Marciac thought for a moment about the prospect-which had not crossed his mind until now-of a second duel against the marquis de Brevaux. Then he shrugged.
“Perhaps you’re right… We shall see.”
And extending his empty goblet, he added: “Before we start on the pork, it would be my pleasure to drink a little more of your wine.”
As d’Orvand poured for his friend, risking his clean, beautifully cut breeches in the process, Marciac held the prize he had won from the marquis up to the light. Admiring the ruby, he slid it onto his finger, where it came to rest against a signet ring. But it was the signet ring itself which caught the vicomte’s eye-made of tarnished steel, it was etched with a rapier and a Greek cross capped with fleur-de-lis.
“There,” said Marciac admiring the shine of the stone, “that should keep Madame Rabier satisfied.”
“You borrowed money from La Rabier?” exclaimed d’Orvand in a tone of reproach.
“What else could I do? I have debts and it is necessary that I honour them. I am not the marquis de Brevaux.”
“Still, La Rabier… borrowing money from her is never a good idea. I would have been happy to advance you a few ecus. You should have asked me.”
“Asked you? A friend? You’re joking, vicomte!”
D’Orvand slowly shook his head in silent reproof.
“All the same, there is one thing that intrigues me, Nicolas…”
“And what would that be?”
“In the nearly four years during which you have honoured me with your friendship, I have often seen you impoverished-and even that word is a poor description for it. You have pawned and redeemed your every possession a hundred times over. There were times when you were forced to fast for days, and you would doubtless have let yourself die of hunger if I hadn’t invited you to my table under one pretext or another. I even remember a day when you had to borrow a sword from me in order to fight a duel… But never, ever, have you agreed to be separated from that steel signet ring. Why is that?”
Marciac’s gaze became vague, lost in the memories of the day when he first received the ring, until a sudden bump in the road jolted the two men perched on their stuffed leather bench.
“It’s a fragment of my past,” replied the Gascon. “You can never be rid of your past. Not even if you pawn it…”
D’Orvand, who found that melancholy did not suit his friend, asked after a moment: “We will soon be in Paris. Where would you like to stop?”
“Rue de la Grenouillere.”
The vicomte paused a moment, then said: “Did you not have enough of duelling for one day?”
Marciac replied with a smile, and muttered, almost to himself: “Bah!… When I die, I want to be certain at least that I have truly lived.”
9
Paris at midday was packed with working, bustling, and gossiping people, but in contrast, at the Palais-Cardinal, the guards on duty seemed to be sentries of some luxurious necropolis. Accompanied by his large entourage of advisors and his armed escort, Richelieu was at the Louvre, and in his absence, life at his residence carried on slowly, almost as though it was night. Men in capes were barely to be seen. More lowly servants moved along dark corridors without haste or noise, carrying out routine menial tasks. The crowd of supplicants had thinned out considerably when they heard that the master of the palace had left, and only a few persistent souls decided to wait for his return, making do with an improvised repast on the spot.
Alone in a small study, Ensign Arnaud de Laincourt made use of this lull in activity to carry out a task which came with his rank: filling out the log-book of the Cardinal’s Guards. The rule was that the officer on duty must scrupulously record all the day’s events, whether they were ordinary or unusual, from the hour when guards were relieved at their posts to possible lapses in discipline, and detailing every occurrence or incident which might affect His Eminence’s security. Captain Saint-Georges consulted the log at the end of each shift, before communicating anything noteworthy to the cardinal.
“Enter,” said Laincourt, on hearing a knock at the door.
Brussand entered.
“Monsieur de Brussand. You’re not on duty… Would you not be better off at home, resting after your long night on watch?”
“Of course, but… would you grant me a minute?”
“Just allow me to finish this task.”
“Certainly.”
Brussand sat down in front of the desk at which the young officer was writing by candlelight. The room had only a high, bevelled window opening onto a light well into which the sun barely peeped. There were, without a doubt, dungeons in the Bastille or in the chateau de Vincennes that were better lit.
Laincourt finished his report, checked it, wiped his quill on a rag, and then slipped it between the pages of the thick log-book before he closed it.
“There,” he said. “I’m all yours.”
And turning his crystal blue eyes upon Broussard, he waited.
“I have come to assure myself,” said the other, “that you do not hold anything against me.”
“Regarding what?”
“Regarding confidences about you that I repeated to young Neuvelle. Concerning your past. And the circumstances under which you joined the Cardinal’s Guards.”
Laincourt gave an amiable smile.
“Did you say anything slanderous?”
“Certainly not!”
“Anything untrue?”
“No. At least, not unless I’ve been misled myself.”
“Then you have nothing to reproach yourself for. And therefore, neither do I.”
“Of course. But…”
There was a silence during which the officer’s smile did not waver.
His courteous mask, ultimately, proved to be a perfect defence. Because it expressed nothing but polite interest it left others to carry the conversation, so that, without any effort on his part, they little by little became less self-assured. Rarely failing, this strategy was proving particularly effective against Brussand, who was growing more embarrassed by the moment.
But the old guard was a soldier, and rather than remain exposed in this manner, he instead charged forward: “What can I say? There are certain mysteries surrounding you that encourage rumours-”
“Indeed?”
“Your famous mission, for example. The one which, it is whispered, detained you for two years in Spain. And for which, no doubt, you were promoted to the Cardinal’s Guards with the rank of ensign… Well, you can imagine what is said about all that, can’t you?”
Laincourt waited without making any reply, the same indecipherable smile on his lips.
Then, a clock sounding half past one, he rose, picked up his hat, and tucked the heavy log-book under his arm.
“Forgive me, Brussand, but duty calls.”
The two men walked together to the door.
As he allowed the officer to go first, Brussand said to him in a conniving tone: “Strange country, Spain, isn’t it?”
Laincourt walked on, leaving Brussand behind him.
***With the air of a man who knows exactly where he is going, Arnaud de Laincourt strode through a series of salons and antechambers, paying no heed to either the servants or the guards on duty who snapped to attention as he passed. Finally, he entered an empty service corridor and, at its intersection with another, paused a few seconds before turning right toward the cardinal’s private apartments.
From that point, he moved as quickly and silently as possible, although taking care not to appear furtive: there was no question of making his way on tiptoe, or hugging the walls, or glancing anxiously around. If someone was to surprise him, it was best to behave in a manner unlikely to arouse suspicion. His rank and his cape, certainly, protected him. But then, suspicion was the rule in the Palais-Cardinal.
He soon pushed open a door which, seen from the room within, merged seamlessly with the decorated wooden panels. This was the study where monsieur Charpentier, Richelieu’s secretary, normally worked. Functionally but elegantly furnished, it was filled to the point of overflowing with papers. Daylight filtered in through the closed curtains, while a candle guttered weakly. It was not there to provide light, but its flame could be transferred to numerous other candles at hand, and thus, in an emergency, fully illuminate the study in the middle of the night if required. Just one of the many precautions taken by those in the service of His Eminence, who demanded readiness at all times of the day or night.