The Cardinal's Blades Part 11

Marciac sat up in bed. Gabrielle, her back still turned to him, continued to brush her hair, saying no more.

"You know about that?" he said.

She shrugged.

"Of course. All secrets are known in Paris. All you have to do is listen.... Do you owe her much?"

Marciac didn't reply.

He let himself fall back onto the bed, arms opened wide, and contemplated the canopy above his head.

"As much as that?" said Gabrielle in a quiet voice.

"Yes."

"How did you let it come to this, Nicolas?"

There was both reproach and commiseration in the tone of her voice-a tone which was, ultimately, very maternal.

"I played, I won, I lost triple," explained the Gascon.

"Mother Rabier is a vicious woman. She can harm you."

"I know."

"And the men she employs have blood on their hands."

"I know that as well."

Laying her brush down, Gabrielle turned in her chair and fixed Marciac with a clear and penetrating gaze.

"She should be paid. Would this ring be enough?"

"It would be enough to make a start."

"Then it's decided."

They exchanged a smile. A smile full of affection from her, and one full of grat.i.tude from him.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't mention it."

"I should consult you over every decision I make."

"If you merely do the opposite of whatever your whim dictates, all will be well."

Smiling easily, Marciac rose and began to dress while his mistress drew on her stockings, another spectacle of which he missed nothing.

Then, without preamble, Gabrielle said: "A letter arrived here for you."

"When?"

"Today."

"And as you were still furious with me," guessed the Gascon while lacing his breeches, "you burnt it."

"No."

"Not even tore it up?"

"No."

"Nor crumpled it?"

"You're infuriating, Nicolas!" exclaimed Gabrielle.

She had almost shouted, and then, stiffening, stared straight ahead.

As they had often teased each other like this, he couldn't explain her reaction. His chest bare, he watched the woman he loved and detected her anguish.

"What is it, Gabrielle?"

With her index finger, she discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. He approached her and, leaning over her from behind, held her gently.

"Tell me," he murmured.

"Forgive me. It's for you."

Marciac took the letter she held out to him, and understood her distress when he saw the emblem stamped into the red wax seal.

It was that of Cardinal Richelieu.

"I thought ..." said Gabrielle in a strangled voice, "I thought that this period of your life was over."

He had thought so too.

21.

The sun was still high when Agnes de Vaudreuil arrived in sight of the village. Her doublet open and her sheathed rapier beating against her thigh, she was covered in the dust raised by her galloping horse's hooves since she left the manor with all speed. She had pink cheeks and her face shone with sweat. Thrown into disarray by the ride, her long plait was now a mess of loose braids barely held together at their ends, with many full black curls having already escaped completely. Her face, however, still expressed a combination of relentless determination and contained anger. And her gaze remained fixed on the objective toward which her foaming mount progressed without flagging.

From a mere hamlet, the village had grown up around its church at the crossroads between two roads which wound between wooded hills. It was still only a staging post on the Chantilly Road and it owed its incipient prosperity to the Silver Cask, an inn renowned for the quality of its cellar and kitchen, and the amiable company of its serving girls. Local people went there for a gla.s.s of wine on occasion and well-informed travellers would happily sleep there-on their outward journey if their business did not require them to be in Chantilly at daybreak, or else upon their return.

Agnes slowed as she pa.s.sed the first houses. In the streets her horse trod the same beaten ground as on the road, and she guided it into the heart of the village at a trot. In front of the Silver Cask's porch, the villagers were dispersing. They smiled and chattered with one another, sometimes making grand gestures. One of them climbed onto a mossy stone bench and raised a laugh by miming blows and vigorous kicks up the a.r.s.e. All of them seemed delighted, as though they were leaving a theatre where they had seen an exceptionally funny farce. Agnes guessed who might be behind this festive mood, which didn't bode well. Just because the spectators were delighted did not mean that the spectacle itself had been pleasant. In these times, crowds gathered to witness the public punishment of condemned criminals and were greatly amused by the many howls and twitches of the unfortunates being thus tormented.

On seeing the horsewoman pa.s.s, some of them doffed their caps, and the clown climbed down from his bench.

