"I yielded to you without being persuaded by all of your arguments."
"You know that men of such temper will soon be necessary to France—"
"There are other men beside these."
Richelieu smiled.
"Not so many. And when you say 'these,' you're thinking 'him,' aren't you?"
"It is true that I have little love for monsieur de la Fargue. He is inflexible and has disobeyed you too often."
"Really?"
Pere Joseph launched into a rapid inventory, ticking each item off on his fingers.
"To refresh your memory: in Cologne, in Breda, and in Bohemia. And I've not even mentioned the disaster at La Rochelle—"
"If La Rochelle was torn from the bosom of France to become a Protestant republic, I do not think that the responsibility can be laid at Captain La Fargue's door. After all, if the dam we built had resisted the force of the ocean tides for a few more days, the outcome would be quite different today. ... As for the other events you mention, I believe that La Fargue only 'forgot' his orders when doing so increased the chances of his mission's success."
"He will always be headstrong. He is one of those men who never change."
"I certainly hope so."
Pere Joseph sighed, reflected a moment, and then returned to his argument: "And what do you think will happen when La Fargue uncovers the secret motives behind the task we are about to confer on him? He will feel deceived and, in view of his grievances against you, he could be tempted to ruin everything. If he stumbles across the comte de Pontevedra's true identity—!"
"He would have to stumble across the comte's existence first."
"He will, without question. Your Blades are spies as much as they are soldiers. They have no end of craftiness and imagination, and we have seen them unravel far more complicated knots than this."
It was His Eminence's turn to utter a sigh.
"If it comes to that, we shall take the necessary measures. . . . For the moment, what matters is that this mission is vital for France. And for reasons with which you are well acquainted, the Blades are the ones best able to carry it out successfully—as well as the ones who must be prevenred from learning about this cabal. ..."
"A curious paradox."
"Yesterday I told the captain that I do not always have a choice of weapons. It's very true. In this business, the Blades are the weapon which I must employ. Spain has set her conditions. I have preferred to give her some degree of satisfaction rather than seeing her harm us."
Pere Joseph nodded resignedly.
"You're tired," continued the cardinal in a solicitous, almost affectionate, tone. "Take some rest, my friend."
In the Palais-Cardinal the monk's chamber was next to Richelieu's. Pere Joseph glanced at the door leading to it.
"Yes," he said. "You're right."
"And if it helps you sleep, remember that we are speaking of a ship that has already set sail and cannot be recalled to port."
Pere Joseph look puzzled.
"At this very moment," explained the cardinal, "Rochefort is briefing La Fargue on the details of his assignment."
"So the dice are thrown."
3
Thank you," Marciac said to Nai's as she placed a bottle of wine on the table. "You should go and lie down, now."
The pretty young servant thanked him with a smile and, looking truly tired, took her leave accompanied by an admiring glance from the Gascon.
He and Almades were in the main room of the Hotel de l'Epervier, where Nai's had just served them an excellent dinner. The remains of their meal and several empty bottles stood on the long oak table around which the Blades used to meet and, so it seemed, would be meeting once again. For the time being, however, there were only the two of them and the immense room seemed bleak. The fire in the hearth was not enough to brighten it, any more than it was enough to warm it. It crackled, sang, groaned, and seemed to throw itself fiercely into a battle already lost against the advancing shadows, and the silence and the cold of the night.
"She's lovely, that girl," offered Marciac, to make conversation.
The Spanish master at arms didn't respond.
"Yes, quite charming," Gascon tried again.
Less carefree than he wished to appear, he drew a pack of cards from his pocket and proposed: "Shall I deal you a hand?"
"No."
"Name your game. Or a throw of the dice?"
"I don't play."
"Everyone plays!"
"Not me."
Discouraged, Marciac fell against the back of the chair, which creaked ominously.
"You've always been dreadful company."
"I am a master of arms. Not an exhibitor of bears."
"You're an entirely dismal individual."
Almades drank three small sips of wine.
"Always in threes, hmm?" said the Gascon.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing."
With a heavy sigh, Marciac rose and walked around the room.