The Cardinal's Blades

"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.

1* V *r

With the air of a man who knows exactly where lie is going, Arnaud de Lain-court 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.

Laincourt set the log-book down.

He drew a key from the pocket of his doublet and opened a cupboard. He had to be quick, as every minute now counted. On a shelf, a box sat between two tidily bound manuscripts. This was the object of his search. Another key, a tiny one, opened its secrets to him. Inside were letters waiting to be initialled and sealed by the cardinal. The ensign thumbed through them impatiently, and took out one which he perused more closely.

"That's it," he murmured.

Turning, he brought the letter closer to the candle and read it twice in order to memorise its every comma. But as he refolded the document, he heard a noise.

The squeak of a floorboard?

The ensign froze, heart thumping, with all his senses alert.

Long seconds passed . . .

Nothing happened. No one entered. And, almost as if it had never occurred, the sound was not tepeated.

Pulling himself together, Laincourt replaced the letter in the box and the box in the cupboard, which he relocked with his key. He assured himself that he had disturbed nothing, and then departed silently, taking his log-book with him.

But Laincourt had barely gone when someone pushed open another door, left ajar and hidden behind a wall hanging.

Charpentier.

Returning in haste from the Louvre to fetch a document which Cardinal Richelieu had not thought he would need, he had seen everything.

10

Having saddled his horse, La Fargue was strapping on the holsters of his pistols when Delormel joined him in the stable, amidst the warm smell of animals, hay, and dung.

"You'll come see us again soon?" asked the fencing master. "Or, at least, not wait another five years?"

"I don't know."

"You know you are always welcome in my home."

La Fargue patted his mount's neck and turned round.

"Thank you," he said. ,

"Here. You left this in your room."

Delormel held out a small locket on a broken chain. The old gentleman took it. Worn, marked, scratched, and tarnished, the piece of jewellery seemed worthless, lying there on his big gloved hand.

"I didn't know you still kept it after all this time," added the fencing master.

La Fargue shrugged.

"You can't give up your past."

"But yours continues to haunt you."

Rather than answer, the captain made to check his saddle.

"Perhaps she didn't deserve you," Delormel commented.

His back turned, La Fargue went rigid.

"Don't judge, Jean. You don't know the whole story."

It wasn't necessary to say anything more. Both men knew they were speaking of the woman whose chipped portrait was to be found inside the locket.