Jean de Fodoas

by Maurice Magre

  He reflected and became anxious. There was the Provincial Father. Now, the Provincial Father, although he never left his room in the convent, knew everything that was happening on earth. He knew what was happening in India. He had dissected the soul of the Emperor Akbar, and weighed, as if in a balance, the possibilities of converting him to the Christian religion, for the greater good of his Order, which would thus direct half the world. How could the Provincial Father, who knew such distant things, be unaware that a young man carrying a bloody sword had penetrated the Jesuit convent, to which no stranger was admitted, via the roof?

  For one thing, Captain Mauric would come to inquire as to whether any body had fallen into one of the three interior courtyards. The brothers would be interrogated. It was necessary to know that it was a material impossibility to lie in the presence of the Provincial Father. The insensate individual who attempted to alter the truth suddenly had a thick mouth, and he saw the Provincial Father smile softly, while rubbing the table with his fingertip, as if to remove the dust of the lie and get rid of it. The best thing was to go and tell the Provincial Father everything. But what would he say?

  My cousin had reflected, and suddenly he had had an idea. Thanks to that alone, I could get out of the sticky situation I was in—for my predicament was very bad. The Cornussons were all-powerful in Toulouse. They had the magistrates at their devotion. I had wounded Gaston de Cornusson, and perhaps killed him. And my bad reputation underlined that.

  Sitting on the plank covered by a thin straw mattress that served as Pierre Du Jarric’s bed, I had now sobered up. The cold air penetrated me. A wooden crucifix and an image of Pope Clement VIII4 did not contribute to cheering up the walls of the room. I would rather not have thought about anything any longer but going to bed and sleeping, but I could see with a singular clarity the contours that the moonlight picked out, the gallows outside the Porte Arnaud Bernard, in the waste ground where it was said that mandrakes moaned by night. Several times, with some of my young friends, we had gone to see the corpses swinging in the wind, and had amused ourselves throwing stones to chase away the crows that haunted the place. Would I soon be swinging from those redoubtable gallows?

  Pierre Du Jarric spoke volubly.

  “It isn’t forbidden to a man of the world to covet a fortune. My son, the Jesuits form the greatest power on earth. Take in your hand a light cord; you will break it easily. Take in your hand twenty light cords, and you will not be able to reckon with that bond. And there isn’t only India to conquer. There’s Persia and the mysterious kingdom of Cathay, where men, it appears, have the custom of rolling their hair into a single tress that falls all the way to their feet. We don’t have enough admiration of the Portuguese. When, from the deck of an immense ship, you see before you the city of Goa, when you see the monkeys gamboling, when you perceive that a palm tree, by virtue of the astonishing speed of growth within it, is as tall as you in the morning and shades your house in the evening….”

  I fell asleep while Père Du Jarric was talking.

  He touched me with his finger and he said to me, with an unexpected gravity in his voice: “Come, my son. The Provincial Father is waiting for you.”

  He added: “Above all, speak as little as possible. Can you content yourself with saying yes to everything he asks of you? A man is valued by his faculty of silence.”

  I was almost astonished by that speech from such a great chatterbox as my cousin, but it was not the time to make such a remark.

  The room into which I penetrated behind Père Du Jarric was immense, with high windows, and I was immediately struck by the grandeur and beauty of the furniture that it contained. I admired the color of the carpets, the sculpted woodwork and certain mythical goddesses painted on the ceiling. A circular glance had made me think that the room was empty, and I tilted my head back in order to contemplate more easily a marvelously designed nude torso. I was about to remark to my cousin that artists all fell into the same error in lending their models contours more abundant than those seen in life, and was ready to indicate to him breasts of a shocking disproportion when I understood by the expression of fearful respect in his eyes that we were not alone and that any profane comment relative to the painting would be out of place.

  There was someone behind a vast oak table, someone who could only be the Provincial Father. But he must have been very small, for one might have thought that there was only a cranium there, posed upon an object invisible behind the table, a bald cranium like an ivory ball.

