“Oh, it’s just a scratch,” he said, with a vague gesture toward the bandage hidden beneath the sleeve of his clean, unwrinkled shirt. “It scarcely bled at all.”
“You were lucky,” Leprat said from his armchair, with just a hint of bitterness.
“No one succeeds without a bit of luck,” said Agnes as she sat down at the big table.
She took a plate and, after poking around in the dishes, loaded it with cold meats and cheeses, gratefully accepting a glass of wine that Ballardieu poured for her. La Fargue arrived, sat astride a backward-turned chair, and immediately launched a general discussion: “You first, Marciac. Tell us what you know about this girl.”
“Her name is Cecile.”
“And what else?”
“That’s all. I followed Castilla, who Agnes and I spotted leaving madame de Sovange’s gaming salons. Castilla led me to Cecile’s house in rue de la Fontaine. He did not stay long and left on horseback. By chance, I then came upon some men who I overheard preparing to abduct Cecile-although at the time, I didn’t know that was her name. Be that as it may, I told myself that I could not let them succeed in their plan. And there you have it.”
“Who were these men?”
“Just some hired swords, like others of their kind. But they took their orders from a Spaniard, a one-eyed man in black leather who was so sure of their success that he did not remain with them.”
“Would you recognise him?” asked Leprat.
“Of course.”
“But you’d never seen him before.”
“No.”
La Fargue mulled over this information and then turned to Agnes.
“Now you.”
The baronne emptied her glass before speaking.
“She says her name is Cecile Grimaux. Last year she was living with her father and mother in Lyon. Both of them are now dead, the father from illness and the mother from grief, shortly after him. With no other resources, Cecile went to join her elder sister, Chantal, a seamstress who was living modestly in Paris but who was glad to take her in-”
“‘Was living’?” Leprat interrupted.
“I’m coming to that… She occasionally worked for a glove maker and it was through him that Chantal made the acquaintance of two Spanish adventurers, the chevalier d’Ireban and his friend Castilla. She fell in love with the first and became his mistress. They trysted in secret in a little house in the faubourg Saint-Martin, living their perfect love while hidden from the eyes of the world. It lasted for a few weeks until they both disappeared suddenly. Since then, Castilla has been searching for them and Cecile awaits news. It seems that this ordeal has drawn them together.”
“How closely has it drawn them together?” asked Marciac.
Cecile being a very pretty girl, the others immediately guessed the reason for his interest.
“I believe you have a rival for her affections,” indicated Agnes with a quirk of her lips. “But no doubt your chivalrous exploits last night plead in your favour-”
“That’s not at all what I was thinking about!”
“Come, now…”
“That’s enough!” La Fargue ordered with a rare display of temper.
But he recovered his calm quickly, pretending not to notice the wary looks being exchanged by the others.
“Nevertheless,” said Ballardieu, “it’s a strange tale.”
“But it matches pretty well with what Rochefort has told us,” noted Leprat almost regretfully.
Resuming the discussion, the Blades’ captain asked Agnes: “What does Cecile know of Ireban?”
“Almost nothing. According to her, her sister was not very forthcoming on the subject.”
“And of Castilla?”
“We hardly spoke of him. I only know that he has taken up residence at the love nest in the faubourg Saint-Martin, in case Chantal or the chevalier shows up there.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Give Almades the directions: he will accompany me there in the hope of finding Castilla, who may help us get to the bottom of things. You will stay here, Agnes, and learn everything you can from Cecile once she wakes. As for you, Marciac, you’ve earned the right to rest for a bit.”
Since it went without saying that wherever Agnes was, one would also find Ballardieu, it only remained to assign Leprat. For a brief moment, out of respect, La Fargue tried to think of a task for him. But the former musketeer came to his rescue: “Don’t trouble yourself, captain. I know that I’ll be useless until this blasted leg is healed. Let’s just say that I am holding the fort in your absence.”
Everyone nodded, slightly embarrassed, before heading off on their various errands.
As preparations were being made, La Fargue went to his room and wrote a short letter which he carefully sealed. Agnes saw him a little while later, scratching at the door to Cecile’s room and exchanging a few words with Nais through the narrow opening, before giving her the missive. The baronne slipped away unnoticed and went to find Ballardieu.
“Get ready,” she said, once she was sure they were out of earshot of the rest of the company.
“For what?”
“Nais will be going out, no doubt after the captain and the others have left. I want you to follow her.”
“Nais? Why?”
“You’ll see.”
“Ah… right.”
3
Arriving by way of rue Beauregard, the marquis de Gagniere dismounted in front of Notre-Dame-de-Bonne-Nouvelle church and hitched his horse to a ring. It was still very early in the morning and not many people were up and about. But the elegant gentleman still found it prudent to entrust his mount to the watchful eye of one of the vendors of eau-de-vie who, in the early hours of the day, went around Paris-crying “Vi! Vi! Drink! Drink!”-selling little cups of alcohol which were bought and eagerly drunk on the spot by people of the lower classes before their hard day of labour.
The church was silent, dark, damp, and empty. As was usual in churches there were no pews, but chairs were stored in a corner ready to be rented out during services by the porter, who was also charged with ensuring the tranquillity of the premises, chasing away any beggars or stray dogs who attempted to enter with equal zeal. Gagniere advanced between the columns and placed himself in front of the high altar, near a thin young man with smooth cheeks and crystalline blue eyes. The young man did not react until they stood almost shoulder to shoulder. He wore an ochre doublet that matched his breeches, boots, and was carrying a sword at his side. If he was not praying then he seemed at least meditative, with his eyes shut and his hat in his hand.
“I am rather surprised to see you here this morning,” said the marquis after a moment.
“Have I ever missed one of our appointments?” Arnaud de Laincourt replied, opening his eyes.
“No, to be sure. But, until now, you had never been arrested.”
For a few seconds, the former ensign of His Eminence’s Guards did not respond.
“So you know,” he said at last.
“Naturally. Did you believe that such news would escape our attention?”
“No, I didn’t. But so quickly-”
“We are everywhere, Laincourt. Even at the Palais-Cardinal. You, better than anyone, should know that.”
“And at Le Chatelet, marquis? Are you present there, too?”
Gagniere pulled a face.
“The walls there are, shall we say… thicker.”
They remained silent for a moment in the sinister refuge of this deserted church where their secret meetings took place, always at dawn.
Notre-Dame-de-Bonne-Nouvelle had begun its life as a chapel, which was destroyed by soldiers of the Catholic League when the king of Navarre-and future Henri IV of France-laid siege to Paris in 1591. The existing church had been built in its place, with the first stone laid by Queen Anne d’Autriche. As the city absorbed its faubourgs, so the church now found itself at the extreme limit of the Saint-Denis district, right by the new city wall; only the narrow width of a newly laid street lined with building sites separated it from the bastions between the Poissonniere and Saint-Denis gates. This was the very edge of Paris.