"Bless you, Saint-Lucq," murmured Ballardieu.

The half-blood pulled up the coach in front of them. He had great difficulty controlling the team of horses. They whinnied and reared at each explosion, making the vehicle lurch backward and forward. Marciac seized the animals by their bits to settle them.

La Fargue managed to open the door and saw a form inside.

"There's someone in here!"

It was Gagniere. Fainted away, after receiving a sword wound in the right shoulder.

"A new friend!" joked Saint-Lucq. "Come on! Hurry!"

Ballardieu climbed aboard holding Agnes in his arms. La Fargue closed the door for them, then mounted the horse whose reins the Gascon, already in his saddle, held out for him.

"Come on! All h.e.l.l is going to break loose!"

Saint-Lucq cracked the lunges against the rumps of the harnessed horses. The riders spurred their own mounts and opened the way for the coach and they were all soon moving at a full gallop. Miraculously spared by the explosions whose blasts lashed their faces with various bits of debris, they crossed through the gate just before a violent flash brought it tumbling down. The convoy hurtled down the winding road, pitilessly running down any escapees in their path, leaving the ruined castle behind them in the grip of the full destructive fury of ancestral energies.

There was a second of tremendous silence and then a dazzling force broke forth from the sky. It swept away the last vestiges of the castle in an apocalyptic blast whose brightness drowned out the silhouette of a lone wyvern and its rider winging their way from the scene.

At the same moment, a quarter of a league away, a gate was pushed open in a thicket of undergrowth. Savelda came through first, battling with the thorns, soon followed by the two men carrying the vicomtesse. Drained of the draconic energy which had sustained her youth, she had regained her true age, becoming a haggard and ancient-looking old woman: her face was hollow and wrinkled, her complexion had lost its freshness and beauty, her long blonde hair had shrivelled into grey locks, and her pretty lips had dried and thinned. A thick black bile ran from her mouth and nostrils, and she breathed with difficulty, moaning and hiccupping.

But she lived.

A NEW DAY

1.

Two days went by and then, in the morning, Rochefort came seeking La Fargue. Less than an hour later, La Fargue was received alone by Richelieu. Sitting at his desk, elbows placed on the arms of his chairs and his fingers gathered into a steeple against his lips, the cardinal stared at the impa.s.sive old captain for a long while.

Finally he said: "Monsieur de Treville displayed great kindness in liberating monsieur Leprat from Le Chatelet, did he not? If it were up to me ..."

Sitting stiffly and keeping his gaze fixed straight before him, La Fargue did not reply.

"If one is to believe monsieur de Treville," Richelieu continued, "the man known as Malencontre duped your man, stole his things, and escaped his prison cell in disguise, taking advantage of the changing of the guards. If monsieur Leprat were not the man that he is, this might be believable...."

"No one is infallible, monseigneur."

"Without a doubt, indeed.... Naturally, the most regrettable aspect, beyond monsieur Leprat's hurt pride, is the loss of Malencontre. Do you have any idea of where he is to be found?"

"None at all. But it seems to me that the capture of the marquis de Gagniere compensates for his loss. Malencontre served Gagniere. And the master always knows more than his creature."

"So we have come out ahead in this exchange."

"Yes, monseigneur. Considerably."

"We shall see...."

The cardinal turned his gaze to the window.

"How is the baronne de Vaudreuil?"

"She is recovering."

"And the others?"

"They're all in the best of form. These last few days of rest have been very beneficial for them."

"Good, good.... But there still remains the fact that I ordered you not to interfere."

"That's true."

"Pere Joseph warned me about your insubordination. Do you have anything to say in your defence?"

"Yes. I believe that Your Eminence did not wish to be obeyed."

"Really?"

"I believe that Your Eminence knew that I would not abandon one of my ... one of your Blades. I believe that Your Eminence had foreseen that I would be led to confront the Black Claw. Finally, I believe that Your Eminence could not do other than to give me the orders that he gave me, out of fear of displeasing Spain. But despite all that, Your Eminence wanted me to pursue matters."

