Pierre Pevel - By The Alchemist in the Shadows Page 0,99

master.'

'What a triumph that would have been for La Chevreuse,' Marciac noted. 'Her worst enemy dies and her lover takes his place as chief minister to the king.'

'But the cardinal did not die in the end,' said La Fargue.

'Did you actually meet Chateauneuf?' the Gascon asked.

'Yes,' replied Leprat. 'The marquis has asked me to join the group of gentlemen escorting him to Dampierre, in order to attend the ball being held there by the duchesse. We're leaving tomorrow and, since Mirebeau wanted to spend the night with his mistress, I used the same excuse to get away myself. I thought it would be more prudent if I avoided going to the Hntel de l'Epervier, and I must confess that I've missed sleeping in my own bed . . .'

Marciac considered the bed in question, looking deeply perplexed. Even imagining one or two naked beauties lying in it, it still seemed unwelcoming . . .

A bell tolled.

Realising the time, La Fargue rose from his chair to take his leave.

'You have done very good work, Leprat. My congratulations.'

'Thank you, captain.'

'Be careful, though.'

'I will ... By the way, was anyone injured at the Neuilly inn ?'

'Amongst the Guards? Just a few bumps and bruises, as far as I know. But Rochefort is perfectly furious about the whole incident.'

'Tell him that I . . . No, on second thought, I shall reserve the pleasure of revealing the truth to him for some other day.'

The captain of the Blades smiled. He was not fond of Rochefort, either.

'Understood.'

He was the first to depart and descended the stairs while Marciac, on the landing, shook the musketeer's hand.

'Since you are supposedly spending the night with your mistress,' he murmured, 'what would you say if you and I were to pay a visit to the ladies? I know two sisters who live close by here and—'

'I'm tired, Marciac'

'Tell yourself that it would be for the good of your mission—'

'I'll see you soon, Nicolas.'

'All right, as you wish . . . But where's your sense of duty, Antoine? This is very poor of you. And a disappointment to me!'

'Out!'

Down below, waiting in the shadowy rue Cocatrix, La Fargue found Almades who had been keeping watch. Marciac had just joined them when the captain of the Blades announced: 'I have something else to do. I'll see you both tomorrow.' The two other men exchanged astonished looks. It was not unusual for La Fargue to leave the Gascon behind. But to separate himself from Almades . .

.

'Captain . . .' said Marciac, attempting to intervene on the Spanish fencing master's behalf, 'Are you quite sure that—?'

'I will see you tomorrow.'

And the old gentleman went off alone.

'Let's go after him,' suggested the Gascon after a moment.

'No.'

'But it's for his own safety!'

'No,' repeated an impassive Almades.

'Well, stay then. But as for me—'

'No.'

'Since when do you give me orders?'

The Spaniard drew his sword in lieu of a reply.

'You're jesting.'

'No, I'm not.'

Marciac took a step backward and hunched his shoulders, lisplaying a look of wounded surprise like some scoundrel whose honesty was being placed in doubt. It suddenly occurred o him that La Fargue might not have left the two of them ogether in order to go off on his own, but so that Almades :ould keep an eye on him, Marciac, and make sure he did not i y to follow his captain.

'Would you really run me through with your sword?'

'Yes.'

Jack at home, Laincourt looked out the window without ieeing anything.

He was lost in thought and, slowly, the blood-covered face of the hurdy-gurdy player appeared in the reflection from the window pane, above his right shoulder, as if the old man was approaching him from behind.

You're thinking about that pretty young thing, aren't you, boy?

Her name is Aude.

Well, she certainly seems to be to your liking.

You might say that.

If she matters that much to you, no doubt you did well to warn her of the dangers awaiting her at the court. However . . . How-erer, perhaps you too should be wary, of her . . .

'Me, wary of her? But why?' Laincourt asked out loud. 'On what grounds?'

He turned around without thinking.

And remembered that he was in fact alone.

Midnight.

The night was still warm when La Fargue started to cross the Pont Neuf. Around him, Paris was swallowed up in deep shadows, except for a few scattered lights here and there, fragile and distant.

A thick silence reigned. One could just barely hear, rather than see, the low black waters of the Seine lapping beneath the