Paris: The Novel (86 page)

Thomas frowned.

“Just one thing I don’t understand. Why did you ever make the arrangement with the shed and the tunnel in the first place?”

Luc paused.

“I thought it would be a good place to hide things. That is, if I ever wanted to.”

“Oh,” said Thomas.

When they got back into the house, Luc said that Thomas should go.

“I’ll be lighting a fire in the grate tonight,” he explained. “Got to burn the clothes and the tablecloths. Then I’ll check the carpet. You need to be well away before I start.”

“I delivered a carpet, that’s all. I’ve got a family to support,” said Thomas.

“I know.” Luc looked up at him. “When I was a little boy, you came and saved me from the Dalou gang. And you fought for me. I never forgot that, you know.”

Thomas shrugged.

“You were my little brother. That’s all.”

“You just saved my life tonight.”

“I won’t do it again,” Thomas warned.

“I’ll never ask you.” He looked at Thomas with sad eyes. “Do you still love me, brother?”

Thomas didn’t answer.

“Well,” said Luc quietly, “I love you.”

Thomas left.

As he took the cart back down the hill, he reflected on all that he’d
seen. It seemed Édith was right about his brother. If he wanted a secret hiding place, then he was probably a receiver of stolen goods, and possibly a thief, just as she’d suggested.

Even worse was something else he’d noticed. As they were stripping the girl in the lamplight, he’d suddenly realized that there were bruises around her mouth and nose that didn’t look like the bruising from being hit. Only one thing he knew of produced bruises like that.

If someone was deliberately suffocated.

His brother may have hit the girl. She may have banged the back of her head. But her death hadn’t come from that. Luc had suffocated her.

His brother had just made him a party to murder.

For three days he wondered whether to go to the police. But the risk was too great. What might they do to him?

A week later, Luc came by to see them, but only briefly. As he left, he signaled to Thomas to walk down the street with him.

“The police came by. Asked me if I’d seen the girl. I said I thought she’d come by late in the week, and I had an idea she spoke of leaving town. But I’ve heard that before from these girls, I told them, and they usually show up again. They asked me if I knew where she came from. Not a clue, I said. They weren’t very interested in her, I can tell you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Thomas quietly.

“Don’t worry,” said Luc, “nor do I.”

And as the weeks went by, they heard nothing more. Winter came, and the girl was forgotten. Just before Christmas, snow fell, covering all that was dark beneath the streets of Paris; and on the day after Christmas, the sun came out, and the snow gleamed as white as the church of Sacré Coeur, high on the hill of Montmartre.

•  1637  •

It was a December evening when it happened. Or did it? Something happened then, or close to that time. That was not in doubt. But what? Did the eyes of Charles de Cygne deceive him? There was no way of knowing, although the kingdom of France was at stake.

It began in an anteroom where he’d been waiting. Through the window, by the lamplight, he could see the bare boughs of a small tree bending in the December wind. Then the door opened, and a lackey’s head appeared.

“His Eminence wants you.”

Charles de Cygne stepped out into the passage. A moment later he was in a high hall with a stone staircase.

Cardinal Richelieu’s palace was magnificent. He had decided to build it just north of the Louvre, to be close to the king. And that was clearly convenient since, for nearly two decades now, it was Cardinal Richelieu who effectively ruled France.

People feared Richelieu. Perhaps a ruler needed to be feared, Charles thought. But he was a good master. Charles was thirty, with a young family. One day he’d inherit the family estate from his father, Robert. But in the meantime, the rewards that Richelieu had given him for his services provided income for which he was more than grateful.

Charles liked to think that he and Richelieu understood each other. They were both French aristocrats. But he had quickly learned what Richelieu valued. Speed, accuracy and, above all, discretion. Richelieu saw everything that passed in France. His spies were everywhere. Working for
him, Charles had seen much private information. But whatever he saw, he kept to himself. Sometimes people would ask him about his work—people he knew and thought he could trust. They might be enemies of Richelieu, they might have an interest in some matter before the cardinal, or they might be spies, sent by Richelieu to test him. Who knew? But not one of them had ever gotten a word out of him. Not a word.

He started up the stairs. Reaching the top, he turned into a reception room.

Charles liked the Cardinal’s Palace. With its big courtyards and delightful arcades, it had an Italian air. On its eastern side, work had begun on a handsome private theater.

There were a few people waiting to see the cardinal in the reception room. He walked to the door at the opposite end, which was immediately opened for him. Aware of the envious glances from the men waiting behind him, he passed through into another salon. This one was empty. But now through a small door in the far corner, a single figure emerged.

He was nothing much to look at. A simple monk, well into middle age. In fact, Charles thought, he looked pale and unwell. He saw de Cygne, and a faint flicker of the eyelids indicated recognition. But nothing more.

