Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,15

wide, this street was very busy since

it prolonged rue Saint-Honore and crossed rue Saint-Denis at a right angle, thus linking two of the principal traffic routes in Paris. The flow of passers-by, traders, horse riders, sedan chairs, carts, and coaches went by without interruption from morning till night.

Do you see him, boy?

Laincourt glanced out at the street.

At the entrance to a narrow passage between two houses, a gentleman dressed in a beige doublet was waiting, one hand holding his gloves and the other resting on the pommel of his sword. He was calm and did not appear to be hiding. On the contrary, Laincourt had the impression that he wished to be seen, and recalled having previously noticed his presence, here and there, in recent days.

Of course, he replied to the invisible presence.

J wonder who he is. And what he wants.

I couldn't care less.

A month ago, he would have cared.

A month ago, he would have immediately taken steps to have the man in the beige doublet followed, identified, and no doubt neutralised. But he no longer belonged to the Cardinal's Guards.

At the end of a mission that had cost him his red cape and his rank as an ensign, he had turned the page on secrets, intrigues, lies, and betrayals in the service of His Eminence.

After washing with the remaining water in the pitcher, Laincourt dressed and found something in the pantry to calm Marechal's hunger. Then he decided to go out and have a bite to eat himself. He would then visit his bookseller, Bertaud, in order to return two books for the price of one.

He had just put on his baldric and hung his sword from it when he saw that the old dragonnet had once again escaped from his cage and was now standing near the door, holding his collar and chain in his mouth. The young man promised himself that he would buy a padlock on his way to the bookseller but, being a good sport, he extended his fist to Marechal.

'All right,' he said. Til take you, too.'

Outside in the street, the gentleman in the beige doublet had vanished.

*

The comte de Treville, captain of the King's Musketeers, stood at his office window and sought to distract himself by looking out over the courtyard of his house on rue du Vieux-Colombier in the faubourg Saint-Germain. It provided a picturesque spectacle which he enjoyed, arousing nostalgia for the time when he was still a companion-in-arms to Henri IV. As usual, several dozen musketeers were to be found loitering on the cobbled courtyard strewn with fresh straw. Not all of them wore the cape - blue with a silver fleur-de-lys cross — as some were not on active duty. But all of them had their sword at their side and were ready for any opportunity to draw it. They walked or stood about, talking, laughing, playing dice or cards, demonstrating various fencing techniques, reading the gazettes together and commenting on the latest news, while keeping a watchful eye on the comings and goings on the great staircase and in the antechambers, which they also occupied.

'D'Artagnan!' Treville suddenly called out in a loud voice.

Almost immediately, a door opened behind him . . .

'Monsieur?'

'Tell me, d'Artagnan, isn't that the chevalier d'Orgueil I see near the stables?' Treville asked without turning round.

The musketeer approached in order to peer over his captain's shoulder.

'It is indeed, monsieur.'

'Ask him to come up, please.'

'Monsieur, they're already queuing at your office door . . .'

In fact, starting in the early hours of the morning, Treville's days were marked by the unceasing flow of visitors he received at his mansion, when the king's service did not demand his presence elsewhere.

'I know, d'Artagnan, I know . . . Tell my secretary to have them wait, will you?'

As you command, monsieur.'

'Thank you, lieutenant.'

Alone once again, the captain of the Musketeers uttered a sigh and, regretfully turning away from the window, sat down

at his desk. The sheets and ledgers piled there drew his tired glance. Useless paperwork . . . Treville picked up a small box, opened it with a little key, and drew out an unsealed letter that he placed before him.

Then he waited.

'Come in!' he called, as soon as he heard a knock at the door.

A gentleman entered, wearing a crimson doublet with black buttons and slashes. He was tall, carried himself with impeccable posture, and advanced with a firm step. It was easy to see that he was — or had once been — a military officer.