Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,27

than advancing in the midst of a great din of shouts, insults, whinnying, hoof beats, and creaking axles.

It was therefore with a certain amount of relief that, on the way to the Palais-Cardinal, it was finally possible to escape from rue d'Autriche and turn left onto rue Saint-Honore. This street, although one of the longest in the capital since Paris had been extended westwards, was not much wider than the others. Heavily frequented, it too had its share of daily traffic jams. But here at least, there was a more ordinary level of unruliness and bother. And here at least, travellers were no longer subjected to the stench from the stagnant waters in the ditches surrounding the. Louvre.

Here at least, one could progress at a walking pace.

Bearing his magnificent coat-of-arms, Cardinal Richelieu's coach left the Louvre with the curtains drawn. It entered rue d'Autriche at a slow walk, moving towards rue Saint-Honore where a horse escort would open the way for it until it arrived at the Palais-Cardinal.

The heavy curtains were intended to protect His Eminence from both the dust and public view.

Nothing could be done, however, about the heat or the stink. Paris had been baking all day beneath a pitiless sun and the excrement and muck that covered its pavement had become a cracked crust from which escaped powerful, acrid, and unhealthy exhalations.

The cardinal held a handkerchief imbibed with vinegar to his nose and sat deep in thought, his face turned towards the window of the passenger door and the curtain that blocked it. Now that he had found refuge in his coach he was no longer obliged put on an act for the ever-present spies at the Louvre. And although he remained in perfect control of his emotions, his severe expression and distant gaze betrayed the extent of his preoccupation. He considered the arrests he would have to order in conformity with the king's will, the interrogations that would then need to be conducted, and the truths that would emerge from them. Disturbing, embarrassing, scandalous truths. Truths that might very well compromise Queen Anne's honour and become a grave affair of State.

The queen, after all, was Spanish . . .

The cardinal sighed and, almost as a means of distracting himself, asked:

'Any news of Captain La Fargue?'

Then he slowly turned his head to look at the gentleman who had been sitting across from him, silent and still, ever since the coach first moved off.

'He returned today,' replied the comte de Rochefort.

'Did you speak to him?'

'Yes, monseigneur. He asks to be received by Your Eminence as a matter of urgency.'

'Impossible,' Richelieu declared.

In order to confound any possible suspicions on the part of his adversaries, he had decided to maintain the pretence that today was an ordinary day, just like any other. He would, therefore, not receive the captain of his Blades. Not even discreetly, or secretly. For if someone happened to catch even a fleeting glimpse of La Fargue in the corridors of the Palais-Cardinal, the most astute observers would be sure to make a connection with the tete-a-tete which Louis XIII had so brusquely held with his chief minister that morning, after the meeting of the Council. A connection that had no basis in fact, as it happened. But it would be dangerous, nevertheless.

Rochefort did not insist.

'La Fargue met with La Donna last night,' he said. 'She claims to have knowledge of a plot threatening the throne of France. She offers to reveal it in return for—'

'How much?'

'She is not demanding money, monseigneur.'

The cardinal quirked an eyebrow.

is La Donna no longer venal?'

'She demands your protection.'

'My protection. Meaning that of France . . . What does she fear? Or rather, who does she fear?'

'If one is to believe La Fargue, La Donna is being hunted by the Black Claw,' Rochefort said dubiously.

'Ah,' replied the cardinal, beginning to understand. 'Naturally. That would explain a number of things,' he added in a thoughtful tone. 'Such as the lady's eagerness in seeking to contact me.'

'She asked that this letter be delivered to you.'

Richelieu looked at the letter held out to him, but at that instant the coach, which had previously been advancing very slowly along rue Saint-Honore, came to a complete halt. Roche-fort placed his hand on his rapier. Intrigued, the cardinal lifted the curtain of the coach door and called out:

'Captain!'

The young Captain de La Houdiniere drew up aside the coach on his horse.

'Monseigneur?'

'Why aren't we moving?'

'A tarasque, monseigneur.'

Tarasques were enormous reptiles with hard shells. They had three pairs of very