Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,11

their convictions within his Council.

This morning, however, no one really desired to stand out, to such a degree that Louis XIII soon became irritated and, wishing to have an opinion on a precise point, he questioned one secretary of state rather sharply. Muddling his papers in surprise, the man had stammered out a confused answer that the king had received with arctic coldness: he himself was afflicted with a slight stammer that he controlled by force of will. At that

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instant, all those present believed that the king's wrath would fall unjustly upon the poor man, but nothing ensued. After a long silence, a semblance of debate resumed and the king dismissed the Council an hour later.

But not before asking the cardinal to remain behind.

If Richelieu had only lent a distracted ear to the actual debates, he had been observing the proceedings closely, waiting to see which matter, when it was presented, would provoke a reaction

— however restrained or disguised — from the king.

In vain.

Yet there was no lack of reasons for concern. There was the war being prepared against Lorraine, the hegemonic ambitions of Spain and its Court of Dragons, the intrigues of England, and the string of military successes by Sweden in its campaign within the Holy Roman Empire which risked upsetting the fragile balance of power in Europe. Within France's borders there were rumblings from the people due to the crushing weight of taxes, the Catholic party showed no signs of disarming, several Protestant towns were demanding the same privileges as La Rochelle, which the city had only obtained by victoriously withstanding a siege five years earlier, and plot after treasonous plot continued to be hatched, even in the very corridors of the Louvre. Lastly, in Paris itself, churches were burning and there was an increasing threat of rioting against the Huguenots and the Jews, who were blamed for starting the fires.

But none of the foreign or domestic affairs that the Council had discussed appeared to be the cause of the rage Louis XIII was struggling so hard to contain. Since the king was very pious, could it be those reports, still confidential, indicating a disturbing revival of sorcerous activity in the capital?

Did the king know something that his chief minister did not? The very idea was enough to worry the cardinal, who endeavoured to know everything in order to foresee everything and, if necessary, to prevent anything from happening.

The last Council member to leave was the marquis de Chateauneuf, Keeper of the Seals. Carrying with him the finely wrought casket containing the kingdom's seals which he never let out of his sight, he bade farewell to Richelieu with a respectful nod of the head.

A footman shut the doors behind him.

Agnes de Vaudreuil returned from her morning ride in the outskirts of Paris at around ten o'clock.

Travelling along rue du Chasse-Midi at a fast trot, she barely slowed when she reached the Croix-Rouge crossroads, despite the fact that it was very busy at this hour. The young baronne expected people to make way for her and make way they did, sometimes grumbling and more often railing after her. She followed rue des Saints-Peres as far as rue Saint-Dominique and — now in the heart of the faubourg Saint-Germain, a few streets away from the magnificent abbey which gave it its name — she turned into the very narrow rue Saint-Guillaume. Here she was finally forced to slow her horse to a walk to avoid bowling over some innocent passerby, street hawker, trader at his stall, goodwife haggling over the price of a chicken, or miserable beggar shaking his bowl.

People watched as she came to a halt before the Hotel de I'Epervier. She had a wild, austere beauty that was striking to behold, with a slender figure, a proud bearing, a pale complexion, green eyes, full dark lips and long black hair whose heavy curls inevitably escaped from her braid. But the observers were even more surprised by her thigh boots, black breeches, and the red leather corset she wore over a white shirt. It was a daring outfit, to say the least. And not content with publicly displaying herself in this manner, without even covering her head, she also wore a sword and rode her horse like a man. It was scandalous . . .

Indifferent to the discreet commotion she was causing, Agnes swung down from her horse and into the noxious mud that covered the streets of Paris. She would have liked to spare her boots this