by Eugène Sue
“What a windfall! And against whom are they directed?” asked Diana of Sauveterre.
“Innocent creature that you are!” Blanche of Verceil returned. “Against whom can they be written if not against the Queen, against the Cardinal, against the court, and against the maids of honor of the Queen’s ‘Flying Squadron’? It is all of us who are the butts of the satirists.”
“Those vicious people treat us with scant courtesy,” exclaimed the black-haired Clorinde of Vaucernay. “But, at any rate, we are sung in superb and royal company. By Venus and Cupid, we should feel proud.”
“Come, Blanche, read us the verses,” Diana of Sauveterre suggested. “The Queen may send for us any moment before she retires.”
Instead of complying at once with Diana’s request, Blanche of Verceil pointed to Anna Bell, who remained in silent abstraction, and in a low voice said to her companions: “Decidedly, the little one is in love. Her ears do not prick up at the sound of that tickling word pasquil — a divine tid-bit of wit and wickedness the salt of which is worth a hundred fold, a thousand fold more than all the sugar of the candies.”
“I wager she is dreaming awake of the German Prince of whom she speaks in her slumbers. How indiscreet sleep is! Poor thing, she thinks her secret is well kept,” rejoined Clorinde of Vaucernay.
“Blanche, the pasquils,” again cried Diana, impatiently. “I burn with curiosity to hear them.”
“Honor to whom honor is due. We shall commence with our good dame the Queen;” and with these words Blanche read:
“People ask, What’s the resemblance
‘Tween Catherine and Jesebel:
One, the latter, ruined Israel,
And the former ruins France;
Extreme malice marked the latter,
Malice’s self the former is;
Finally, the judgment fell
Of a Providence divine
Caused the dogs to eat up Jesebel,
While the carcass rank of Catherine
In this point doth differ much:
It not even the dogs will munch.”
The maids of honor broke out into peals of laughter. Anna Bell, still pensively seated apart at the open casement, let her eyes wander over space, a stranger to the hilarity of her companions. She paid no attention to the reading of the verses.
“You will yet see, in the event of our good Dame Catherine’s being taken unawares and swallowing some of the sugar plums destined for her victims, that the rascally dogs may fear the remains of our venerable sovereign are poisoned — and will run away from her carcass,” said Clorinde of Vaucernay.
“That pasquil should be read to the Queen. If she is in a good humor she will have a good laugh over it,” put in Diana of Sauveterre.
“Indeed, few things amuse her more than bold and witty verses,” acquiesced Blanche. “Do you remember how, when she read the ‘Marvelous Discourses’ from the satirical pen of the famous printer Robert Estienne, the good dame laughed heartily and said: ‘There is some truth in that! But they do not know it all — how would it be if they were more fully posted!’ Now, listen. After the Queen, Monsieur the Cardinal, that is a matter of course. He is supposed to be dead — they wish he were — that also is natural. Here is his epitaph written in advance:
“The Cardinal, who, in his hours of life
Kept heaven, sea and earth all seething o’er,
In hell now carries on his furious strife,
And ‘mong the damned, as erst ‘mong us makes war.
“Why is it that upon his tomb is showered
The holy water in such rare profusion?
It is that there the torch of war lies lowered,
And all fear lest it flare to new confusion.”
“Poor Monsieur Cardinal!” exclaimed Diana of Sauveterre. “What a villainous calumny! He, such a poltroon as he, for a Guise — he is the most craven of all cravens — to compare him with a bolt of war!”
“No, not a bolt, but a torch,” Blanche corrected. “He rests satisfied with holding the torch of war, like Madam Gondi, the governess of the royal Princes and Princesses, held the torch of Venus to light the amours of the late King Henry II, whose worthy go-between, or, to speak more plainly, whose Cyprian, she was.”
“As for me,” said Clorinde of Vaucernay, “I highly commend the Queen for having placed, as governess over her children, her own husband’s go-between. It is a sort of hereditary office which can not be entrusted to hands too worthy, and should be perpetuated in titled families.”
