"At least now I don't have to go to the Louvre."

"You won't speak with her?"

"Not today.... What would be the point? She knows I'm back. That's enough."

And determined to put the matter behind her, Agnes smiled at the old soldier.

"So?" she asked him. "Shall we go?"

"Where?"

"But to listen to Tabarin and Mondor, of course!"

"Are you sure?"

"I made you a promise, didn't I?"

12.

They arrived at the chapel in the middle of the afternoon.

It sat in the middle of the countryside at a spot where a deserted road crossed a pebble-strewn track. A flock of sheep grazed nearby. A windmill whose sails turned slowly in the breeze looked out over a landscape of green hills.

"Here we are," said Bailleux from the edge of the wood.

He and Saint-Lucq were side by side on horseback, but rather than watch the chapel the half-blood watched their surroundings.

He had just caught sight of a cloud of dust.

"Wait," he said.

The cloud was approaching.

He could just make out riders trotting up the road. There were four, or perhaps five, of them, all armed with swords. It was not the first time that Saint-Lucq and the notary had spotted them since leaving the inn. Them, or others like them, in any case. But all of them had only one thing in mind: laying their hands on Bailleux and ripping his secret out of him.

"We'll let them go by," said the half-blood, very coolly.

"But how could they know ... ?" Bailleux worried.

"They don't. They're searching, that's all. Calm yourself."

The riders halted for a moment at the crossing with the track. Then they split up into two parties, each taking a different direction. A short while later they had all disappeared off into the distance.

"There," said Saint-Lucq before spurring his mount.

Bailleux caught up with him as they descended a gra.s.sy slope at a slow trot.

"I think the baptism was held here. That's why-"

"Yes, of course," the half-blood interrupted.

They soon dismounted on a patch of ground in front of the chapel and then entered the building. It was low-ceilinged, cool, bare of decorations, and the air was laden with dust. No one seemed to have visited for quite some time, although perhaps it served occasionally as a refuge for travellers caught in bad weather.

Saint-Lucq took off his spectacles in the dim light and rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger before surveying their surroundings with a slow circular gaze. Almost at once, the notary pointed to a statue of Saint Christophe standing on a pedestal, in a niche.

"If the testament speaks truly, it's there."

They approached and examined the statue.

"We'll need to tilt it," said Bailleux. "It won't be easy."

The weight of the painted statue would indeed have posed a difficulty if Saint-Lucq had desired to preserve it intact. But he braced himself, pushed, and simply tipped the effigy of Saint Christophe over, to fall heavily onto the flagstones and break into pieces. Bailleux crossed himself at this act of sacrilege.

Someone had slipped a slender doc.u.ment pouch beneath the statue, and the cracked leather now lay exposed on the pedestal. The notary took it, opened it, and carefully unfolded a page torn from an old register of baptisms. The parchment threatened to come apart at the folds.

"This is it!" he exclaimed. "This is really it!"

The half-blood held out his hand.

"Give it to me."

"But will you tell me, finally, what this is all about? Do you even know?"

Saint-Lucq considered the question, and reached the conclusion that the notary had a right to this information.

"This piece of paper proves a certain person's legitimate right to an inheritance. One which is accompanied by a ducal coronet."

"My G.o.d!"

Bailleux wished to read the prestigious name which appeared on the page, but the half-blood swiftly s.n.a.t.c.hed it from him. At first taken aback, the other man decided to be reasonable.

"It's ... it's no doubt for the best this way.... I already know too much, don't I?"

"Yes."

"So it's over now. I won't be troubled again."

"It will be over soon."

Just then, they heard riders arriving.

"Our horses!" gasped Bailleux, but keeping his voice down. "They're bound to see our horses!"

The riders came to a halt before the chapel but did not seem to dismount. The horses snorted as they settled. Inside the chapel the long seconds flowed by in silence. There was no means of exit other than the front doors.

Panicking, the notary could not understand the half-blood's absolute state of calm.

"They're going to come in! They're going to come in!"

"No."

