"I am not yet sure of anything," La Fargue said. "Go rejoin the others, will you? And do not speak to them of our conversation. I will be with you shortly."
Agnes hesitated, then rose and went downstairs.
Once he was alone, the old captain withdrew a medallion from his doublet, opened the small carved lid, and lost himself in the contemplation of a miniature portrait. If it had not been painted twenty-five years earlier, it might have been that of the new, mysterious guest at the Hotel de l'Epervier.
After removing her gown and washing her face, Agnes joined the rest of the Blades in the main room, where the torches provided more light than the faint glimmer of day that entered through the small lozenge-shaped window panes.
Sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, Leprat, with his wounded leg propped on a stool before him, was silently drinking from a bottle. To one side, Almades was sharpening his rapier with a whetstone—three strokes along one edge, three strokes along the other, over and over. At the table, Bal-lardieu and Marciac partook of a light but solid repast that Guibot, hobbling about on his wooden leg, had served at their request. They drank, but the Gascon, still excited by his recent adventure, spoke more than he ate while the veteran nodded vigorously and polished off his meal with an appetite that nothing could discourage.
"I thought I was lost," Marciac was saying. "But I threw myself to the side, she brandished her pistol with both hands, and—bam!—she fired. And her aim was dead on ... ! The assassin who was about to run me through from behind collapsed with a ball right in the middle of his forehead."
"That was a damned good piece of luck," Ballardieu commented before washing down a mouthful of pate en croute with a swallow of wine.
"It was destiny, my friend. Destiny. 'Audaces fortuna juvat!'"
His lips greasy and his month full, the other man looked at him with wide eyes.
"The saying," Marciac explained "is more Of less borrowed from Virgil: 'Fortune smiles upon the brave.'"
Ballardieu was about to ask who Virgil was, but held his tongue as the Gascon, seeing Agnes, asked anxiously: "I low is she?"
"Well. She sleeps."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"And you? Your shoulder?"
In addition to a girl who was still trembling from fright, Marciac had returned from his eventful evening with the air of a conquering hero, his hair full of plaster, a few bruises, and—not that he paid much notice to it—a nasty wound to the shoulder.
"Oh, it's just a scratch," he said, with a vague gesture toward the bandage hidden beneath the sleeve of his clean, unwrinkled shirt. "It scarcely bled at all."
"You were lucky," Leprat said from his armchair, with just a hint of bitterness.
"No one succeeds without a bit of luck," said Agnes as she sat down at the big table.
She took a plate and, after poking around in the dishes, loaded it with cold meats and cheeses, gratefully accepting a glass of wine that Ballardieu poured for her. La Fargue arrived, sat astride a backward-turned chair, and immediately launched a general discussion: "You first, Marciac. Tell us what you know about this girl."
"Her name is Cecile."
"And what else?"
"That's all. I followed Castilla, who Agnes and I spotted leaving madame de Sovange's gaming salons. Castilla led me to Cecile's house in rue de la Fontaine. He did not stay long and left on horseback. By chance, I then came upon some men who I overheard preparing to abduct Cecile—although at the time, I didn't know that was her name. Be that as it may, I told myself that I could not let them succeed in their plan. And there you have it."
"Who were these men?"
"Just some hired swords, like others of their kind. But they took their orders from a Spaniard, a one-eyed man in black leather who was so sure of their success that he did not remain with them."
"Would you recognise him?" asked Leprat.
"Of course."
"But you'd never seen him before."
"No."
La Fargue mulled over this information and then turned to Agnes.
"Now you."
The baronne emptied her glass before speaking.
"She says her name is Cecile Grimaux. Last year she was living with her father and mother in Lyon. Both of them are now dead, the father from illness and the mother from grief, shortly after him. With no other resources, Cecile went to join her elder sister, Chantal, a seamstress who was living modestly in Paris but who was glad to take her in—"
'"Was living?" Leprat interrupted.
"I'm coming to that. . . . She occasionally worked for a glove maker and it was through him that Chantal made the acquaintance of two Spanish adventurers, the chevalier d'Ireban and his friend Castilla. She fell in love with the first and became his mistress. They trysted in secret in a little house in the faubourg Saint-Martin, living their perfect love while hidden from the eyes of the world. It lasted for a few weeks until they both disappeared suddenly. Since then, Castilla has been searching for them and Cecile awaits news. It seems that this ordeal has drawn them together."