“Accordingly,” said Blanche, “Gondi, faithful to the duties of her Cyprian employment, took charge of carrying the first love letter from Mademoiselle Margot to young Henry of Guise, whom we are about to meet in the army of Marshal Tavannes. Hence evil tongues are saying: ‘In these days, it is not the men who fall on their knees before the women, but the women who fall on their knees before the men and entreat them for amorous mercy.’”
“Nothing wonderful in that!” replied Clorinde. “Is it not for a Queen to take the first step towards her subjects? What are we? Queens. What are the men? Our subjects. Besides that, Henry of Guise is so handsome, so brave, so amorous! Although he is barely eighteen years old, all the women are crazy over him — I first of all. My arms are open to him.”
“Oh, Clorinde! If Biron were to hear you!” cried Diana of Sauveterre.
“He has heard me,” answered Clorinde. “He knows that in pledging constancy, exception is always implied for an encounter with Henry of Guise. But let us hear the other pasquils, Blanche!”
“The next one,” announced Blanche, “is piquant. It alludes to the new custom that the Queen has borrowed from Spain. It alludes to the title of Majesty that she wishes to be addressed by, as well as her children:
“The Kingdom of France, to perdition while lagging,
Has seized from the Spaniard his heathenish bragging:
It rigs up a mortal in godhead’s travesty,
And when his estate with hypocrisy’s smelling,
I plainly can see, and without any telling,
Our Majesty’s booked — to be stript of majesty.”
“That last line is humorous,” laughed Clorinde. “‘Our Majesty’s booked — to be stript of majesty.’”
“For want of the thing we take the name — that is enough to impose upon the fools,” said Diana of Sauveterre.
Blanche pointed to their companion who was still seated by the window, now with her forehead resting on her hands, and said: “Look at Anna Bell. In what black melancholy is she plunged?”
“To the devil with melancholy!” answered Diana. “One has to fall in love with some German Prince in order to look so pitiful!”
“Who may the Prince Charming be?” Blanche inquired. “We know nothing of the secrets of that languishing maid, except a few words uttered by her in her sleep— ‘Prince — Germany! — Germany! — My heart is all yours. Alas, my love can not be shared.’”
“Can Anna Bell be German?” asked Clorinde.
“Ask our good Dame Catherine about that. She is no doubt acquainted with the mystery of Anna Bell’s birth, and may enlighten you on what you want to know. As for me, I know nothing about it.”
“The German Prince has turned her head and made her forget poor Solange altogether,” said Clorinde.
“The most famous preachers, among them Burning-Fire and Fra Hervé the Cordelier, failed to draw the Marquis of Solange back to the fold of the Church. Anna Bell undertook his conversion, and, by grace from above — or from below — by virtue of her blue eyes or of her charming hips, the Huguenot became an ardent Catholic.”
“But to whom does he render his devotions?” asked Clorinde, meaningly. “To the Church, or to the chapel of our little friend?” The maids of honor laughed uproariously and Clorinde continued: “But let us return to our pasquils.”
“This one,” resumed Blanche of Verceil, “is odd on account of its form — and the climax is droll. Judge for yourselves:
“The poor people endure everything;
The men-at-arms ravage everything;
The Holy Church pensions everything;
The favorites demand everything;
The Cardinal grants everything;
The Parliament registers everything;
The Chancellor seals everything;
The Queen-Mother runs everything;
And only the Devil laughs at everything;
Because the Devil will take everything.”
The loud hilarity of the maids of honor, whom the wind-up of the last pasquil amused intensely, finally attracted the attention of Anna Bell. Her face bore the impress of profound sadness; her eyes were moist. Fearing that she was the object of her companions’ jests, the maid furtively wiped away her tears, stepped slowly towards the other young women, and let herself down beside Blanche of Verceil.
“We are somewhat after the fashion of the devil — we laugh about everything,” said Clorinde to her. “You alone, Anna Bell, among us all, are as sad as a wife who sees her husband return from a long voyage, or beholds her gallant depart for the wars. What is the reason of your despondency?”
