Thus, in Paris, ambassadors and their retinues were the guests of the king in the marquis d'Ancre's former mansion. Having been appointed by King Felipe IV of Spain, the comte de Pontevedra had been lodging there for several days and would no doubt remain there as long as was necessary to ensure the completion of a mission that was surrounded by the greatest secrecy. What were the comte and Richelieu discussing during the course of their long daily meetings—meetings at which even the king himself made appearances? The royal court was filled with rumours on this subject and everyone either claimed to know or made educated guesses. The truth, however, went beyond any of their expectations. It involved nothing less than preparing, if not an alliance, then at least a rapprochement between France and Spain. Was such a thing even possible? If it was, it would represent an enduring upheaval in European politics and would affect the destinies of millions of souls.
On this day, the comte de Pontevedra returned rather earlier than usual from the Louvre. He rode in a luxurious coach, surrounded by twenty gentlemen in arms whose role was both to protect him and to enhance his prestige with their numbers and their elegance. At the mansion in rue de
Tournon he hurried alone to his apartments, sent his servants away, and even refused his valet's assistance to remove his brocade doublet and his gold-trimmed baldric. He poured himself a glass of wine and settled down in an armchair. He was preoccupied, eaten away by worry. But it was not the difficulty of the delicate diplomatic negotiations he was engaged in that spoilt his days and haunted his nights.
A door creaked.
The ambassador rose, furious, ready to drive away the unwelcome visitor and then suddenly froze. He glanced around for his sword which, unfortunately, he had abandoned out of easy reach.
"That would be suicide, monsieur," said Laincourt, emerging from an antechamber. "I am not an assassin. I am a messenger."
"Who sent you?"
"The Black Claw."
In his fifties, tall, dignified, with greying temples and a fine scar decorating his cheekbone, the ambassador was still a handsome man. He was not trembling, but he had grown pale.
"I see," added Laincourr, "that you have guessed the reason for my visit. . . ."
"Speak, monsieur."
"We have your daughter."
Pontevedra remained expressionless.
"You don't believe me," inferred Laincourt after a moment.
"On what grounds should I believe you? I await your proof. Can you show me a jewel that could only belong to her? Or perhaps a lock of her hair?"
"Neither jewel, nor hair. But I could return with an eye. . . ."
There was another silence, during which the two men exchanged stares, each trying to probe the other.
"What do you want? Money?"
Laincourt gave a faint but amiable smile.
"Why don't you sit down, monsieur? In this armchair. That will place you away from the table you are edging toward and the letter opener that rests upon it."
Pontevedra obeyed.
In turn, the Black Claw's envoy also took a seat, but one a good distance from the ambassador, while constantly covering him with his pistol.
"Once upon a time," said Laincourt, "there was an adventurous French gentleman who became a great lord in Spain. This gentleman had a daughter
who, one day, wished to remove herself from his company. The gentleman did not want this to happen. So his daughter fled, crossing the border disguised as a cavalier and finding refuge in Paris. The gentleman received word of this. And he soon learned, through his spies, that one of his most powerful enemies was threatening, or at least also pursuing, his daughter. The gentleman, understandably, became worried. . . . What do you think of my story, monsieur? Is it accurate enough that I should continue?"
Pontevedra nodded.
"In that case, I'll go on. ... At the same time, an ambassadorial mission was being prepared in Madrid. Did our gentleman engage in a few little intrigues to have this mission entrusted to him, or did fate serve him by happenstance? It matters little. What does matter is that he was named ambassador extraordinary and came to Paris to negotiate with the king of France and his most eminent minister. His political mission was of the utmost importance, but he merely regarded it as the means of saving his daughter. Using all the influence he was able to wield, he obtained a promise from France, via Cardinal Richelieu, that she would endeavour to search for his daughter. Or rather, to search for the chevalier d'Ireban, since it was under this name and this disguise that she had secretly reached Paris. Our gentleman gave the chevalier prestigious origins, so that the cardinal might believe that he was rendering a service to the Spanish crown rather than to its ambassador. . . . Does my tale still have the ring of truth?"
"Yes."