At last they were able to pass and spurred t heir horses on to cross the foul muck-filled ditch before riding quickly through the streets of the faubourg. They burst into rue Saint-Guillaume just as (iuibot was closing the gates to the Hotel de l'Epervier. Almades slowed down, but not La Fargue. He entered at a full gallop, obliging the old porter to jump aside while pushing one of the panels of the coach gate back open. La Fargue's horse had to pull up abruptly in the courtyard as the captain jumped down from the saddle and rushed over to the main building . . . and found Leprat sitting, or rather sprawled, on the front steps.
Bare-headed, with his doublet open and his shirt untucked, his wounded leg stretched out before him, the former musketeer was leaning back, supported by his elbows against the last step. He was drinking, without thirst, straight from a wine bottle. His rapier, still in its scabbard, was lying nearby.
"Too late . . ." he spat. "They took him away."
"Malencontre?"
Leprat nodded.
"Who?" insisted La Fargue. "Who took him away?"
The other man swallowed a last mouthful, noticed that his bottle was empty, and threw it against a wall where it shattered. Then he picked up his rapier and heaved himself up.
"It looks rather as if, in summoning you, the cardinal only wished to draw you away, doesn't it?" he replied in a bitter tone.
"Spare me that, will you? And answer my question."
"Rochefort and his underlings, of course. . . . They just left. They had an order signed by His Eminence. An order that Rochefort seemed particularly pleased to wave under my nose."
"I couldn't have foreseen that! I couldn't know—"
"Know what?" Leprat flared. "Know that nothing at all has changed? Know that the cardinal continues to play his own game with us? Know that we are puppets with him pulling the strings? Know that we count for so little . . . ? Go on, captain, did the cardinal even tell you why he was taking Malencontre from us? No, I think not. On the other hand, he was careful not to announce his decision until you were powerless to do anything about it. . . . That should wake some familiar memories in you. And it stirs up just as many questions. . . ."
Disgusted, l.eprat limped back inside the house.
He left La Fargue behind, who was joined by Almades leading their horses by their bridles.
"He . . . he's right," murmured the captain in a tight voice.
"Yes. But that's not the worst news. ..."
La Fargue turned toward the Spaniard.
"Guibot," explained Almades, "just told me Rochefort and his men brought a coach in which to carry Malencontre off. That means the cardinal not only knew we were holding him but also that he was not in a fit state to ride a horse."
"So what?"
"We were the only ones who knew that Malencontre was wounded, captain. Just us. Nobody else."
"Which means one of us is informing Richelieu on the sly."
25
After making sure the front door was shut, the young woman extinguished all of the lights except one on the ground floor and, candlestick in hand, walked upstairs protecting the wavering flame with her palm. The candle illuminated her pretty face from below and set two golden points aglow in the depths of her eyes, while the creak of the steps was the only sound to be heard throughout the house.
Once she reached her bedroom, she set down the candlestick on a table and, undoing the chignon that held up her long dark hair, went over to close the window which had been left ajar behind the curtains. She had started to undo the lacings of her dress when someone seized her from behind and placed a hand against her mouth.
"Don't cry out," murmured Marciac. "I won't harm you."
She nodded, felt his grip on her relax, and broke free with a vicious blow of her elbow. She rushed to her bedside table and turned around brandishing a stiletto.
Marciac, who suffered less from his painful ribs than from hurt pride, stretched out his hand in an appeasing gesture and, keeping his distance, said in a voice that he also hoped was calming: "You really don't have anything to fear from me. On the contrary."
He was worried that she might injure herself.
"Who . . . who are you?"
"My name is Marciac."
He stepped cautiously to one side, but the young woman, on her guard, followed the movement with the point of her stiletto.
"I don't know you . . . ! What are you doing in my home?"
"I have been hired to protect you. And that's exactly what I'm trying to do."
"Hired? Hired by whom?"
The Gascon was willing to gamble here.
"The man who just left you," he ventured. "Castilla."
That name caused the wary gaze directed at Marciac to falter.
"Castilla . . . ? He ... he said nothing to me."
"He was afraid of worrying you unnecessarily. He paid me and told me to stay out of your sight."
"You're lying!"
With a swift gesture, he reached out and seized the young woman's wrist and, without disarming her, forced her to turn around against him. He now had her firmly in his grasp, but he was trying not to hurt her.