  And immediately, I thought of my mother. The Provincial Father must have the same stature as her. Was he a little taller or a little shorter? That was the absurd problem that took possession of my mind and occupied it almost entirely, in spite of the gravity of the interview. Why were some people so tall and other short? And what was the strange relationship that existed between the smallness of my mother and that of the powerful man that I had before me?

  He looked at me, smiling. There was no benevolence in that smile, and perhaps a certain scorn. I perceived then that Père Du Jarric was trying to begin a sentence without being able to finish it.

  “He’s very young, but in fact….”

  With that, the Provincial Father started speaking in Latin, which I did not understand, and Père Du Jarric replied to him in the same language. They were talking about me. I thought I could make out that they were talking about my stature and my strength. But they were talking in an almost commercial manner. I even thought that they were going to ask me to show my teeth, as one does with slaves. I thought that they were praising me up that I was having a great effect. At the same time, I had a flattering idea of my strength. I could, in fact, have shattered that ivory ball with a single blow of my fist. I would have been able to reckon with a dozen similar ivory balls.

  Are thoughts perceptible? A flash of lightning, green in color, sprang in my direction, which chilled me to the bone. However, the conversation in Latin continued. I heard the name Akbar several times, and the word equus, which recurred several times. What did I have to do with that Emperor, and what did equus mean?

  In the end, the two Jesuits were no longer paying any heed to me, and I thought it uncivil to leave a Fodoas standing up and having a long conversation in front of him in a language that he didn’t understand. I started looking ostentatiously at the goddess with the enormous breasts until the moment when I saw the provincial Father rubbing the table with is minuscule fingertips as if to remove a speck of dust.

  “You can thank the Provincial Father,” my cousin said. “He has authorized you to depart with me and he will grant you hospitality until the day of the departure.”

  I recalled his recommendations and I contented myself with murmuring: “Yes,” and bowing very deeply.

  “It’s necessary to excuse him…,” my cousin began

  But the bony hand on the table gave the impression of flicking another speck of dust away. The interview was concluded.

  As we walked through obscure corridors, my cousin, who had recovered all his self-confidence, turned round, and I understood by his gaze that he was astonished not to see me manifesting more joy.

  “How far is India from Toulouse?” I asked him.

  He replied that it depended on the favor of certain marine winds that blew on the African coast and in the most distant oceans, which are vast and redoubtable.

  “It’s necessary to count on six month or more.”

  “And as many to return?”

  “Naturally, the return is in the realm of possible things—but the man who is departing ought not to be thinking about returning.”

  I felt weak, and as we had returned to Père Du Jarric’s little room, I sat down on the bed, prey to an extreme dejection.

  The good priest understood my state of mind and he pronounced words that expressed the inexorable character of necessity, for he knew that one has less chagrin in a circumstance if one feels that it is impossible to modify it.

  While I slept he made enquiri
es about the rumor caused in Toulouse by the siege of my house in the course of the previous night. The rumor was considerable. A man had died in the course of the initial brawl that had followed the slap given to Rabastens. He was an insignificant man whose end had been inscribed by Providence for that night in the register that Providence keeps of insignificant men. Everything that had followed had been the consequence of a sword-thrust that I had delivered in the dark. Then too, Balbaria’s arm has been almost detached at the elbow joint. A wretched individual, that Balbaria! But it was not a matter of his moral value. Young Cornusson’s shoulder had been broken and Rabastens was delirious because of a blow he had received on the head.

  The magistrates had met and Captain Mauric had enumerated before them several scandalous deeds to which he had closed his eyes thus far because I was a good Christian and a Fodoas. Among the actions were several jokes, albeit scandalous, like the story of the public ball at which, in the midst of Bohemian musicians, Marie Cose had danced with me with no clothes on. There were generous ones like the deliverance of a Spanish moor afflicted with leprosy at whom the crowd were throwing stones, and whom I had permitted to flee, holding the people in respect on my own.

  My cousin saw things from above, he knew how hot the blood of young men is, He himself, once…. But it was not the same for the important men of the city. The venerable Seigneur de Venerque had not dared to take my defense at the meeting of magistrates. The old Seneschal de Cornusson had promised a sum of twenty écus to the man who could put his hand on me, and my cousin was convinced that even the house of “that woman”—he meant Marie Cose—was under surveillance.

  I asked what the day of the departure was. “Even if it’s only a matter of a fortnight, the surveillance might be relaxed,” I said.

  “We’re leaving tomorrow. The journey through Spain is long, and, although it seems extraordinary, the roads of that very Christian country are infinitely more dangerous than those of Akbar’s empire. We’ll embark in Lisbon. But between now and tomorrow you must remain in this cell. Perhaps it will be interesting to leaf through the atlas of Ortelius5 in order to have an idea of the country to which you’re going. I hasten to tell you that the atlas in question is full of errors, for having wanted to conform to the general science of Ptolemy. My superiors are counting on me to trace more accurate maps, and—who knows?—even though I’m not holding out much hope, you might be bitten by the cartographic science, and help me to correct Ortelius. In the meantime you have the good fortune to have at your disposal a world map by Mercator that you can consult entirely at your ease.”

  I did not think of taking advantage of that good fortune. Mercator’s world map appeared to me to be a collection of hieroglyphs devoid of interest. I threw myself under the blankets that Père Du Jarric had disposed on the tiles of his room. I took my head in my hands. I saw the face of Bérangère de Palassol, the supple torso of Marie Cose, the Place Saint-Sermin where I liked so much to stroll and watch the sunset with my friend Thomas Capellan, the painter, or with Isaac Andréa, who explained to me in his beautiful language secrets of magic that I didn’t understand, but which I admired all the more in consequence.

  I saw the judges assembled for my condemnation, the shadow of the gallows, the executioner and his aides, and at the foot of a pillar of the church, praying for her son, my mother, so tiny, so tiny….

  Because of me the departure had been fixed for sunset. In the afternoon I had made in the chapel I know not what oath by which I became an affiliate member of the Society of Jesus, a company that had a great many lay members. At the point I was at, they could have made me swear anything they wished. I engaged myself to be a good servant of the Pope and to defend on every occasion the Order of which I was henceforth part. I had been given a rosary of a particular form as a sign of my obedience, but I remained a layman, which was the essential thing for me.

  My cousin told me that he had gone to reassure my mother as to my fate and that she had accepted my departure with courage, since it was the sole means of salvation for me.

  He gave me a few clothes, which I rolled around my sword and which I covered with a blanket. The whole was attached to the mule that was to carry me. I put on a monk’s robe whose hood I pulled down over my eyes.

  We formed a little troop of six persons, who were grouped in the courtyard where the stables opened. Behind a curtain I glimpsed the ivory ball that was the cranium of the Provincial Father. It was just at the level of the window.

  Doubtless Père Du Jarric had given a password. The massive gate to the Rue des Changes opened abruptly. At the same instant, the lantern fixed to the wall in the street was extinguished, thanks to some stratagem. I had time to perceive two men-at-arms who were standing to either side of the gate. Two rays of light reflected from their breastplates were extinguished at the same time as the lantern. The mules departed at a rapid trot. My evil curiosity caused me to lower my head a second too late, for my gaze met the fiery gaze of the man-at-arms to the right, whom I recognized as a certain Dalmas, nicknamed the wolf, who was one-eyed but was reputed to be better with that unique eye than others with two.

  Behind us I heard the noise of the gate. Père Du Jarric, who came out last, must have perceived the glance because he came to reassure me as we crossed the bridge.

  “We’re going through the Porte de Muret, a few minutes before it closes. Even if the men of La Maynarde have recognized you and they can procure horses, the sergeant of the guard won’t open up for them.

  As we went past the Fontaine Sainte-Claire I saw three silhouettes moving out of our way and I almost uttered an exclamation. I had just recognized the three Pibrac brothers. A few days before, they had arranged a rendezvous with me in order to engage me in the band of which they were the chiefs and which exercised brigandage on the roads.

  “When brigandage is carried out by men of noble birth like you and me,” the eldest had said to me, “it becomes a noble action, analogous to war.”

  On seeing them, I marveled at the singular play of coincidences.

  As my cousin had told me, it was the hour when the Porte de Muret was closed. I heard a few joyful words exchanged with the sergeant, who cried out when we had passed him to wish us bon voyage.

  We started galloping into the darkness. We had a long stage to make in order to reach a convent beyond Muret. A little later, perhaps because of those emotions, I felt a violent thirst. I spoke to the monk who was beside me and asked him politely to pass me his gourd. I saw a kind of animated death’s-head emerge from his hood, but he did not make any reply. Thinking that he was afflicted by deafness I touched his shoulder and repeated my request. He contented himself with uttering a bizarre interjection and hastened his mule.

  I was tempted to grab him by the foot and tip him out of the saddle to punish him for his insolence. I was bending down to do that, when my cousin, who was bringing up the rear of our little troop galloped up to me and said:

  “He’s a holy man from Flanders who prays incessantly and never says a word to anyone. As there are ascetics in India devoted to strange divinities, the general of our order wanted to show those peoples that the Christian religion also has saints completely detached from the earth.”

  I was about to reply that I had heard mention of certain Languedocian saints whose sanctity did not prevent them from having a wine-jug within arm’s reach, but I reflected that the wisest thing was to keep quiet, and continued to ride with my thirst in my throat. I reevaluated the rudeness of the holy man from Flanders.

  Late in the night, Père Du Jarric showed me a light among the trees.

  “That’s the convent where we’re going to sleep for a few hours,” he said, cheerfully.

  It was then that a strange incident occurred.

  I heard a voice, that of my mother, calling me by name with an anguished accent. In spite of its resistance, I forced my mule to retrace its steps. I struck it with all my strength.

  “Did you hear?” I said.

  My
mother’s voice had pronounced my name distinctly. I assured Père Du Jarric that she had followed us at a run, and I believed it in spite of its implausibility. I even discerned a black dot far away, in the shadow of the road.

  “We’ve been galloping for several hours,” the Père repeated.

  He was obliged to dismount and take my mule by the bridle, in spite of my protests.

  “Fatigue has troubled your mind,” he said.

  He was doubtless right. When I went to sleep on the straw of a barn, I had a face bathed in tears.

  THE ACCURSED HOST

  “There are men predestined for evil, and they recognize one another immediately.”

  That remark by Isaac Andréa came back to my memory in a tavern in the port of Lisbon, where I has sat down in the twilight.

  My cousin Du Jarric had given me a rather tidy sum of money in order to dress myself suitably. The usage to which the Order of Jesuits destined me—a usage of which I had not been given an explanation—involved, it seemed, a certain magnificence of costume. I had been only too glad to get rid of the wretched religious robe that, for the convenience of the journey, I had worn during the long traversal of Spain. I was now clad in a crimson doublet with a tapering collar maintained by a brass wire, a claret mantle and a bronze-hued belt. The sole defect of those garments was that they attracted some attention because of their extreme splendor—but it didn’t displease me to be noticed.

  It was not, however, my exterior apparel that attracted the gaze of a hideous man who had a whore on his knees. A scar enlarged his mouth in such a fashion that he had a rictus of hilarity. He was tall and thin but gave the impression of being extraordinarily strong. His eyes, which had a yellow gleam, sparkled at the sight of me, and he appeared to recognize me. He pushed the prostitute away and came toward me. He sat down on a stool beside me and spoke to me in Portuguese. I knew a few phrases of the language, which my cousin had taught me while I was riding alongside him.