“I came to see how you were feeling,” said the musketeer.
Then pointing to a chair: “May I?”
“Of course.”
Agnes closed her book, looked at Leprat as he sat down, taking care with his wounded leg, and waited.
“So?” he asked after a moment.
“So what?”
“Are you feeling well?”
“As you can see… I’m resting.”
“You deserve it.”
“I believe I do, yes.”
There was an awkward silence during which Agnes became amused by Leprat’s embarrassment.
But she finally took pity on him and said: “Go ahead. Say it.”
“You were reckless in letting yourself be abducted by those men.”
“I didn’t know who they were, in fact, and that was precisely what I was counting on finding out. Furthermore, there were five or six of them and I was unarmed.”
“Nevertheless. When you saw Saint-Lucq in the street, you could have… Between the two of you, with surprise on your side…”
“I know.”
“Things could have turned out very badly.”
“Yes. The Black Claw could have established a lodge, here, in France.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. But why did you go there, to begin with?”
“To Cecile’s house?”
“Yes.”
“You know very well. To find out what she was hiding there. To find whatever Saint-Lucq managed to find before me, acting on his secret orders from the captain. If I had known that…”
Leprat nodded, with a distracted gaze.
Agnes narrowed her eyes and leaned forward to look at him squarely.
“That’s what you’ve come to speak to me about, isn’t it?”
“He’s changed. He’s not the same as he was… I… I think he’s distrustful of us.”
And with an ill-tempered gesture, his voice vibrant with impotent anger, Leprat added: “Of us, damn it! Of his Blades!”
The young woman, sympathising with him, laid her hand upon his wrist.
“We have Louveciennes to blame for that. When he betrayed us at La Rochelle, he might as well have stabbed La Fargue in the heart. He was his best friend. His only friend, perhaps… And that’s not even including the death of Bretteville and the shameful dissolution of the Blades. That memory must be branded by a red-hot iron in his mind, and it burns him still.”
Leprat stood up, limped toward the window, and let his gaze wander over the rooftops of the faubourg Saint-Germain.
“The worst part…” he finally admitted, “the worst part is that I think he’s right to be wary of us.”
“What?”
“Of one of us, in any case.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
He turned toward Agnes and explained: “We were the only ones to know that we were holding Malencontre. But that didn’t prevent Rochefort from coming to claim him after a few hours. So the cardinal knew we had him as well. Who told him?”
Sensing a feeling that she did not like at all come over her, the young baronne played devil’s advocate: “There’s Guibot. And Nais, who we don’t know from Adam and Eve, after all.”
“And you really believe that?”
“Do you suspect me?
“No.”
“So then, who? Saint-Lucq? Marciac? Almades? Ballardieu…? And why couldn’t it be you, Leprat?”
He stared at her without anger, looking almost hurt: “It’s anyone’s guess…”
3
The comte de Rochefort was waiting in one of the confessionals in the Saint-Eustache church when, at the appointed hour, someone sat down on the other side of the opening occluded by tiny wooden crossbars.
“His Eminence,” Rochefort said, “reproaches you for not having warned him about La Fargue’s plans.”
“What plans?”
“The ones that permitted Malencontre to escape from Le Chatelet.”
“I didn’t know about them.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“That’s difficult to believe. So where is Malencontre hiding?” the comte demanded.
“La Fargue gave him his liberty in exchange for the information that allowed them to rescue Agnes. And, in the process, to strike a blow at the Black Claw. If he has an ounce of good sense, Malencontre has already left the kingdom.”
“That’s regrettable.”
“I had rather imagined that defeating the Black Claw would be cause for rejoicing…”
“Don’t be clever with me. That’s not what we’re paying you for… Did you know that this so-called Cecile was in fact La Fargue’s daughter?”
There was an eloquent silence.
“No,” the man said finally.
“Well, now you do. His Eminence wishes to know where she is.”
“In a safe place.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“Cecile, or whatever her name may be, is simply a victim in this whole affair. She deserves to be left in peace.”
“No doubt. But you haven’t answered my question.”
“And I won’t answer it.” The man’s tone led Rochefort to understand that it would be futile to insist.
“As you will,” the comte said resignedly. “But I have to tell you, Marciac, you’re hardly earning your wages.”
4
In the courtyard of the splendid Hotel de Tournon, an escort of gentlemen sat on their horses near a luxurious coach. They were waiting for the comte de Pontevedra, who was about to take the road back to Spain. The secret negotiations had lately taken an unexpected turn, and having been prematurely interrupted, failed to reach any conclusion. It only remained for the ambassador to return to Madrid in order to inform the king and his minister Olivares.
Pontevedra was finishing preparing for his journey when a last visitor was announced. He displayed a certain astonishment on learning his name, hesitated, thinking, and then indicated that he would receive him unattended in a salon.
La Fargue was already standing there when he entered.
The two men stared at one another for a long time. They were roughly the same age, but one had become a gentleman of court and intrigue while the other remained a gentleman of war and honour. It was not, however, the comte de Pontevedra, ambassador extraordinary of Spain and favourite of His Majesty Felipe IV, that the old captain regarded so impassively. It was Louveciennes, his former brother-in-arms and in bloodshed, the sole true friend that he had ever had and the man who had betrayed him.
“What do you want?”
“I came to tell you that Anne, my daughter, is safe and well. It seemed to me that you deserved to know that.”
Pontevedra gave a twisted, mocking smile.
“‘Your daughter’?”
“She is my daughter and you know it. Indeed, you have always known it. As have I. As did Oriane. And now Anne knows it as well. Just as she knows who you are.”
A hateful mask disfigured the ambassador’s face.
“What have you told her?” he spat.
“Nothing. I am not that kind of a man.”
“So how does she know?”
“A letter from her mother. Oriane, who you never loved as much as she deserved…”
“A reproach that cannot be made of you,” retorted the comte.
He had venom on his lips and a flame in his eyes.
“I have long regretted our conduct that night,” admitted La Fargue.
“A handsome excuse!”
“Oriane also regretted it as well. But that was before La Rochelle, before you revealed your true nature, before you turned traitor.”
“I made a choice. The right one. And to convince myself of that all I need to do is look at you. You have nothing. You are nothing. While as for me…”
“You are merely rich. And Bretteville is dead because of you, Louveciennes.”