"Who is that?" asked someone.

"The baronne de Vaudreuil."

"Our Lady!"

"As you say, my friend. As you say...."

The Silver Cask was a picturesque sight with its crooked buildings, its old and beautiful grey stone, its facades covered with ivy, and its red-tiled roofs.

Agnes dismounted just beyond the porch, her spurs jingling as the heels of her riding boots touched the cobblestones of the courtyard. She wiped her s.h.i.+ning face with the back of her sleeve, unbound her hair, and shook her head to make her heavy black curls fall into place. Then, dishevelled, dusty, and yet heedless of anyone's glance, she looked around.

She recognised the innkeeper standing in front of the main building, trying to calm the impatience, if not the anger, of several patrons. Nervous and agitated, they were vying with one another for the chance to roundly scold the man, punctuating each angry point with jabs of their index fingers at his chest. The innkeeper made appeasing gestures expressing his most fawning respect, all the while preventing anyone from entering the building. But his efforts proved unsuccessful. His customers would not be soothed, and Agnes noticed that the appearance of a few of them-if not quite as disorderly as her own-left something to be desired. One had the right sleeve of his doublet, torn at the shoulder, tightly wrapped around his elbow; another, s.h.i.+rt hanging out from his breeches, was pressing a wet cloth against his face; a third was wearing a badly dented hat, and his lace collar hung down miserably.

Finally, remarking on her arrival, the innkeeper excused himself from the gentlemen. They grumbled while he hastened to greet Agnes. On his way, he hailed a stable boy, who abandoned his bucket and pitchfork to busy himself with the baronne's horse.

"Ah, madame! Madame!"

She walked toward him with a firm step. And as she neither slowed her pace nor changed her course when they met, he was forced to make an abrupt about-turn and trot along at her side.

"What has he done now?" asked Agnes.

The innkeeper was a small, dry, thin man, although sporting a pot belly as round as a balloon. He wore a short waistcoat over his s.h.i.+rt, and his figure was squeezed by the belt of his ap.r.o.n, which fell to his thighs.

"Thank the Lord, madame. You're here."

"Rather than heaven, thank the boy you sent to warn me, master Leonard.... Where is Ballardieu? And what has he done?"

"He's inside, madame."

"Why are all these people waiting outside?"

"Because their coats or bags are still within, madame."

"Then why don't they collect them?"

"Because monsieur Ballardieu will not let anyone in."

Agnes halted.

Caught unawares, the innkeeper was two steps past her before he followed suit.

"Pardon me, master Leonard?"

"It's just as I said, madame. He threatens to shoot anyone who opens the door in the head, unless it is you."

"Is he armed?"

"Only with a pistol."

"Is he drunk?"

Master Leonard had the air of a man who was not quite certain he understood the question and was afraid of committing a faux pas.

"Do you mean: more drunk than usual?"

The baronne gave an aggravated sigh.

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

"Then yes, madame. He is drunk."

"Plague on the old tosspot! Can he not indulge within reason?" she said to herself.

"I believe he never learned how, madame. Or else he has no desire to do so-"

"So how did all this start?"

"Ah, well," the innkeeper hesitated. "There were these gentlemen.... Please note, madame, that they had enjoyed an excellent meal and that it was more the wine than themselves that was talking...."

"I see. And then?"

"A few of their comments displeased monsieur Ballardieu-"

"-who, in his way, let them know it. Very well, I understand. Where are they, these gentlemen?"

The innkeeper was astonished.

"They're still inside, madame!"

"So who are those three over there, covered with b.u.mps and bruises?"

"Just those who attempted to intervene."

Agnes raised her eyes to the sky then continued to walk toward the inn and, in addition, toward those standing outside it. Master Leonard hurried ahead of her to open a path.

Seeing that she was about to enter, an elegant officer who had only remained to be entertained by the comedy of the situation, said to her: "Madame, I advise you against opening this door."

"Monsieur, I advise you against preventing me," the baronne replied in a flash.

The officer drew back his shoulders, more surprised than annoyed. Agnes suddenly understood that he had only meant to be gallant. She softened.

"Never fear, monsieur. I know the man conducting the siege inside."