Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,31
replied, 'I don't believe I wish to offer my services to anyone . . .'
Mirebeau's face took on a kindly expression.
'Would you like to think it over? I understand, and I shall not insist.' He drew forth a note with a stamped seal from his sleeve. 'But at least do me the favour of paying a visit to . . . to your guardian angel. Here. Go to rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre. Present yourself on the day and the hour of your choosing and show them this. You shall be received.'
'All right,' said Laincourt, taking the note.
'I bid you a good evening, monsieur.'
The cardinal's former spy answered with a noncommittal smile, then watched the gentleman take his leave. He rose, went to the window, and soon saw Mirebeau come out into rue de la Ferronnerie and follow it east toward the Saint-Honore neighbourhood. Without even thinking about it, Laincourt invoked the presence of the hurdy-gurdy player who approached to look over his shoulder.
You're not going to examine the seal on the letter, boy?
I don't need to see it to know at whose door I would be knocking.
No, of course not. There are only two noteworthy dwellings on rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, after all.
Laincourt nodded as, with narrowed eyes, he continued to watch Mirebeau walking away into the distance.
One of them is the mansion of the marquise de Rambouillet. It's said she hosts a literary salon of the highest quality in her home.
True. But the other is the Hotel de Chevreuse, and I rather thin\ that is where your guardian angel is hoping to see you . . .
That night at the Hotel de l'Epervier there reigned an atmosphere similar to the eve of battle. The Blades, assembled in the fencing room, found ways to quietly kill time in the candlelight. Leprat and Marciac played dice on a corner of the table. Ballardieu was balancing slowly back and forth on a tilted chair facing one of the windows, watching the night sky while he drank a glass of wine.
Agnes was leafing through a treatise on fencing. Lying on a bench with his eyes shut, one knee bent, and his hands gathered on his chest, Saint-Lucq might have been asleep. And Almades was sharpening his rapier, giving it three long strokes with the whetstone before turning the blade over.
Three strokes along one edge . . .
. . . three strokes along the other.
Three strokes along one edge . . .
Nai's and monsieur Guibot had gone to their beds. Only the Blades remained, along with Andre who was guarding the saddled horses in the stables, and La Fargue who had retired to his office.
. . . three strokes along the other.
Three strokes along one edge . . .
All of them were booted and armed, ready to spring into action as soon as their captain gave the word for their departure. They only needed to seize their hats, jump into their saddles, and spur their mounts with their heels. Within the hour, they could be anywhere in Paris. Patiently, they awaited the order.
. . . three strokes along the other.
How would La Donna make her presence known? And, above all, when? Midnight was approaching. The Blades had been waiting all evening for a message or signal. The beautiful spy knew she was being hunted. She would have to be extremely careful. Would she use some indirect means to reestablish contact? But in that case, which one? The dragonnets? Yes, one of the twin dragonnets to which she seemed so
attached could deliver a message. Here at the Hotel de l'Eper-vier. Or at the Palais-Cardinal. Or even at the Louvre . . .
Three strokes along one edge . . .
. . . three strokes along the other.
'You win,' Leprat said to Marciac after a last unlucky roll of the dice.
'Another game?'
'No, thank you.'
The musketeer stood up.
'As you like,' the Gascon said. 'But you'll need to make up for lost ground eventually. Don't forget, you already owe me Piedmont and the duchy of Cleves.'
It was a game between the two of them. It started one day when, neither of them having even a sou in their pocket, they divided Europe up equitably between them and started betting with their territories. Whether they had subsequently come into funds or not, they had continued to play for these imaginary stakes ever since, keeping a careful account of their losses and gains.
Three strokes along one edge . . .
. . . three strokes along the other.
'Never fear, I won't forget,' said Leprat. 'No more