Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,17

messengers leaving the Palais-Cardinal did not significantly increase. To all appearances, he would keep to his ordinary routine.

Richelieu knew he was being watched.

His role as a statesman meant that even the least important of his visits - those he paid and the ones he received — were noticed, reported, and discussed. There was nothing extraordinary about this.

He was a public figure, after all. But amongst those who took an interest in his activities there were some who harboured sinister projects. The cardinal had many enemies. First there were the enemies of the king, not all of whom were foreign. Then there were the enemies of his policies, including the Catholic party. And lastly there were his personal enemies, who hated him because they envied his success or were jealous of his influence on Louis XIII, an influence that was greatly exaggerated but whose legend

conveniently permitted the minister to be blamed for the faults and violent acts of his king.

There were two women to be found among Richelieu's most bitter personal opponents. The first was the queen mother, Marie de Medicis, Henri IV's widow: humiliated and unable to forgive her son for preferring to entrust the conduct of the kingdom's affairs to the cardinal rather than to her, she continued to hatch schemes from her refuge in Brussels, and stoked the fires of every revolt that took place in France. The second woman was the beautiful, intelligent, urbane, and very dangerous duchesse de Chevreuse who, for the last fifteen years, had taken a hand in every plot, but was protected by her birth, her fortune, and her friendship with the queen, Anne d'Autriche.

These two women never disarmed, even if at times they were only accomplices of the cabals that were invented and led by other enemies of the cardinal. Enemies who might be Catholic or Protestant, Frenchmen or foreigners, humans or dragons, but who all had eyes and ears inside the Louvre, and none of whom could be allowed to get wind of what was now being set in motion.

Let us not give these people any cause for concern, Richelieu thought to himself.

And so he resolved, in the end, to go and present his respects to the queen.

Marciac awoke still dressed. He had barely found the strength to remove his boots before lying down and had immediately gone to sleep. Rising up on his elbows, he looked around his chamber with bleary eyes and yawned. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, stretched, yawned again, and scratched his neck while at the same time rubbing his belly, realising that he was famished And thirsty. He was thirsty, too.

How long had he been asleep?

Not long enough to ease the stiffness after his swift and arduous ride from La Rochelle, in any case.

By coach the journey took at least eight days. The Gascon, on horseback, had completed it in less than five, which could not be accomplished without some sore muscles . . .

Grimacing, Marciac stood up and, with a heavy step, went to the window. It was open but the curtains were drawn shut. He spread them apart and then squinted, his eyes dazzled by the sun that was beginning to descend in the sky.

It was already the afternoon, then.

Still muzzy from sleep, the Gascon enjoyed the view for a moment. His bedchamber was on the second floor of the Hotel de l'Epervier. Oriented towards the east, it offered a vantage point over the roofs of the Charite hospital in the foreground, and behind it the splendid abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. With its abundant greenery, fresh air, and scattering of elegant buildings, the faubourg Saint-Germain was definitely a very pleasant neighbourhood.

The ringing of a bell tower succeeded in dragging Marciac out of his daydreaming and informed him of the time.

It was two o'clock.

He turned away from the window and went to wash, wetting and rubbing his blond locks over the basin. Finally feeling refreshed, he addressed a wink at his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall. He pulled on his boots, grabbed his hat and his baldric in case of an emergency, and went downstairs with his shirt hanging outside his breeches and his hair still damp.

One of the rare advantages of living in the Hotel de l'Epervier was that the house was cool in summer. Otherwise it was a particularly sombre and austere place. On the ground floor, Marciac almost knocked down monsieur Guibot who was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Small, thin, and scruffy-looking,