Before reaching the ultimate disgrace of becoming a porte-manteau, it had served as a training mannequin for fencers for a long time. Its horizontal arms had been shortened by two-thirds and its bust—firmly fixed to a solid base which no longer allowed it to pivot—was covered with notches, the number of which increased in proportion to their proximity to the heart symbol engraved on the wood. It was Ballardieu, the soldier to whose care Agnes had been abandoned by her father, who had brought this worm-eaten device in from the field where it had then been serving as a scarecrow. At the time, still a child, the future baronne had to struggle, with both hands, in order to lift a rapier that was almost as tall as she. But she had refused to use any other.
The cry of a wyvern nearby tore through the silence.
Agnes pulled on her boots, rose, laced up her leather corset which fastened at the front, and, with her baldric slung over her shoulder and her sheathed rapier crossing her back, she headed for the courtyard on which the first shadows of the evening were beginning to encroach.
The wyvern rider was already climbing down from his white mount, its broad leathery wings now folded against its flanks. The beast's colour and the man's livery were unmistakable: he was a royal courier. He had evidently come straight from the Louvre.
After he had assured himself of the identity of the baronne de Vaudreuil and had saluted respectfully, the wyvern rider held out a letter drawn from the great reptile's saddlebags.
"Thank you. Is an immediate response expected?"
"No, madame."
Seeing Marion appear on the kitchen threshold, Agnes directed the royal messenger to her so that he could partake of a glass of wine and whatever else he desired before setting out again. The man thanked her and left Agnes in the company of his wyvern which, calm and docile, twisted its long neck around to observe its surroundings with a placid eye.
Agnes broke the wax seal showing the Cardinal Richelieu's arms and, without expression, read the contents.
"What is it?" asked Ballardieu coming over for news.
She didn't reply at once, but turned her head and stared at him for a few moments.
And then, finally, lor the first time in a very long while, she smiled.
27
That evening three riders passed through the Buci gate—or Bussy, as it was written then—entering the vast and peaceful faubourg surrounding Saint-Germain abbey. They rode down rue du Colombier at a slow walk, soon reached rue des Saints-Peres, passed Les Reformes cemetery, and, in front of La Charite hospital, turned into rue Saint-Guillaume.
"Here we are," said La Fargue, stepping down from his horse.
Marciac and Almades shared the same expression as they looked toward the huge gates before which they had stopped—these were massive and gloomy, with two carved, rectangular wooden panels fixed in place with large round-headed nails. They also dismounted and, as their captain rapped the wrought-iron knocker three times, they observed the tranquil street which forked halfway along its length toward rue de Saint-Dominique. There were only a few people walking on its filthy paving stones beneath the golden and crimson skies at sunset, and its tradesmen were packing away their stalls. The vague odour of cooking mingled with the excremental scent of Parisian muck. Not far away, a fistful of knotted hay served as a sign for a local tavern.
"It's barely changed," said the Gascon.
"No," the Spanish master at arms replied laconically.
A door for pedestrians had been cut into one of the great panels of the carriage gate. This door was pushed open slightly and, from within, a voice inquired: "Who's there?"
"Visitors," replied La Fargue.
"Are they expected?"
"Their presence has been called for."
This curious exchange made Marciac smile with nostalgia.
"Perhaps we should change the passwords," murmured Marciac to Almades. "It's been five years, after all. ..."
The other made a face: right now, all that mattered was whether the door would open for them. And it did.
La Fargue going first, they passed through the small door one by one, leading their mounts by their bits to make them lower their heads. As soon as they crossed the threshold the horses' shoes clattered loudly against the paving stones, filling the courtyard into which they emerged with echoes.
* * *