Angelique - Part 3. The Corridors of the Louvre Chapter 6 - Read online

ANGELIQUE REMOVED THE WOODEN SHUTTER, then struggled with the leaded window of stained glass. At last she managed to open it. You had to be a native Parisian to sleep with closed windows in such heat. She inhaled the fresh morning air deeply, then stood stock-still, overcome with wonder and amazement.
Her room did not look out on the rue de l'Enfer, for it was at the back of the house. It hung over the river, smooth and shiny as a sword, speckled with gold by the rising sun and criss-crossed by small boats and heavy barges. On the opposite bank a laundress’s boat covered with a bulging white awning made a brilliant stain, like a chalk-mark, on this misty pastel scene. The women’s cries, the banging of their paddles, floated up to Angelique, mingling with the bargemen’s calls and the neighing of the horses which the grooms were leading to the water’s edge.
A penetrating, sweet-sour smell assailed her nostrils. Angelique bent forward and saw that the timbered piles that supported the old house rested in a mud-bank on which a pile of rotten fruit was surrounded by a swarm of wasps. On the right, at the corner of the island, there was a little harbour cluttered with barges. Basketfuls of oranges, cherries, grapes and pears were being unloaded. Handsome boys in rags, standing on the prows of their boats, bit lustily into oranges, scattering the peels, which the wavelets washed up against the houses. They would then take of f their rags and plunge into the pale water. From the dock a wooden foot¬bridge, painted a bright red, linked the Cite with a small island.
Just beyond the washerwomen, a long beach was crammed with trading boats. Barrels stood in serried rows, sacks were piled up, and mountains of hay were being unloaded for the stables. Armed with boat¬hooks, the rivermen held back the floating timber rafts which were drifting downstream and guided them towards the bank, where lighter men rolled and stacked the logs.
Above the noise and bustle shone a sun of springlike freshness and of such extraordinary transparency that every scene was transformed into a delicate dream-picture set of f by the sudden flash of a piece of linen, a white bonnet, or a shrieking sea-gull skimming just over the water.
There was a knock at the door, and Hortense’s maid came in.
“I’m bringing the milk for the baby, Madame. I went myself to the Place de la Pierre-au-Lait early this morning. The village women had only just arrived. The milk was still warm.”
“It’s very good of you to take so much trouble, but you should have sent my little nursemaid upstairs with the pitcher.”
“I wanted to see if the little darling was awake. I am so fond of babies, Madame. It’s a pity that Madame Hortense sends hers away to be nursed. She had one six months ago which I took to the village of Chaillot. Well, every day it breaks my heart to imagine that they may come and tell me it’s died. For the foster-mother had hardly any milk, and I fear above all that she may feed it with bread soaked in wine and water.”
The maid was plump, with shiny cheeks and childish blue eyes. Angelique felt a sudden surge of liking for her.
“What’s your name, my girl?”
“My name is Barbe, Madame, at your service.”
“Well, you see, Barbe, I nursed my child myself in the beginning. I hope he’ll grow to be sturdy.”
“Nothing can replace a mother’s care,” said Barbe sententiously. Florimond awoke. He gripped the rim of his little cradle with both hands, and sat up, fixing his lustrous black eyes on the new face.
“The beautiful treasure, the lovely darling, bonjour, my pet!” crooned the girl, picking him up, still damp from sleep.
She carried him to the window to show him the boats and sea-gulls and the baskets of oranges.
“What is this little harbour called?” asked Angelique.
“It’s the port of Saint-Landry, the fruit-market harbour, and beyond it is the Red Bridge which leads to the island of Saint-Louis. On the opposite bank they do a lot of unloading too. You can see the haymarket dock, the timber dock, the wheat dock and the wine dock. All that produce interests the gentlemen of the Hotel de Ville, that beautiful building you can see over there, behind the strand.
“And the big square in front of it?”
“That’s the Place de Greve.”
Barbe screwed up her eyelids to sec more clearly.
“I see there’s a crowd on the Place de Greve this morning. They surely must have hanged someone.”
“Hanged?” said Angelique, horrified.
“Why, that’s where the executions take place. From my garret, which
is just above, I don’t miss a single one, though it’s a bit far away. I like it better that way, anyhow, for I’m tender-hearted. Mostly there are hang¬ings, but I also saw two heads cut of f with the axe and a witch burned at the stake.”
Angelique shivered and turned away. The view from her window suddenly seemed less cheerful to her.
After dressing with a certain elegance, since she intended to go to the Tuileries, Angelique asked Margot to take her cloak and accompany her. The little nursemaid could look after Florimond, and Barbe would watch over them both.
“What I feared has happened, Madame,” announced Margot. “Your scamps of footmen and coachmen have run away and there’s no one left to drive your carriage and look after your horses.”
After a moment’s consternation, Angelique brightened.
