The Cardinal's Blades by Pierre Pevel, Tom Translated by Clegg Read Free Book Online

cross capped with fleur-de-lis.
    “There,” said Marciac admiring the shine of the stone, “that should keep Madame Rabier satisfied.”
    “You borrowed money from La Rabier?” exclaimed d’Orvand in a tone of reproach.
    “What else could I do? I have debts and it is necessary that I honour them. I am not the marquis de Brévaux.”
    “Still, La Rabier … borrowing money from her is never a good idea. I would have been happy to advance you a few écus. You should have asked me.”
    “Asked you? A friend? You’re joking, vicomte!”
    D’Orvand slowly shook his head in silent reproof.
    “All the same, there is one thing that intrigues me, Nicolas …”
    “And what would that be?”
    “In the nearly four years during which you have honoured me with your friendship, I have often seen you impoverished—and even that word is a poor description for it. You have pawned and redeemed your every possession a hundred times over. There were times when you were forced to fast for days, and you would doubtless have let yourself die of hunger if I hadn’t invited you to my table under one pretext or another. I even remember a day when you had to borrow a sword from me in order to fight a duel.… But never, ever, have you agreed to be separated from that steel signet ring. Why is that?”
    Marciac’s gaze became vague, lost in the memories of the day when he first received the ring, until a sudden bump in the road jolted the two men perched on their stuffed leather bench.
    “It’s a fragment of my past,” replied the Gascon. “You can never be rid of your past. Not even if you pawn it.…”
    D’Orvand, who found that melancholy did not suit his friend, asked after a moment: “We will soon be in Paris. Where would you like to stop?”
    “Rue de la Grenouillère.”
    The vicomte paused a moment, then said: “Did you not have enough of duelling for one day?”
    Marciac replied with a smile, and muttered, almost to himself: “Bah! … When I die, I want to be certain at least that I have truly lived.”

9
     
    Paris at midday was packed with working, bustling, and gossiping people, but in contrast, at the Palais-Cardinal, the guards on duty seemed to be sentries of some luxurious necropolis. Accompanied by his large entourage of advisors and his armed escort, Richelieu was at the Louvre, and in his absence, life at his residence carried on slowly, almost as though it was night. Men in capes were barely to be seen. More lowly servants moved along dark corridors without haste or noise, carrying out routine menial tasks. The crowd of supplicants had thinned out considerably when they heard that the master of the palace had left, and only a few persistent souls decided to wait for his return, making do with an improvised repast on the spot.
    Alone in a small study, Ensign Arnaud de Laincourt made use of this lull in activity to carry out a task which came with his rank: filling out the log-book of the Cardinal’s Guards. The rule was that the officer on duty must scrupulously record all the day’s events, whether they were ordinary or unusual, from the hour when guards were relieved at their posts to possible lapses in discipline, and detailing every occurrence or incident which might affect His Eminence’s security. Captain Saint-Georges consulted the log at the end of each shift, before communicating anything noteworthy to the cardinal.
    “Enter,” said Laincourt, on hearing a knock at the door.
    Brussand entered.
    “Monsieur de Brussand. You’re not on duty.… Would you not be better off at home, resting after your long night on watch?”
    “Of course, but … would you grant me a minute?”
    “Just allow me to finish this task.”
    “Certainly.”
    Brussand sat down in front of the desk at which the young officer was writing by candlelight. The room had only a high, bevelled window opening onto a light well into which the sun barely peeped. There were, without a doubt, dungeons in the Bastille or in the