With one sharp, precise move, Saint-Lucq stabbed Bailleux in the heart. The man died without comprehension, murdered by the man who had initially saved him. Before he died, his incredulous eyes found the emotionless gaze of his a.s.sa.s.sin.

The half-blood caught the body and laid it gently on the ground.

Then he wiped his dagger carefully and replaced it in its sheath as he walked toward the door with an even step and emerged into broad daylight. There, he put his red spectacles back on, raised his eyes to the heavens, and took a deep breath. Finally, he looked over at the five armed riders who waited before him in a row.

"It's done?" one of them asked.

"It's done."

"Did he really believe we were chasing you?"

"Yes. You played your part perfectly."

"And our pay?"

"See Rochefort about it."

The rider nodded and the troop left at a gallop.

Saint-Lucq followed them with his gaze until they disappeared over the horizon and he found himself alone.

13.

It was early afternoon when they came for Laincourt.

Without a word, two of the gaolers at Le Chatelet took him from his dungeon cell and led him along dank corridors and up a spiral stairway. The prisoner did not ask any questions: he knew it would be futile. Both his ankles and his wrists had been unbound. Overly confident of their strength, the gaolers were only armed with the clubs tucked into their belts. But escape was not on the agenda as far as Laincourt was concerned.

They reached the ground floor and continued upward, which told Laincourt that they would not be leaving Le Chatelet. On the next floor, the gaoler walking ahead stopped before a closed door. He turned to the prisoner and gestured to him to hold out his wrists while his colleague bound them with a leather cord. Then he worked the latch and moved away. The other gaoler tried to push him forward, but Laincourt shoved back with his shoulder the moment he felt the other man touch him and entered of his own accord. The door was shut behind him.

It was a cold, low-ceilinged room, with a flagstone floor and bare walls. Sunshine fell in pale, oblique rays from narrow windows, former embrasures now equipped with frames and dirty panes of gla.s.s. There was a fireplace, where a fire had just been lit, and the heat was still struggling to dispel the prevailing damp. Candles were burning in two large candelabras on the table at which Cardinal Richelieu was sitting, wrapped up in a cloak with a fur collar. Wearing boots and dressed as a cavalier, he had kept his gloves on, while the wide hat he used to remain incognito outside the walls of the Palais-Cardinal was resting in front of him.

"Come closer, monsieur."

Laincourt obeyed and stood before the table, at a distance which offered no threat to Richelieu's security.

The cardinal had not come alone. Without his cape or anything else that might reveal his ident.i.ty or his function, Captain Saint-Georges, the commanding officer of the Cardinal's Guards, was standing to the right of his master and slightly behind him, wearing his sword at the side and a look on his face that expressed a mixture of hatred and scorn. One of Richelieu's innumerable secretaries was also present. He sat on a stool with a writing tablet on his lap, ready to transcribe the details of this interview.

"So," said the cardinal, "you've been spying on me...."

The secretary's goose quill began to scratch across the paper.

"Yes," replied Laincourt.

"That's not good. For a long time?"

"Long enough."

"Since your overextended mission in Spain, I should think."

"Yes, monseigneur."

Saint-Georges quivered.

"Traitor," he hissed between his teeth.

Richelieu immediately lifted a hand to command silence and, seeing that he was obeyed, addressed the prisoner again.

"I would say, by way of reproach, that I have honoured you with my trust but, of course, that is a prerequisite in the exercise of your profession. After all, what good is a spy if one is wary of him ... ? However, it does seem to me that you have been well treated. So why?"

"There are some causes that transcend those who serve them, monseigneur."

"So it was for an ideal, then.... Yes, I can understand that.... Nevertheless, were you well paid?"

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"Spain."

"But more than that?"

"The Black Claw."

"Monseigneur!" Saint-Georges intervened, seething with anger. "This traitor doesn't deserve your attention ... ! Let us hand him over to the torturers. They'll know how to make him tell us everything he knows."

"Now, now, captain.... It's true that, sooner or later, their victims will tell an expert torturer everything. But they will also say anything.... And besides, you can see for yourself that monsieur de Laincourt is not at all indisposed to answering our questions."

"Then let him be judged, and be hanged!"

"As for that, we shall see."