“Never mind, it’s just as well. I only brought four thousand livres with me. It’s my intention to send Monsieur d’Andijos to Toulouse to bring me back some funds. But meanwhile, as we can’t see into the future, it’s better not to have to pay all those people. I’ll sell my horses and carriage to the owner of the public stables and we’ll walk. I’m very eager to have a look at the shops.”
“Madame does not realise how muddy the streets are. In some places, you wade in garbage up to your ankles.”
“My sister told me that if you put wooden clogs on your feet, you can walk easily. Come on, Margot, my dear, don’t grumble, we’re going to visit Paris, isn’t it wonderful?”
Downstairs, in the vestibule, Angelique found Fran£ois Binet and the little musician.
“I thank you for being faithful,” she said to them, touched, “but I’m afraid we shall have to part, for I shall not be able to keep you in my service any longer. Would you, Binet, like me to recommend you to Mademoiselle de Montpensier? In view of the success you had with her at Saint-Jean-de-Luz, I am certain she will find employment for you or will recommend you, in turn, to some nobleman.”
“I thank you for your kindness, Madame, but I think I shall take employment with a master barber.”
“You!” protested Angelique. “You who were the greatest barber and wigmaker in Toulouse!”
“Unfortunately, I shall not be able to find any such important post in this city, where the guilds are hard to get into.”
“But at Court . . .”
“To woo the favours of the mighty, Madame, requires much patience. It’s not wise to be projected into the limelight too quickly, especially when you are a modest craftsman like myself. A mere trifle—a malicious word, a venomous allusion—is enough to hurl you from the peak of honour into the blackest misery. The favour of princes is fickle.” Angflique stared at him.
“You want to give them time to forget that you were Monsieur de Peyrac’s barber?”
He dropped his eyes.
“For my part, Madame, I shall never forget it. Let my master get the better of his enemies, and I shall hasten to serve him again. But I’m just a simple barber.”
“You are right, Binet,” said Angelique with a smile. “I like your frankness. There is no reason why we should drag you down with us into disgrace. Here are a hundred kus. Good luck.”
The young man bowed and, taking his barber’s case, retreated towards the door respectfully.
“And you, Giovanni, would you like me to try and put you in touch with Monsieur Lulli?”
“Oh yes, mistress, oh yes!”
“And you, Kouassi-Ba, what do you want to do?”
“I want to go for a walk with you, Medeme.”
Angelique smiled.
“All right. Well, come on, you two. We’ll go to the Tuileries.”
At that moment the door opened and Maitre Fallot’s fine brown wig appeared through the opening.
“I heard your voice, Madame, and was just waiting to ask you for a moment’s talk.”
Angelique motioned to the three servants to wait for her.
“I am at your disposal, sir.”
She followed him into his office, where clerks and scribes were working busily. The acrid smell of ink, the creak of goose-quills, the dim light, the black suits of the down-at-heel employees did not make of this room a particularly pleasant place. On the walls hung a great number of black bags containing the files of various legal cases. Maitre Fallot led Angelique into a small adjacent study, where a man was waiting. The proctor introduced him:
“Monsieur Desgrez, advocate. Monsieur Desgrez will be at your dis¬posal to guide you in this painful affair of your husband’s.”
Ang&que looked at the newcomer with consternation. This—the Comte de Peyrac’s attorney! It would be difficult to find a more thread¬bare coat, a more worn-out shirt, a more faded felt hat. The proctor seemed almost luxuriously clothed beside him. The poor fellow did not even wear a wig, and his long hair seemed of the same rough, brown texture as his woollen suit. Nevertheless, despite his apparent poverty, he exuded an air of self-confidence.
“Madame,” he said at once, “let’s not use the future or die conditional form: I am at your disposal. Now tell me without fear what you know.”
“Why, sir,” replied Angelique rather coldly, “I know nothing, or almost nothing.”
“So much the better, we thus shan’t start with any false premises.”
“There is one certainty though,” broke in Maitre Fallot, “the lettre de cachet signed by the King.”
“Quite right, sir. The King. We must start with the King.”
The young lawyer cupped his chin in his hands and frowned.
“Not very convenient. As a starting-point one could hardly begin higher up.”
“I intend to go and see Mademoiselle de Montpensier, the King’s cousin,” said Angelique. “It seems to me that through her I might obtain more accurate information; especially if, as I suspect, it’s all a matter of a Court intrigue. And through her I might perhaps be able to approach His Majesty.”
“Mademoiselle de Montpensier, pooh!” said the other widi a disdainful pout. “That great gawk is a blunderer. Don’t forget, Madame, that she was an insurgent and had the troops of her royal cousin fired upon. On that account she’ll always be treated with suspicion at Court. Moreover, the King is somewhat jealous of her immense wealth. She’ll soon under¬stand that it is not in her interest to try to protect a nobleman who’s fallen into disgrace.”
“I believe, and have always heard it said, that the Grande Mademoiselle has a very kind heart.”
“May it please Heaven that she use it in your behalf, Madame! As a child of Paris, I put little trust in the hearts of the mighty, who feed the people on the fruit of their discord, fruit that is as bitter and rotten as those that decompose under your house, Monsieur. But go ahead and try this move if you think it’s worth while, Madame. However, I advise you 'o talk to Mademoiselle in a light, casual manner without dwelling on the injustice that has been done to you.”
‘Is a pettifogging, down-at-heel lawyer going to tell me how to talk to people at Court?’ Angelique thought to herself, annoyed. *
She took a few ecus from her purse.
“Here is an advance on the expenses that your inquiries may occasion
M
you.
“Thank you, Madame,” replied the lawyer, who, after glancing at the coins with satisfaction, slipped them into a remarkably flat leather purse he carried on his belt. .
He bowed very courteously and left. At the comer of the house an enormous great Dane, its white coat speckled with large brown spots, got up and followed in the lawyer’s footsteps. The latter, his hands in his pockets, walked away, whistling gaily to himself.
“This man doesn’t inspire me with much confidence,” said Angelique to her brother-in-law. “I’d say he was a fake as well as a conceited, incapable fellow.”
“He’s a brilliant young man,” the proctor assured her, “but he is poor . . . like many of his ilk. There’s a surfeit of lawyers without cases in Paris. This one must have inherited his office from his father; he couldn’t have bought one otherwise. But I recommended him to you because, for one thing, I respect his intelligence and, for another, he won’t cost you much. He’ll do wonders with the small sum you’ve given him.”
“The question of money should not arise. If necessary, my husband shall have the support of the most enlightened men of law.”
Maitre Fallot cast a glance at Angelique that was at once haughty and shrewd.
“Have you an inexhaustible fortune at your disposal?”
“Not on my person, but I’m going to send the Marquis d’Andijos to Toulouse. He will see our banker and instruct him, if money is needed at once, to sell some of our land.”
“Aren’t you afraid that your Toulouse estates may have been seized and put under seal, just like your Paris house?”
Angelique looked at him dumbfounded.
“That’s impossible!” she stammered. “Why should they have done that? Why should anyone be so bent on our misfortune? We haven’t harmed anyone.”
The lawyer spread his hands in an unctuous gesture.
“Alas, Madame, many people passing through this of fice utter the same words. To hear them, no one would ever do the slightest harm to anyone else. And yet there are lawsuits all die time. . . .”
\ . . and work for the lawyers,’diought Angelique.
With this new worry on her mind, she paid little attention to their walk, which took them through the rues de la Colombe, des Marmousets and de la Lanteme to the Palace of Justice. Following the Quai de l’Horloge, they reached the Pont-Neuf, at the far end of the island. The bustling
activity delighted the servants. Small shops mounted on wheels were massed around the bronze statue of good King Henri IV, and innumerable cries rang out, hawking the most extraordinary variety of goods. A miraculous plaster was sold here, teeth pulled painlessly over there, else¬where again there were flasks of a peculiar product that removed stains from clothes, books here, toys there, and tortoise-shell hoops that banished stomach-ache. Trumpets blared and music-boxes jingled. Drums rolled on a platform where acrobats were juggling with glasses. A haggard individual in a threadbare suit slipped a scrap of paper into Angelique’s hand and asked her for ten sols. She gave them to him un¬thinkingly and put the sheet of paper into her pocket, then ordered her gaping suite to hurry up a little.
She did not feel in the mood for dawdling. At every step, moreover, she was stopped by beggars who suddenly loomed up in front of her, exposing an oozing wound or the stump of an arm or leg wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Or else there were women in rags carrying children whose faces were caked with scabs and surrounded by flies. They emerged from the shadow of porches, from the corners of shops; they rose from the river-banks and spluttered appeals that were plaintive at first, but which soon turned to threats.
At last, sickened by what she saw and having spent all her small change, Angelique ordered Kouassi-Ba to chase them away. The negro promptly bared his cannibal teeth and waved his hand in the direction of an approaching cripple, who at once decamped with a surprising alacrity.
“This comes from walking on foot like peasants,” Margot kept repeating with growing indignation.
Angelique heaved a sigh of relief when she at last descried the ivy- covered Tour du Bois, crumbling vestige of the ancient rampart of old Paris. Soon after, they reached the Pavilion de Flore, which formed the end of a gallery and linked it at right angles with the Chateau des Tuileries.
The air was getting cooler. A light breeze rose from the Seine and dispelled the rank odours of the town. At last they came upon the T uileries, a palace embellished with a thousand details, flanked by a plump dome and turrets, a summer residence of feminine grace, for it had been erected for a woman, Catharine de Medici, the pomp-loving Italian.
At the Tuileries, she was told to wait. The Grande Demoiselle had gone to the Luxembourg Palace, in order to arrange her plans for moving. Monsieur, the King’s brother, had decided to contend with her for the Tuileries, although Mademoiselle had been residing there for years. He had settled with his entire retinue in a wing of the palace. Mademoiselle had treated him as a haggler and there had been a hue and cry.
Eventually, Mademoiselle yielded as she always did. She was really far too good-natured.
Left to herself, Angelique sat down beside a window and gazed at the marvellous garden. Beyond the blooming mosaics of the flower-beds glistened a vast almond-tree orchard, and beyond it the green mass of trees of the Garonne. A building along the Seine housed Louis XIII's aviary, where hunting falcons were still being bred. To the right there were the famous royal stables and the riding-school, whence came the noise of galloping and the shouts of pages and trainers.
Angelique inhaled the fresh country air and watched the little wind¬mills turn on the distant heights of Chaillot, Passy and Le Roule. At last, towards midday, there appeared, amid much hustling and bustling, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, perspiring and fanning herself.
“My dear,” she said to Angflique, “you always come at the right moment. Just when I see nothing but stupid faces whichever way I turn, your delightful little visage with its pure, clear eyes is a most . . . refresh¬ing sight. Refreshing, that's it. Now are we or are we not going to get some lemonade and ice?"
She dropped into an arm-chair and recovered her breath.
“Let me tell you what happened. I almost strangled the Petit Monsieur this morning, and it certainly would not have been difficult for me. He hounds me out of this palace, where I've lived since my childhood. More than that: I can say I reigned over this palace. Look . . . here is where I sent my footman and fiddlers to cross swords with Monsieur de Mazarin’s men. Mazarin wanted to flee from the people's anger, but just then he couldn't get out of Paris. He narrowly escaped being murdered and having his body thrown into the river. . . ."
Angelique wondered how, amid this welter of gossip, she'd ever be able to broach the subject that was closest to her heart. The young lawyer's scepticism concerning the kindness of the great came back to her. Finally, taking her courage in both hands, she said:
“Your Highness will pardon me, but I know you are aware of all that's happening at Court. Has it not come to your knowledge that my husband is in the Bastille?"
The Princess seemed frankly surprised and was immediately up in arms.
“In the Bastille? Why, what crime did he commit?"
“That's precisely what I don't know. And I very much hope that you, Highness, will help me to clear up this mystery."
She related what had happened at Saint-Jean-de-Luz and the mysterious disappearance of the Comte de Peyrac. The seals affixed on their house proved that the kidnapping was connected with a legal prosecution, but the secret was being well kept.
“Let's see,” said Mademoiselle de Montpensier. “Let's dig into it a little. Your husband has enemies, like everyone else. Who, according to you, might be out to harm him?”
“My husband was not on very good terms with the Archbishop of Toulouse. But I do not believe the latter could have produced anything against him that would have impelled the King to intervene.”
“Mayn't the Comte de Peyrac have slighted some influential person close to His Majesty? I do remember just one thing, my little one. Monsieur de Peyrac used to display a rare insolence towards my father when the latter came down to Toulouse as Governor of Languedoc. Oh, my father did not hold it against him, and he is dead, anyway. My late father was not of a jealous disposition, although he spent his time plotting. I've inherited this passion of his, I confess, and that's why I am not always in the King’s favour. He is a very susceptible man. . . . Ah, now I think of it, maybe Monsieur de Peyrac slighted the King himself?”
“My husband is not in the habit of lavishing flatteries. However, he respected the King, and did he not do his best to please him when he received His Majesty in Toulouse?”
“Oh! What a wonderful pageant!” raved Mademoiselle, clasping her hands. “Those litde birds that flew out of a huge rock of sweetmeat! . . . But, as a matter of fact, I have been told that it vexed the King. The same as with Monsieur Fouquet at Vaux-le-Vicomte. . . . These mighty lords don't realise that when the King smiles, it means he is on edge at seeing his own subjects crush him with their splendour."
“I cannot believe that His Majesty would be so petty.”
“The King seems gentle and fair, I admit. But whether you like it or not, the fact is that he always remembers the time when the Princes of the blood waged war against him. And I myself, it’s true, was one of them, I no longer remember why. In short, His Majesty distrusts all those who raise their heads a litde too high.”
“My husband never sought to plot against the King. He always behaved as a loyal subject, and he alone paid one quarter of all the taxes of Langue¬doc.”
Mademoiselle de Montpensier gave her visitor a friendly litde tap with her fan.
“How fervently you defend him! I confess his appearance frightened me a litde, but after talking to him at Saint-Jean-de-Luz, I began to understand why he had so much success with women. Don't cry, ftiy dear. You'll get your great attractive Lame Man back even if I have to harass
“I shall be accompanied by my maid/'
“As you wish."
He bowed and walked away, his spurs clicking.
“Who is that gentleman?" Angflique asked Cerbalaud.
, “The Chevalier de Lorraine, Monsieur's new favourite. Yes, de Guiche aroused his displeasure: he did not display enough enthusiasm for perverse love and maintained too marked a fancy for the fair sex. Not that the Petit Monsieur spurns it entirely. They say that after the King's entrance he will be married, and do you know to whom? To Princess Henriette of England, the daughter of poor Charles I whom the EngHsh beheaded . . ."
Angelique listened with only one ear. She was beginning to feel hungry. She always had a robust appetite. She felt a little ashamed of it, especially in the present circumstances. What was poor Joffrey eating in his black prison, he who was so fastidious? Nevertheless, she glanced around in the hope of perceiving a hot-pastry vendor, from whom she might buy something to fortify her.
Their present walk had taken them to the other bank of the Seine, near the old gate of Nesle flanked by its tower. For a long time the Pre-aux- Clercs—the Clerics' Field—where students in the old days used to frisk and frolic, had ceased to exist. But there still remained between the abbey of Saint-Germain-dcs-Pres and the ancient moats a vacant plot of waste ground planted with clumps of trees, where punctilious young men could come and expunge stains from their honour far from the indiscreet eyes of the constables of the watch.
As they neared the field, Angelique and Cerbalaud heard shouts and found Lauzun and the Marquis d'Humieres, with open shirts, in duellists’ attire, each about to give Andijos a joint thrashing. Both of them told how, obliged to fight it out, they had each secretly asked Andijos to come and separate them for the sake of friendship. But the traitor had hidden behind a shrub and, roaring with laughter, had watched the anguish of the two ‘foes', who were dragging things out as long as they could, asserting that one sword was shorter than the other, the duelling-shoes too tight.
“If we'd had the slightest courage, we'd have had ample time to cut each other’s throats a hundred times!" cried little Lauzun.
Angelique joined forces with them to shower Andijos with reproaches.
“Do you think my husband has kept you for fifteen years in order to have you indulge in stupid pranks while he is in prison?" she cried. “Oh, you southerners!"
She pulled him aside, dug her nails into his arm, then ordered him to leave for Toulouse forthwith in order to bring back some money as quickly as possible. Shamefacedly he confessed that he had lost all his own money gambling at Princess Henriette’s the previous night. She gave him five hundred livres and Kouassi-Ba as an escort. When they had gone, Angelique noticed that Lauzun and d’Humieres had likewise disappeared. She put her hand on her forehead.
“I must return to the Tuileries at five,” she said to Margot. “Let’s wait somewhere near-by in a tavern where they’ll give us food and drink.”
“A tavern!” repeated the maid indignantly. “Madame, that’s no place for you.”
“Do you think that prison is a place for my husband? I am hungry and thirsty. So are you. Don’t simper. Let’s go and rest.”
She took Margot’s arm familiarly and leaned on her. She herself was smaller than the maid, which was probably why this woman had im¬pressed her for so long. Now she knew her well. Quick-tempered, vehement and easily outraged, Margot had an unswerving devotion for the Peyrac family.
“Perhaps you too would like to leave?” said Angelique abruptly. “I haven’t the faintest notion how all this is going to turn out. You have seen that the footmen didn’t take long to show their fear, and maybe they weren’t wrong.”
“I never cared to follow the example of footmen,” said Margot scorn¬fully, and her eyes flashed like burning coals.
After a moment’s thought she added:
“For my part, all my life revolves around a single memory. I was put together with the Comte into the basket of a Catholic peasant who took him back to Toulouse to his parents. That was after the slaughter of the people of my village, among them my mother, who was his nurse. I was not even four years old, but I remember every detail. All his bones were broken and he was groaning. I was trying to wipe his blood-soaked little face, and as he was burning with thirst, I slipped a little thawed snow between his lips. No more now than at that time will I abandon him, even if I, too, should die on the straw of a dungeon. . . .”
Angelique did not answer, but she leaned more heavily on Margot and for a moment rested her cheek on the maid’s shoulder.
They found a tavern near the gate of Nesle, in front of the small hump-backed bridge which passed over the ancient moat. The patronne cooked them a fricassee on the hearth.
It was a quiet, seldom-frequented place and the countryside was near¬by. Men were pulling their boats on to the mudbank of the shores. Children were angling in the moat. . . .
When evening came, Angflique passed back over the river to reach the Tuileries. The avenues of the park were crowded, for the cool hour brought not only noblemen but also wealthy townspeople and their families to the gardens.
At the Pavilion de Flore, the Chevalier de Lorraine himself came to meet the visitors and bade them sit on a bench in the ante-room. His Highness would be coming soon. Then he left them. The corridors were full of animation. This particular passage-way served as a link between the Tuileries and the Louvre. Angelique noticed many faces she had come across at Saint-Jean-de-Luz. She shrank back into the window recess, having no desire to be recognised. Anyhow, few people even noticed them. Most of them were on their way to supper at Mademoiselle’s. Some were fixing after-dinner rendezvous to play at trente-et-un at Made¬moiselle Henriette’s. Others deplored being obliged to return to the Chateau of Vincennes, which was so uncomfortable but where the King would remain till his entrance into Paris.
Gradually, darkness invaded the corridors. Rows of lackeys appeared carrying torches, which they placed on tables between the high case¬ments.
“Madame,” said Margot suddenly, “we must go. Night has blackened the window-panes. If we don’t leave now, we’ll never find our way out or else we’ll be murdered by some ruffians.”
“I shan’t budge from here until I’ve seen Monsieur,” said Angelique doggedly. “Even if I have to spend all night on this bench.”
The maid did not insist. But a few moments later she spoke again in a low voice.
“Madame, I fear that there may be an attempt on your life.”
Angelique started.
“You are mad. Wherever do you get such ideas?”
“From not so far away: they tried to kill you four days ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the forest of Rambouillet. They weren’t after the King or Queen, they were out to get you, Madame. And if the coach hadn’t overturned in that ditch, the bullet aimed at the window would certainly have hit you in the head.”
“You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Those black¬guards were looking for mischief and would have attacked any coach that passed.”
“Humph! Why then was the one who aimed at you your former major-domo, Clement Tonnel?”
Angelique’s eyes roved over the now deserted vista of the ante-room.
“Arc you certain of what you arc saying?”
“I'd answer for it with my life. I recognised him all right, despite his hat pulled down over his eyes. They must have chosen him because he knows you well and they could thus be sure not to make a mistake about the person.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“How do I know?” said the maid, shrugging her shoulders, “But there’s something else I firmly believe: that man is a spy; I never trusted him. First of all, he did not come from our part of the country. Secondly, he did not know how to laugh. Finally, he always seemed to be watching something; he had a way of attending to his work with his ears too wide open. . . . Now, why he should want to kill you, that I couldn’t explain any more than I know why my master is in prison. But one would have to be deaf and blind, and a fool to boot, not to understand that you have enemies who’ve sworn your destruction.”
Angelique shivered and wrapped her brown silk cape more closely around her.
“I cannot see anything that could possibly explain such relentless fury. Why should anyone want to kill me?”
In a flash, the vision of the poison-casket passed before her eyes. But she had shared that secret only with Joffrey. . . .
“Let’s go, Madame,” repeated Margot in a more urgent voice.
At that moment the sound of footsteps rang out in the gallery. Angelique could not help giving a nervous start. Someone was approach¬ing. Angelique recognised the Chevalier de Lorraine, carrying a three- branched candelabra. The flames lit his handsome face, whose affable air did not disguise, however, a shifty and slightly cruel expression.
“His Royal Highness apologises a thousand times,” he said, bowing. “He’s been detained and won’t be able to keep the appointment he has given you for tonight. Will you agree to postpone it till tomorrow at the same hour?”
Arigflique was terribly disappointed. She agreed, however, to the new date.
The Chevalier de Lorraine told her that the gates of the Tuileries were closed: he would lead them to the other end of the long gallery. There, leaving by way of a small garden called the Infanta’s Garden, they would be only a few steps away from the Pont-Neuf. He walked in front of them, holding his torch high. His wooden heels rang out ominously on the stone tiles. Angelique saw their little procession reflected in the black window-panes. She could not help thinking there was something funereal about it. From time to time they passed a guard, or a door opened and a couple came out, laughing. She glimpsed a brilliantly-lit drawing-room where a party was gaily gambling. An orchestra of violins, behind a screen, wafted a soft, thin stream of melody to them across the deserted halls.
At last the interminable inarch seemed to have reached its destination. The Chevalier de Lorraine stopped.
“This is the staircase that will take you down to the gardens. Im¬mediately on your right a small gate and a few steps, and you will be out of the palace.”
Angelique did not dare to say that she was without a carriage, and the Chevalier did not inquire about it. He bowed with the formality of one who has carried out his duty, and walked away.
Angelique seized Margot’s arm.
“Let’s hurry, Margot, my dear. I am not timorous, but this night walk holds no pleasure at all for me.”
They began to hurry down the stone steps.
What saved Angelique was her little shoe. She had walked so much all day long that the slender leather strap suddenly gave way. Letting go of her companion half-way down the stairs, she bent down to try and refasten it. Margot continued walking down the steps.
A blood-curdling shriek rose from the darkness, the scream of a woman struck to the death.
“Help, Madame! . . . I’m murdered . . . Flee! . . . Flee!”
Hie voice fell silent. A horrible groan, then nothing.
Frozen with horror, Angelique peered into the dark well into which Margot had disappeared. She called:
“Margot! Margot!”
Her voice echoed in a deep void. The cool night air scented by the orange-trees in the garden rose up to her, but there was no more sound. Panic-stricken, Angelique rushed upstairs again to the lights of the long gallery. An of ficer was passing. She ran towards him.
“Sir, help me, help! Someone’s just killed my maid.”
