Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,80
other man standing there.
That dispelled any doubts the Gascon might still be harbouring.
A man who stood hanging around all afternoon in the same place might be an idler or even some sort of mischief-maker. But when he was relieved at his post in the early evening, then he had to be a lookout.
Alone in his bedchamber, leaning over the basin. Leprat lifted his face dripping with cool water and observed himself in the mirror. He was bare to the waist but already wore the breeches and boots of another man who was at this very instant floating dead in the Seine. The rest of his attire — a hat, a shirt, a doublet whose lining had been re-sewn and a steel sword in its scabbard - waited upon the bed.
Leprat gave his reflection a hard stare.
He had accepted the mission La Fargue had proposed to him, that is to say, infiltrating rnadame de Chevreuse's clandestine schemes by passing himself off as Gueret, the agent the queen mother had sent to the duchesse from Brussels. Since he
was ignorant of almost everything about the person he was supposed to replace, it was a risky business. Gueret was a French gentleman of no fortune, that much was certain. And no doubt he had followed the queen mother when, removed from power and humiliated, she had chosen to leave the kingdom. But aside from that?
Leprat, in fact, could only rely on a certain physical resemblance with the man whose identity he was trying to usurp. A resemblance which, furthermore, would not fool anyone who had met Gueret. And the musketeer knew that he would probably die under torture if he was unmasked . . .
Bah ... he told himself philosophically, as he bent once again to splash water on his face . . . if no one kills you today, you know what will kill you tomorrow . . .
Upon his back, the ranse spread in a broad violet rash with a rough surface. The disease was progressing. It would one day take his life and was already weakening him, as witnessed by the wound to his thigh that was taking longer than it should to completely heal.
How much time do you have left? Leprat wondered. And more, how much longer can you keep it a secret?
He stood up straight and smiled sadly at his image in the mirror.
This secret that is eating away at you . . .
The expression had never been so apt.
Agnes arrived in the early evening. The abbey was located in a peaceful corner of the countryside, far from any heavily travelled roads, and was surrounded by the fields, woodland and farms from which it derived its revenues. From the vantage point of her saddle, the young baronne took her time observing the handsome buildings and the white, veiled silhouettes moving about behind the enclosing walls. The memories of her novitiate with the Sisters of Saint Georges came back vividly to her. Then she gently nudged her horse forward with her heels as bells rang out in the dusk, calling the Sisters to prayer.
She was soon admitted to wait in the cloister where she stood a'lone, exposed to the curious glances and whispers from the passing nuns. She knew from experience how small a world an abbey was and how fast news travelled there. No doubt her name was circulating and it was already being murmured that she had asked to meet the mother superior.
Did they remember her here? Perhaps. In any case, everyone would be wondering about the motive behind her visit . . .
Feeling quite satisfied with the effect that both her presence and her armed horseman's outfit were having, in particular on the young novices who were jostling one another to spy on her from behind some columns, Agnes forced herself to remain patient and impassive. The severe sound of a throat being cleared, however, was enough to remind the adolescent girls of their duties, before the mother superior's arrival dispersed them entirely.
About sixty years in age, Mere Emmanuelle de Cernay was an energetic woman with strong features and a frank gaze. Accompanied by two nuns who walked behind her, she gratified Agnes with a tender smile, hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. The young woman responded with similar warmth to these displays of affection.
'Marie-Agnes! It's been so long since we have seen you . . . And your last letter dates from over a month ago!'