Anna Bell forced a smile, and answered: “Forget me, as the wife forgets her husband. To-day I feel in a sad humor.”
“The remembrance, perhaps, of a bad dream?” suggested Blanche of Verceil, ironically. “Or perhaps bad news from a handsome and absent friend?”
“No, dear Blanche,” replied Anna Bell, blushing, “I am affected only by a vague sorrow — without cause or object. Besides, as you are aware, I am not of a gay disposition.”
“Oh, God!” broke in Diana of Sauveterre, excitedly. “By the way of dreams, I must tell you I had a most frightful one last night. I saw our escort attacked by the Huguenot bandits called the Avengers of Israel.”
“Their chief is said to be a devilish one-eyed man, who attacks monks and priests by choice,” said Blanche, “and, when he takes them prisoner, flays their skulls. He calls that raising them to the cardinalate, coifing them with the red cap!”
“It is enough to make one shiver with terror. One hears nothing but reports of such atrocities,” exclaimed Clorinde.
“We need not fear that we shall fall into the hands of that reprobate,” said Diana reassuringly. “We have attended a special mass for the success of our journey.”
“I place but slight reliance upon the mass, my dear Diana, but a very strong one upon Count Neroweg of Plouernel, who commands our escort,” replied Blanche. “The Huguenot bandits will not dare to approach our armed squadrons and light cavalry. The saber is a better protection to us than the priest’s cowl.”
“May God preserve us!” laughed Diana. “All the same, I would not regret undergoing a scare, or even running a certain degree of risk of being carried off, together with the accessory consequences — anything to see the frightened face of the Cardinal, who is as lily-livered as a hare.”
“To tell the truth, I do not understand these charges of cowardice that you fling at the Cardinal, after so many proofs of valor given by him,” said Blanche.
Diana of Sauveterre burst out laughing again. “You must be joking,” she said, “when you speak of the ‘bravery’ of the Cardinal, and of the ‘proofs of valor’ given by him.”
“No, indeed, my dear Diana,” replied Blanche. “I am talking seriously. First of all, did he not carry bravery to the point of charging old Diana of Poitiers, as he would have done a citadel? Did he not accomplish another exploit in passing from the arms of Diana into those of our good Queen Catherine, though she be loaded with years and corpulence? Besides, we know,” she added with a sinister smile, “that to play the gallant with Catherine is at times to court death. These are the reasons why I look upon the Cardinal as a Caesar.”
“You would be talking to the point, my dear, if, instead of braving the one-eyed man, who has such a reputation for ferocity, the Cardinal were now to turn to the assault of some one-eyed woman,” said Clorinde of Vaucernay.
“If heaven is just,” said Diana, “it will yet place the Huguenot bandit face to face with the Cordelier Hervé. Then would we see terrible things. The monk commands a company of Catholics, all desperate men. For arms he has a chaplet, the beads of which are arquebus balls, and a heavy iron crucifix which he uses for a mace. All heretics who fall into the hands of the troop of Fra Hervé are put to death with all manner of refined tortures, whether they be men or women, old men or children. But do let us return to our pasquils.”
“The best are still to come. They are the cleverest and drollest, but they are in prose;” and Blanche continued reading:
“New Works Belonging to the Court Library.
“The Pot-pourri of the Affairs of France, translated from the Italian into French by the Queen of France.
“The General Goslings’ Record, by the Cardinal of Bourbon. A collection of racy stories.
“The History of Ganymede, by the Duke of Anjou, the Queen’s favorite son.”
“The dear Prince surely did not write that book without a collaborator,” cried Diana of Sauveterre, laughing. “I wager the lovely Odet, the son of Count Neroweg of Plouernel, his aide-de-camp, must have helped the Duke of Anjou in his work. The two youngsters have become inseparable, day — and night!”
“O, Italiam! Italiam! O, Italy, the rival of Gomorrah and of Lesbos!” exclaimed Clorinde, laughing boisterously.
“You speak Latin, my dear?” asked Diana, amused.
“Simply out of shame,” replied Clorinde, “in order not to frighten the modesty of the maids of honor, my pretty chickens.”
“I have a horror of the little hermaphrodites,” agreed Blanche. “They are decked out like women — gaudy ruffles, jewelry in their ears, fans in their hands! May Venus protect us from the reign of those favorites! May the fires of hell consume the popinjays! But to proceed with the pasquil. Attention, my dears:
“Singular Treatise on Incest, by Monsignor the Archbishop of Lyons, recently published and dedicated to Mademoiselle Grisolles, his sister. A pretty couple!
“Monsignor Archbishop studies reserved cases — in the confessional, in order to put them into practice.
“Sermons, by the reverend Father Burning-Fire, faithfully compiled by the street-porters of Paris.
“The Perfect Pig, by Monsieur Villequier, revised, corrected and considerably enlarged by Madam Villequier. Boar and sow!”
The maids of honor roared out aloud as they heard the burlesque title, and they repeated in chorus— “The Perfect Pig!”
“Now comes the last and best,” proceeded Blanche. “We are again the theme, together with our good Dame Catherine. Ours the honors, as ever. Meditate upon these dainties:
“Manifesto of the Court Ladies.
“Be it known to all by these presents that the Court Ladies have no less repentance than sins, as appears from the following lamentations.
“Catherine De Medici, the King’s Mother.
“My God, my heart, feeling the approach of death, apprehends Thy wrath and my eternal damnation when I consider how many sins I have committed, as well with my body as through the violent death of others, even of near relatives — all in order to reign. How I have raised my children in vice, blasphemy and perfidy, and my daughters in unchaste licence, to the point of tolerating and even authorizing a brothel at my Court. France made me what I am. I unmake her all I can. With the good King David I say — Tibi soli peccavi.”
“That is carrying fiction to great lengths,” laughed Diana of Sauveterre. “I do not believe our good Dame Catherine is capable of repenting any of the things laid to her door by the malignant pasquil — neither her debaucheries nor any of her other evil deeds — unchastities or assassinations.”
“The word ‘brothel’ is rather impertinent when applied to us!” Clorinde exclaimed. “They should have said, like our dear Rabelais, ‘an Abbey of Thalamia,’ or ‘a Monastery of Cyprus, of which the Queen is the Mother Abbess.’ That would have been elegant — without doing violen
ce to the truth. A ‘brothel’ — fie! fie! Nasty word! We are the priestesses of Venus — only that!”
“I was not aware, dearest, that you had become a model of prudishness!” returned Blanche of Verceil with exquisite mockery. “When you ply a trade you must be willing to accept its name, and be indifferent to the word with which it is designated;” and she proceeded to read:
“Manifesto of the Maids of Honor.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! My God! What is to become of us, Lord! Oh, what will be of us, if Thou dost not extend to us Thy vast, very vast mercy! We cry out to Thee in a loud voice that it may please Thee to forgive us the many carnal sins we have committed with Kings, Cardinals, Princes, knights, abbots, preachers, poets, musicians and all manner of other folks of all conditions, trades and quality, down to muleteers, pages and lackeys, and even further down — people corroded with disease and soaked in preservatives! Therefore do we say with the good Madam Villequier: ‘Oh, Lord, mercy! Grant us mercy! And if we can not find a husband, let us join the Order of the Magdalens!’
“Done at Chercheau, voyage to Nerac.
“Signed, CUCUFIN.
“(With the permission of Monsignor the Archbishop of Lyons.)”
Such was the cynicism and moral turpitude of the wretched girls, corrupted and gangrened to the core as they were since early childhood by the perversions of an infamous court and the example as well as the advice of Catherine De Medici, that this scorching satire, more than any of the other pasquils, provoked the boundless hilarity of the “Flying Squadron.” All sense of decorum was blotted out. Anna Bell alone blushed and dropped her eyes.