"And from where do you draw this sentiment, captain?"

"First of all, from the concern you have for the welfare of France, monseigneur."

"Very well. And then?"

"Nothing obliged you to tell me where Malencontre was being detained. In doing so, you gave me the means to take the next step without risk of annoying the amba.s.sador extraordinary of Spain. Thus, appearances were saved."

The cardinal smiled. His eyes crinkled and shone with an unspoken satisfaction.

"You will understand, captain, that I can only deny all this."

"Indeed, monseigneur."

"Know then that I condemn your initiative ..."

La Fargue nodded.

"... and that I congratulate you."

The old gentleman betrayed a hint of a sly smile.

He realised that he would probably never know what Richelieu had or had not known since the beginning of this affair, what he had chosen to say or had preferred to keep silent, or what he had pretended to believe or had secretly guessed. The Blades were a weapon that the cardinal used as he pleased.

Richelieu rose and, a signal honour, accompanied La Fargue to the door.

"I should like, captain, for you to reflect on the proposal that I am about to make to you...."

"Monseigneur?"

"It concerns a certain young man of great worth who has served me well. Unfortunately, things turned out in a manner that prevents him from regaining his position among my Guards. Nevertheless, I do not wish to lose him. But if you should deign to accept him among the Blades ..."

"His name?"

"Laincourt."

"Is he the man who-"

"One and the same, captain."

"I promise you that I shall think upon it, monseigneur."

"Excellent. Think upon it. And give me your accord soon."

2.

"It's me," announced Leprat after knocking on the door to Agnes's bedroom.

"Come in."

The young woman was still in her bed, more out of laziness, however, than necessity. She looked well and the scratches on her face would not spoil her beauty. The platter Ballardieu had brought her was set down next to her. Leprat noticed with satisfaction that it was almost empty.

"I came to see how you were feeling," said the musketeer.

Then pointing to a chair: "May I?"

"Of course."

Agnes closed her book, looked at Leprat as he sat down, taking care with his wounded leg, and waited.

"So?" he asked after a moment.

"So what?"

"Are you feeling well?"

"As you can see ... I'm resting."

"You deserve it."

"I believe I do, yes."

There was an awkward silence during which Agnes became amused by Leprat's embarra.s.sment.

But she finally took pity on him and said: "Go ahead. Say it."

"You were reckless in letting yourself be abducted by those men."

"I didn't know who they were, in fact, and that was precisely what I was counting on finding out. Furthermore, there were five or six of them and I was unarmed."

"Nevertheless. When you saw Saint-Lucq in the street, you could have ... Between the two of you, with surprise on your side ..."

"I know."

"Things could have turned out very badly."

"Yes. The Black Claw could have established a lodge, here, in France."

"That's one way of looking at it. But why did you go there, to begin with?"

"To Cecile's house?"

"Yes."

"You know very well. To find out what she was hiding there. To find whatever Saint-Lucq managed to find before me, acting on his secret orders from the captain. If I had known that ..."

Leprat nodded, with a distracted gaze.

Agnes narrowed her eyes and leaned forward to look at him squarely.

"That's what you've come to speak to me about, isn't it?"

"He's changed. He's not the same as he was.... I ... I think he's distrustful of us."

And with an ill-tempered gesture, his voice vibrant with impotent anger, Leprat added: "Of us, d.a.m.n it! Of his Blades!"

The young woman, sympathising with him, laid her hand upon his wrist.

"We have Louveciennes to blame for that. When he betrayed us at La Roch.e.l.le, he might as well have stabbed La Fargue in the heart. He was his best friend. His only friend, perhaps.... And that's not even including the death of Bretteville and the shameful dissolution of the Blades. That memory must be branded by a red-hot iron in his mind, and it burns him still."