by Eugène Sue
Lambert of Limoux— “And after the execution of the she-cat we shall salute you ‘Seigneur of Lavaur;’ happy Lascy! Montfort has promised the seigniory to you; it is one of the most valuable of Albigeois; and he never fails in his word toward the faithful.”
Hugues of Lascy— “Will you envy me the gift? Has not Montfort, who is now the master and conqueror of the region, bestowed several of the seigniories upon chiefs of our Crusade? He may bestow one upon you also!”
Lambert of Limoux— “May heaven keep me from entertaining any jealousy towards you! As to me, my part is done. And to speak truly, the good bags of gold and the fine silver vessel that I captured at the sack of Beziers, and which are safely kept in my baggage, are, to my mind, preferable to all the domains of Albigeois. One can not carry home with him either lands or castles, and the chances of war are risky. But I hope that I shall have nothing more to fear from that quarter after the 10th of this month.”
Hugues of Lascy— “What does that date signify?”
Lambert of Limoux— “The day after that date the forty days will have expired that are all a Crusader owes to a holy war. The forty days begin from the moment he sets foot upon the heretical land. After that he can ride with his men back to his own manor. And that is what I purpose to do—”
The confidential unbosoming on the part of the ex-Conservator of the High Privileges of Love is at this point interrupted by one of the equerries of the Count of Montfort, who comes running out of the neighboring chamber.
Hugues of Lascy— “Where are you running to in that way? What pressing business have you in hand?”
Equerry— “Oh, sire, the count is in great danger. He lies in the agony of death!”
Hugues of Lascy— “But only a short while ago he was resting calmly, and the fever had abated? What change has come over him?”
Equerry— “The count just woke up and is almost suffocated. I am running after Abbot Reynier by order of the countess. She wishes him to administer the extreme unction to the seigneur, and open for him the gates of paradise.”
The equerry runs off on his errand, and is barely away when a soldier enters and says to Lambert of Limoux:
“Seigneur, I have brought to you the heretic of Lavaur, whom I was ordered to wait for at our advanced posts. He asks to be allowed to enter.”
Lambert of Limoux— “Let him in! — Let him in — He could arrive at no more opportune moment.”
Hugues of Lascy— “Do you insist on trusting Montfort’s life to that damned heretic? You are assuming a grave responsibility.”
Lambert of Limoux— “I shall take him to Alyx of Montmorency. — It will be for her to decide in this grave emergency.”
The soldier enters with Karvel the Perfect. The latter’s physiognomy is stamped with his habitual serenity. He holds a little casket in one hand and salutes the knights in the chamber.
Lambert of Limoux (to Karvel)— “Follow me. I shall take you to Alyx of Montmorency, the worthy spouse of the Count of Montfort.”
CHAPTER XI.
MONTFORT AND THE PERFECT.
SIMON, COUNT OF Leicester and of Montfort-L’Amaury lies on a bed in great agony. Alyx of Montmorency, a woman barely thirty years old, is on her knees near her husband’s couch.
Lambert of Limoux introduces Karvel the Perfect to Alyx and withdraws, leaving him in the chamber.
Alyx of Montmorency (crossing herself, addresses the physician in a feeble voice)— “You have been long in coming. It may now be too late!”
Karvel— “We have many wounded in Lavaur. My first assistance was due to them. You have summoned me in the name of humanity. I have come, madam, to fill a sacred duty.”
Alyx of Montmorency— “At times it pleases the Lord to avail Himself of the most perverse instruments in behalf of His elect!”
Karvel (smiles at the singular reception and approaches the couch of Simon whose haggard face and fixed eyes seem to give no sign of intelligence. After a long and attentive examination of the patient, after placing his hand on the count’s forehead, slightly touching his parched lips with his fingers and consulting his pulse, addresses the countess)— “Your husband must be quickly bled, madam. (Saying this he draws from his pocket a reticule that contains a red cloth band and lancets; he picks out one of these and adds) Kindly draw this table and candle nearer, madam; I shall then want your assistance to support your husband’s arm. The silver basin that I see on yonder shelf will serve to receive the blood in. I recommend to you, madam, not to allow the count to bend his arm when I prick it. There is an artery that my lancet might cut, if the arm is not held steady — and that would prove mortal.”
Alyx of Montmorency (impassible)— “My husband can die. He is in the state of grace.”
For an instant stupefied by such frigid insensibility, Karvel stays his hand, but his professional instinct resumes the ascendency, and he boldly and dexterously lances the vein, from which a jet of thick black blood immediately issues and falls steaming into the silver basin.
Karvel— “What black blood! The bleeding will, I hope, save your husband, madam!”
Alyx of Montmorency— “The will of God be done! May His name be glorified.”
The patient’s blood continues to flow into the silver vessel. Only the muffled and continued sound of the trickling blood interrupts the otherwise profound silence of the chamber. The Perfect attentively watches the count’s face and notices the gradual manifestations of the beneficent effect produced by the blood letting. The patient’s skin, until then parched and burning, is gradually suffused with a copious perspiration. His chest is relieved. His fixed eyes are soon covered by their lids. Karvel again consults the count’s pulse, and cries delighted: “He is saved!”
Alyx of Montmorency (raising her eyes to the ceiling)— “Lord, since it pleases You to leave my husband in this valley of tears and misery — may Your will be done! May Your holy name be glorified!”
Karvel stops the flow of the blood with the red bandage, which he rolls around the count’s arm. He then steps to the casket that he brought with him and which he placed upon a table, takes from it several vials and prepares a potion. Montfort’s condition improves as if by enchantment. He gradually recovers from his lethargy, and heaves a sigh of profound relief. The Perfect finishes the preparation of the potion, steps back to the couch and says to the countess:
“Please raise your husband’s head, madam, and help me to make him drink this potion that will restore his strength. All danger of death is now removed.”
Alyx of Montmorency follows Karvel’s instructions. The effect of the potion is not long in manifesting itself. Montfort’s gaze, that until then seemed vague and wandering, falls upon the physician. He contemplates Karvel in silence for a moment, and turning his head toward the countess while he painfully raises his arm to point at the Perfect, he asks in a feeble and hollow voice: “Who is that man?”
Alyx of Montmorency— “It is the heretic Lavaur physician whom we sent for.”
At these words Simon shudders with surprise and horror. He closes his eyes and seems to be steeped in thought. After depositing a little flask on the table, Karvel closes his casket, takes it in his hands and says to the countess:
“Madam, you will give your husband a mouthful of the potion in this flask every hour during the night. I think that will suffice to restore the count to health. He shall have to keep his bed two or three days. And now, adieu; the wounded of Lavaur are waiting for me.”
Montfort (seeing his savior moving towards the door, rises on his elbow and says to Karvel in an imperative tone)— “Stop! (The Perfect hesitates to obey the count; the latter rings a bell that lies near him and says to one of the equerries who answer the call). That physician shall not leave the place without my orders.”
The equerry bows and leaves the chamber.
Montfort— “Listen, physician, I am expert on courage. You have given a proof of courage in coming hither — alone — in the lion’s den—”
Karvel— “Your wife summoned me to your camp in the name of humanity. You are a human being — you suffered — I hastened to you. Moreover, I thought it well to prove once more how these ‘heretics,’ these ‘monsters’ — against whom so many horrors have been unchained — practice the evangelical morality of Jesus. You are our implacable enemy, Montfort, and yet I am glad to have saved your life.”
Montfort— “Blaspheme not! You have only been the vile instrument of the will of God, Who has willed to spare my life, the life of His unworthy servant, the life of the humble sword of His triumphant Church. — But I repeat it. You are a brave fellow. As such you interest me. I would like to save your soul.”
Karvel— “Do not trouble yourself about that. Only let me return without delay to Lavaur, where our wounded await my services.”
Montfort— “No! You shall not depart so soon!”
Karvel— “You have the power. I submit (After a moment’s reflection) Seeing that you oppose my departure, seeing that you believe you owe me some gratitude, pay the debt by sincerely answering me a few questions.”
Montfort— “I allow you to speak.”
Karvel— “Your valor is well known. — Your morals are austere. — You are humane towards your soldiers. At the crossing of the Durance you were seen to throw yourself into the water to save a foot-soldier who was being carried off by the current.”
Montfort (brusquely)— “Enough! Enough! You shall not awaken in my soul the demon of pride! I am only an earthly worm!”
Karvel— “I am not flattering you. — You are accessible to humane promptings. Now, then, tell me, did you not moan at the fate of the sixty thousand creatures of God — men, women and children — who were massacred in Beziers by orders issued by yourself and the papal legate?”
Montfort— “Never did I feel greater exaltation. To obey the Pope is to obey God!”
Karvel (struck by the sincerity of Montfort’s tone, remains pensive for a moment)— “The delirium of war is blind, I know. But after the battle is over, after the sanguinary fever is cooled down, still to order in cold blood the massacre of thousands of unarmed and inoffensive beings, women and children — it is shocking! Think of it, Montfort, to order the massacre of children!”
Montfort (afflicted)— “Oh! How does the sacrilegious astonishment of the miscreant prove the depth of his heresy! He does not know that children die in a state of grace!”
Karvel— “Explain yourself more clearly. Be indulgent with my ignorance. Let us be definite. In a city that is taken by storm, a mother flees with her child. You slay the mother. Is that a worthy act before God?”
Montfort— “The viper that is crushed, breeds no more little ones. The supply of the miscreants is thus reduced.”
Karvel— “That is logical. But why slay the child? That is an abominable act?”
Montfort— “Of what age are you supposing the child to be?”
Karvel— “I suppose it to be at its mother’s breast.”
Montfort— “Has it been baptized by a Catholic priest?”
Karvel— “That child at its mother’s breast whom you slay — has been baptized.”
Montfort— “Then it is in a state of grace and ascends straight into Paradise. As to children who are older than seven years, they go to purgatory there to await their admission in the blessed resting place. But if they have not been baptized — then the case is grave—”
Karvel— “What happens to those children?”
Montfort— “The poor little creatures, still dripping with the soilure of original sin, go straight to hell where they are forever deprived of the countenance of God. Nevertheless, in consideration of their tender years, the hope is left to them of being exempted from the everlasting flames by the prayers of the faithful — a grace that never would have fallen to their share had they been allowed to remain wallowing in the pestilence of heresy! Their death will have resulted in a mitigation of their punishment.”
Karvel— “Accordingly, in these days of a ‘holy war’, the accidental killing of a Catholic child sends him straight to Paradise, and the slaying of a heretic child affords it a good opportunity to escape the everlasting flames, but does not snatch it out of hell!”
Montfort— “You have put it correctly. The child that is not baptized can never emerge out of hell.”
Karvel— “I am now clear upon the fate of children. Let us now take up the case of women—”
Montfort— “I am anxious to save your soul. Perchance this conversation will open your eyes to the light.”
Karvel— “In the Castle of Lavaur that you are now besieging there is a woman — an angel of goodness and virtue. Her name is Giraude. (The count seems to be seized with fury at the mentioning of the name and tosses on his couch). Let me finish what I have to say. Be not impatient; besides, a fit of anger might prove fatal to you in your present condition. Take a few drops of this potion. I see that your wife, piously absorbed in her orisons, forgets the creature for the Creator.”
Montfort (after taking a few draughts of the potion and again heaving a sigh of relief)— “The Lord has had pity upon me, miserable sinner that I am! I feel my strength returning. May the Lord be praised! Let the heretics tremble in their burrows!”
Karvel— “The Lady of Lavaur is locked up with her son and brother in the Castle of Lavaur which you are now besieging. Giraude is an angel of virtue and goodness. Suppose that to-morrow, more successful than in your previous attacks upon the castle, you carry it by assault, and Giraude together with her son, a lad of fourteen, having escaped the general massacre, fall into your hands. What will you do with that woman and her son? Answer me, noble Count of Montfort!”
Montfort— “The papal legate will say to the heretic woman: ‘Will you, yes or no, renounce Satan and re-enter into the bosom of the Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church? Will you, yes or no, renounce all your earthly goods and lock yourself up for the rest of your days in a cloister, there to expiate your past heretical life?’”
Karvel— “Giraude will answer the Pope’s legate: ‘I have my faith, you have yours. I wish to remain true to my religion.’”
Montfort (enraged)— “There is but one faith in the world, the Catholic faith! All who refuse to enter the pale of the Church deserve death. If the Lady of Lavaur should persist in her detestable creed, she will perish in the flames of the pyre!”
Karvel— “I know not whether you have any children. But you have a wife. Your mother still lives or has died. Think of her, you pious servant of the Church! Montfort, unconquerable warrior, you certainly loved your mother?”
Montfort (with emotion)— “Oh, yes — I loved her dearly!”
Karvel— “And yet you would mercilessly order a woman to be burned who was a model of a wife, and is a model of a mother?”
Montfort (with a sinister smile)— “And that surprises you? You take me for a ferocious man? Oh, my God! how can you do otherwise, seeing that you have no faith. If you had you would understand that, on the contrary, I act with humanity by bringing the sword and the fagot into your country.”
Karvel— “Humanity in burning and massacring the heretics, and in authorizing rape and butchery?”
Montfort— “Listen, and now it will be my turn to say: Answer with sincerity. You have a wife, a mother, children, friends. You love them dearly. In your country there is a province that is a permanent hot-bed of a contagion that threatens to invade the neighboring districts, to attack your own family, your friends and the whole population. Will you, under such circumstances hesitate one instant to purify that corner of your country, even if you have to do it with fire and sword? In the very name of that humanity that you speak about, will you hesitate to sacrifice a thousand, twenty thousand infected beings in order to save millions of other human beings from the incurable pestilence? No! no! You will strike, and strike hard, and strike again. Your arm would never rest until the last one of the execrable and infected beings is dead, and has carried the last
germ of the frightful disease into his tomb. And you will have performed an act of humanity.”
Karvel (listens to Montfort’s words with increasing emotion and intensity. For a moment he stands petrified by the sincere savagery of the chief of the Crusade. The Perfect then cries out with painful indignation)— “Oh, Catholic priests! Your infernal astuteness is such that, in order to insure the triumph of your unbridled ambition, you know how to exploit even the generous promptings of a man’s heart and turn them to your own purpose!”
Montfort— “What is that you say! Impious blasphemer! Retract those infamous words!”
Karvel— “It is not you, blind and convinced fanatic, that I accuse. You said so, and you expressed your convictions. Yes, you consider yourself humane. Yes, if you slay children, it is in order to despatch them to Paradise! If you exterminate us mercilessly, it is because according to your convictions our belief damns the souls of men forever! But, good God, what a religion is that! It is a monstrous, a frightful prodigy! It so wholly dethrones man’s reason and upsets his sense of right and wrong that you and your accomplices verily believe you are doing an act of piety when you carry ferocity beyond even the bounds of possibility!”
Having finished her orisons, Alyx of Montmorency rises. She overhears Karvel’s last words, approaches the count and says to him in a tone of mingled terror and pain while pointing her trembling finger at the Perfect “Oh! How many souls may not that hardened sinner forever lead astray! Let him die!”
Montfort (meditatively)— “I was thinking of that — there is nothing to expect from him. (Deliberately to Karvel) Do you persist in your heresy?”
Karvel— “Hear, Montfort: at Chasseneuil, at Beziers, at Carcassonne, at Termes, at Minerve, in all the places whither the Army of the Faith carried ravage and murder, women, maids and children who escaped the massacre and were by you condemned to the pyre, threw themselves heroically into the flames rather than, even with their lips, accept that Roman Church, whose base name causes us disgust and horror. The ‘heresy’ has passed into our blood; our children have taken it in with their mothers’ milk. Not unless you exterminate them all will you have exterminated ‘heresy’ from this region. The more men, women and children you slay, the vaster the regions of our country that you depopulate and turn into deserts, all the more imperishable will be the monuments raised by yourself and that will teach the next generations to execrate your Church. The air that is breathed in this region has for centuries been so impregnated by the breath of freedom, that breath is so pure and penetrating, that neither the steam from the torrents of blood that you have shed, nor yet the smoke that has gone up from the pyres that you have lighted have been able to contaminate it. Here our ancestors have lived in freedom; here we shall know how to live in freedom or to die; and here our children will emulate us and remain, like ourselves, unshackled by the Church of Rome.”