Too late she recognised the Marquis de Vardes, but in her terror he seemed sent by Providence.
“Ho! It’s the woman in gold,” he remarked in his sneering voice, “the woman with the nimble fingers.”
“Sir, this is no time for dalliance. I am telling you again, my maid’s been murdered.”
“Indeed? You don’t expect me to cry about it?”
Angflique wrung her hands.
“For mercy’s sake, we must do something, chase the cut-throats who are hiding under the stairs. Perhaps she’s only wounded!”
He kept on looking at her with a smile.
“You definitely seem less overbearing than the first time we met. But excitement is not unbecoming to you.”
She was on the point of flying at his face and slapping him. But she heard the clink of his sword as he drew it and said airily:
“Let’s have a look.”
She followed him, trying not to tremble, and walked down the first steps at his side.
The Marquis bent over the banister.
“One can’t see anything, but one can smell. One can’t mistake the stench of the rabble: onion, tobacco and black tavern wine. There are at least four or five of them swarming down there.”
He gripped her wrist:
“Listen.”
The noise of a watery thud and a splash of spray bored through the grim silence.
“There! They’ve thrown the body into the Seine.”
Turning towards her with half-closed eyes, he went on:
“Oh! it’s a familiar spot. There’s a little gate down there which they of ten forget to close, sometimes on purpose. It’s child’s play for anyone who is so inclined to post some hired killers there. The Seine is only two steps away. The thing is quickly done. Prick up your ears and you can hear them whispering. They must have noticed that they did not attack the person they were told to. You seem to have rather determined enemies, my beauty.”
Angelique clenched her teeth to prevent them from chattering. Finally she managed to say:
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing for the time being. I’ve no desire to test my sword against the rusty rapiers of those ruffians. But in an hour’s time the Swiss guard will take up watch at this corner. The murderers will clear out, unless they get caught. In any case, you’ll be able to leave without fear. In the meantime . . .”
Still holding her by her wrist, he led her back to the gallery. She followed him mechanically, her head droning:
‘Margot is dead. . . . They wanted to kill me. . . . It’s the second time. . . . And I know nothing, nothing. . . . Margot is dead. . . .’ Vardes had led her into a sort of recess, furnished with a small table and some stools. He calmly put his sword back into its sheath, unfastened his
belt and placed it on the table together with his weapon. Then he stepped closer to Angelique.
Abruptly she understood what he wanted and pushed him back with horror.
“What, sir, I’ve just seen a girl murdered to whom I was deeply attached, and you think I’d consent to . .
“I don’t care a hang whether you consent or not. What women have in their heads is indifferent to me. I only find them interesting below the waist. Love is a formality. Don’t you know that this is how lovely ladies pay their way in the corridors of the Louvre?”
She tried to put up a mocking front.
“I had forgotten: ‘He who says de Vardes, says the cad.* ”
The Marquis pinched her arm till it bled.
“Little slut! If you weren’t so pretty, I’d gladly leave you to the care of those good fellows who are waiting for you downstairs. But it would be a pity to see such a tender little chicken bleed. So come on, behave your¬self.”
She could not see him but could readily imagine the smug, slightly cruel smile on the handsome face. A dim light from the gallery gleamed on his pale blond wig.
“Don’t touch me,” she gasped, “or I’ll scream.”
“Screaming won’t help. This place isn’t much frequented. The only ones who might be moved by your shouts are the gendemen with the rusty rapiers. Don’t make a scene, my dear. I want you, I shall have you. I decided that a long time ago and chance has served me well. Would you rather try to get home on your own?”
“I’ll seek help elsewhere.”
“Who will help you in this palace, where all signs point to your destruction? Who led you to this notorious staircase?”
“The Chevalier de Lorraine.”
“Faith! So there’s the Petit Monsieur lurking underneath? Actually, it wouldn’t be the first time that he got rid of some troublesome ‘rival’. So you see, it’s in your interest to keep quiet. . . .”
She did not reply, but when he approached again, she no longer stirred. Unhurriedly, with insolent calm, he lifted up her long rustling taffeta petticoats, and she felt his warm hands complacendy caressing her thighs.
“Charming,” he said under his breath. . . .
Angelique was beside herself with humiliation and fear. Through her crazed mind swirled senseless images: the Chevalier de Lorraine and his torch, the Bastille, Margot’s scream, the poison-casket. Then everything faded away, and she was jolted by the fear, the physical panic, of a woman who had known only one man. This new feeling perturbed and revolted her. She writhed, trying to escape from the embrace. She wanted to shout, but no sound escaped her throat. Paralysed and shaking, she let herself be taken, hardly aware of what was happening. . . .
A flash of light suddenly dipped into their recess. A gentleman quickly turned his torch away and walked of f, laughing and muttering: “I didn’t see anything.” This kind of thing seemed to be familiar to the inhabitants of the Louvre.
