The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley

by The Serpent Garden (epub)

  “Nan, I just have to see that tournament.”

  “Nonsense. The only safe place for a woman will be in the stands, which are for ladies only. Besides, you aren’t invited.”

  “I just have to. Everyone says it will be the most splendid display ever. I’ll take an easel and tell everyone I’m commissioned to make a print of the celebration.”

  “That’s another terrible lie. And who would believe it? No decent woman would be seen in such a fashion. You’ll be attacked. Try to get a view from a window at Les Tournelles. What are all those towers good for, anyway? Besides, it will probably rain. What good will you be if you get sick again? This time it could be lung sickness. Just think, you could die because you can’t stop being foolish….” But the more Nan warned me, the more I wanted to see everything. And not all of it from far away in a window above the Parc des Tournelles.

  “The very first thing one does in Paris, Lord Belphagor, is have one’s money changed. Then off to the cour des miracles to hire a sly Frenchman or two for your body servants. We’ll want eyes and ears in this city, and men who aren’t afraid to use a knife in the dark.” Crouch’s tone was confidential, worldly. Belphagor looked at him impatiently.

  “Look, Crouch, the imps can do what I want for me. I don’t need crafty fellows in my service. I’d rather have a sweet, innocent soul or two. They’re more trustworthy now and positively delicious afterward.”

  “Ah, but do your imps speak French? Even my faithful Watkin here does not have enough language to handle our more delicate errands.”

  “You speak French. You do my errands,” said Belphagor bluntly, and since Crouch saw the steam issuing from his ears, he nodded and smiled a wan little smile.

  “An excellent idea, Lord Belphagor. Let as few people in on our plans as possible,” said the cunning demon-master. You fool, he whispered to himself. Soon I will have all your dark powers, and your imps to do my bidding. Already you’ve given too much away. How fortunate the mirror has told me I’ll be the victor.

  “You find this conspiracy for me, Crouch; I want to make common cause with this Helmsman in the destruction of the Valois.”

  “But the manuscript…”

  “Writing. What’s writing anyway? I don’t need it.”

  “But I…you do, Lord Belphagor. You need to know their Secret. Then when they gain power you can betray them to their enemies.” This demon’s a child, thought Crouch. How easily one can distract him with a promise of trouble! It’s like offering a baby candy. But wearying. This damned creature gets more spoiled by the minute. It’s something about living in the city; it corrupts even demons. When will I be done with this tiresome thing? I’m beginning to see why the Templars locked him in that box.

  “Well, then, get it too.”

  “We must find Mistress Dallet.”

  “What do you mean ‘we’? I am a gentleman now; you will do my bidding, Crouch. You find. You get. Remember, treasures of the earth. Do you think I should wear both sword and dagger, or would it be considered extreme at the French court? Oh, yes, and find me a dancing master. I overheard a gentleman at Calais say you simply can’t be received anywhere important unless you know the new steps.”

  Crouch ground his teeth. I’ve done the job too well, he thought. Still, it keeps him distracted, and I can use that to my advantage.

  Bystanders heard nothing of this conversation. What they saw were two distinguished-looking foreign gentlemen, mounted on black mules, followed by a rogue of a lackey on an old spotted mare riding through the narrow, muddy streets of the Right Bank. One of the gentlemen was tall and heavy, with snow white hair rising like wisps of steam and a square-cut beard with just a touch of iron gray still among the white hairs. He had heavy, malicious eyebrows, lines in his face that bespoke a life of vice, and eyes of a glacial green. He was radiating a kind of servile charm toward the second gentleman, who was even more richly dressed than he. The second gentleman had a curiously insubstantial look to him. His face had been whitened with powder, through which an odd greenish tinge showed through. But his neck, which had not been powdered, seemed to vanish as if it were smoke. A rich chain sat against it as if it rode on air. But the defect soon vanished beneath the rich fur trim of a heavy velvet gown and was scarcely what one could call a fault on a gentleman of such obvious wealth and distinction.

  Strangest of all, perhaps, were the two black mules laboring beneath their handsome tooled-leather harness. If anyone had given them closer attention, he would have noticed a faint glow of flame from their nostrils, almost hidden by their steamy breath. They were in fact two imps from hell, conjured up by Lord Belphagor when the party found that every riding animal save the spotted mare had been purchased by the visiting English and their servants who had arrived in force for the great tourney.

  The insubstantial gentleman was craning his invisible neck at the sights, and his nose, the approximate size and shape of a medium cucumber, was sniffing up the foul stink of the streets as if it were perfume. “Hmm. The place has changed since I was here last. But there’s that damned cathedral, still squatting like a toad at the center of it all. Ah, the old days—there’s Les Tournelles…they’ve added to it. Crouch, you were right. I spent entirely too long in that box. Never again. Ah! Freedom and excellent clothes. What could be better?” He looked speculatively at Crouch. How much longer did he need his advice? I’ve almost drained him dry, thought Belphagor. Then I can get rid of him. Perhaps I need a Frenchman, somebody clever-looking who can explain philosophy and genealogy, like that fellow over there in the gown who’s talking. A priest would be good. