is still his. Would you be happy to think I had opened the door to your room for strangers?”
“No,” conceded La Fargue.
“So what do I tell him if he returns tomorrow?”
“You shall tell him nothing. And what’s more, you shall send word to me at the address that I shall indicate to you shortly…”
The captain drew from his grey doublet a purse-small but full-which he pushed across the table to the innkeeper. It was swiftly snatched up.
“Follow me, messieurs,” said the man as he rose.
They accompanied him upstairs where the innkeeper unlocked a door thanks to a ring of keys attached to his belt.
“This is the room,” he announced.
He pushed the door open.
The room was modest but neat, with walls daubed in beige and an unpolished wood floor. The sole furniture consisted of a stool, a small table upon which was placed a water pitcher and a basin, and a stripped bed whose straw mattress was folded back. A chamber pot was turned over on the sill of the window that opened onto the street.
The place had been tidied up and, perfectly anonymous, awaited a new lodger. The two Blades exchanged glances and sighed, doubting that they would find much of interest here.
Nevertheless, to allow Leprat a chance to inspect the room in peace, La Fargue kept the innkeeper busy in the corridor.
“You didn’t tell us if Castilla had any visitors…”
“Only one, in truth. A very young cavalier, another Spaniard like him. Castilla addressed him as ‘chevalier,’ but they seemed to be close friends.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Something like… Oberane… Baribane…”
“Ireban?”
“Yes! The chevalier d’Ireban. That’s it… Does he also have debts?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Between those two, it was often a question of whether to visit madame de Sovange. And why would they go to see madame de Sovange, if not to gamble?”
“What did he look like, this Castilla?”
Without shutting it completely, Leprat pushed the door until it was ajar, under the pretext of looking behind it. He then conducted a thorough search of the room.
He did not know what he was looking for, which didn’t make the task any easier. He knocked on the walls and floor, looked in corners, prodded the straw mattress, and examined its seams closely.
In vain.
The room concealed no secret. If Castilla had ever possessed anything of a compromising nature, he had taken it with him.
The former musketeer was about to give up when by chance he looked out the window and down into the street. What he saw there or rather who he saw there-made him instantly go still.