The Marquis de Vardes had not bothered to interrupt himself. In die darkness, where their hot breaths mingled, the distraught Angclique wondered when the horrible ordeal would be over. Exhausted, shattered, half swooning, she abandoned herself, against her will, to the masculine arms that were crushing her. Gradually, the novelty of the embrace, the repetition of the gestures of love for which her body was so marvellously fashioned, brought her a thrill, against which she could not defend herself. When she became conscious of it, it was too late. The spark of pleasure kindled a familiar languor in her, spread through her veins a subtle excitement which would soon change into a devouring flame.
The young man sensed it. He gave a little smothered laugh and re¬doubled his art and attention. Thereupon she rebelled against herself. She turned her head, groaning softly: “No, no.” But the struggle merely precipitated her defeat and soon she yielded, completely vanquished. No sooner had they separated than Angelique felt an all-pervading sense of shame. She plunged her face into her hands. She wanted to die, never to see the light of day again.
Silent and still panting, the of ficer buckled his belt.
“The watch should be there by now,” he said. “Come.”
As she did not move, he took her arm and pushed her out of the recess. She disengaged herself but followed him wordlessly. Shame continued to bum her like a branding iron. Never again would she be able to look Joffrey in the face, to kiss Florimond. Vardes had destroyed everything, ravaged everything. She had lost the only thing that was left to her: the integrity of her love.
At the foot of the stairs, a Swiss guard in a white collarette and red-and- yellow panelled doublet was whistling, propped on his halberd near a lantern placed on the ground. At sight of his captain, he straightened up.
“No rogues in the neighbourhood?” asked the Marquis.
“I haven’t seen anyone, sir. But before my arrival there must have been some dirty business over there.”
Raising his lantern, he indicated a large puddle of blood on the ground.
“The gate to the Infanta’s Garden was open towards the quays. I followed the traces of blood. I expect they chucked the fellow into the water. . . .”
“All right, Swiss. Watch well."
The night was moonless. The smell of fetid mud rose from the river- banks. One could hear the buzz of mosquitoes, the murmur of the Seine. Angelique called out softly:
“Margot!”
She was gripped by a desire to annihilate herself in this darkness, to plunge, in her turn, into this lap of liquid night.
She began to walk away, stumbling in the dust of the quayside. The night was completely black. Only a few lamps, here and there, lighted the sign of a shop, the porch of a well-to-do citizen’s house. Angelique knew that the Pont-Neuf was somewhere on her right. She found its white parapet without much trouble, but as she set foot on the bridge, a sort of squatting human larva reared up before her. From the nauseous stench she guessed it was one of the beggars who had frightened her so much earlier in the day. She recoiled, uttering a strident cry. Behind her came the sound of hurrying footsteps and the voice of the Marquis de Vardes rang out:
“Back there, scoundrel, or I’ll run you through.”
The other remained planted across the bridge.
“Take pity, noble lord! I am a poor blind man.”
“Not so blind that you can’t see well enough to cut my purse!”
With the tip of his sword, he prodded the belly of the misshapen creature, who gave a start and fled wailing.
“And now, will you tell me where you live?” said the of ficer harshly.
Tight-lipped, Angelique gave the address of her brother-in-law. This nocturnal Paris terrified her. She felt the teeming presence of invisible creatutes, of a subterranean life like that of vermin. Through the walls seeped voices, whispers, jeers. From time to time, the open door of a tavern or a brothel shed a shaft of light on to the ground amid bellowed songs, and through the smoke of pipes could be glimpsed musketeers sprawled at tables with naked girls on their knees. Then the black lanes intertwined again in a maze of darkness.
De Vardes turned round frequently. Out of a group around a fountain an individual had detached himself and was following them with silent, supple strides.
“Is it still far?” '
“We’re almost there,” said Angelique, who recognised the gargoyles and gables of the houses of the rue de l’Enfer.
“It’s as well, for I think I’ll be forced to prick a few paunches. Listen to me, little one. Don’t ever come back to the Louvre. Hide yourself, let them forget you.”
“It’s not by hiding myself that I’ll get my husband out of prison.”
He sneered.
“As you wish, oh faithful and virtuous spouse!”
Angelique felt the blood rush to face her. She felt an urge to bite, to throttle him.
A second silhouette bounded into sight from the shadows of a lane. The Marquis shoved the young woman against the wall and planted himself in front of her, his sword in hand.
In the circle of light shed by the big lantern hanging from the house of Maitre Fallot de Sance, Angelique gazed, her eyes wide with horror, at two rag-covered men. One of them had a stick in his hand, the other a kitchen-knife.
“We want your purses,” said the first in a hoarse voice.
“You’ll certainly get something, gentlemen, but it’ll be a taste of my sword.”
Angelique, gripping the bronze door-knocker, hammered as hard as she could. At last the door opened a narrow chink. She dived into the house, her last vision being that of the Marquis de Vardes with his sword raised high, holding of f the two blackguards, growling and greedy like wolves.