Father Joseph, the éminence grise, who stood like a shadow beside the cardinal. A walking conscience. A man of silence. A man whose very mysteriousness made him feared.

Father Joseph and the cardinal had one enormous project upon which they agreed. They must weaken the influence of the Hapsburg family. With Spain to the south, the Holy Roman Empire and the Netherlands to the east, all under Hapsburg family control, France was boxed in. The interest of France must therefore be to weaken the Hapsburg threat.

One might like Richelieu, or not; but no one could doubt his devotion to France. It was one of the reasons de Cygne was proud to serve him. Father Joseph, however, was another matter. The aging monk was against the Hapsburgs for another reason. They did not want to go to war with Turkey. That was not so surprising. Turkey was on the borders of their empire. Why should they want to stir up trouble so close to home? But Father Joseph wanted all Christendom to proclaim a new crusade against the Moslem Turks. It was his obsession. First weaken the Hapsburgs, then let France lead the West, as in olden times, against the Moslem power. Privately, Charles considered the idea of a latter-day crusade the height of folly and certain to bring ruin upon his country.

Once he had been summoned into the room by Richelieu when Father Joseph was with him, and the cardinal had remarked with a smile: “Father Joseph wants France to lead a new crusade against the Turks, de Cygne. What do you think?”

Thank God that he’d already learned the rules of survival by then. With a low bow to the monk he had replied: “My ancestors were crusading knights, Eminence. It is even believed that we descend from Roland, the companion of Charlemagne, who died fighting the Moslems of Spain.”

A clever answer. It seemed to say everything, and in fact said nothing. It appeared to satisfy the monk, anyway, and Richelieu smiled.

Rule number one of survival: Never, never tell anyone what you really think.

This evening, therefore, he bowed respectfully to the aging monk as he passed. Father Joseph really didn’t look well. Perhaps he was going to die. That wouldn’t be a bad thing, thought Charles.

He went through the small door from which Father Joseph had emerged, and found the cardinal writing a letter in his office.

“Sit down, my dear de Cygne,” he said quietly. “I shan’t be long.”

Charles sat quietly. The room was high and handsome without being sumptuous. Shelves of leather-bound books lined the walls—for Richelieu was a great book collector. It might have been an office in the Vatican. Patron of the new Académie française, connoisseur of the arts, subtle diplomatist: Richelieu was a Frenchman, but he was more like an Italian prince of the Church.

From his chair, Charles surveyed the great man. Tall, elegant, a handsome, finely drawn face, his small beard neatly pointed, his eyes always thoughtful. As so often in times past, thought de Cygne, God had given France exactly the right person in her hour of need.

When that likable old rascal King Henry IV had been killed by a lunatic back in 1610, his heir was only a little boy, and Henry’s widow, Marie de Médicis, had ruled the Regency council for young Louis XIII. It was strange, Charles thought, that an Italian Médicis should be stupid, but the Queen Mother certainly was, and she’d ruled badly. Indeed, as far as Charles de Cygne was concerned, she’d done only three good things for France: She’d been the patron of the great artist Rubens, she’d built a delightful little palace for herself, called the Luxembourg, about half a mile south of the river, and west of the university. And she and her council had first brought Richelieu into the royal government.

It had taken young Louis XIII a while to get power away from his mother. But though he dealt quite effectively with some rebellions, the daily administration of his kingdom seemed to bore him, and he’d entrusted more and more administration to Richelieu. It was the best thing he could have done. For nearly two decades they had made a wonderful team.

The cardinal finished his letter. Before sealing it, he carefully read it over. He looked tired.

As Charles gazed at him with admiration, he wondered: What would happen when the cardinal left the scene? Not that he was old. He was only in his early fifties, but his health was not good. Something he’d said the other day had indicated that he himself had his earthly end in mind.

“You know, de Cygne, I have already left this palace to the king in my will. It seemed the sensible thing to do.” Then he sighed. “We have achieved much, but there has never been time to tackle the country’s finances properly. That is the great task for the future.”

Yet who could take his place? There was no obvious candidate yet, but the man who had impressed the cardinal most in recent years was a young Italian with a gift for diplomacy. Mazarini was his name, though he’d changed it to Mazarin now, which sounded more French. He wasn’t noble. It was even rumored that he was partly Jewish. But it was his intelligence that impressed Richelieu, who considered him a future statesman.

It turn, Charles had noticed, Mazarin seemed to model himself on the cardinal, cutting his hair and beard in exactly the same way. He had his own personality though. He liked to gamble. He had already made himself popular with both King Louis and his wife.

Would Mazarin be his next master? Charles de Cygne had no idea, but with all his heart he wished Richelieu long life.

Richelieu folded the letter, dripped a little sealing wax onto the paper and gently pressed his signet ring down upon the hot wax.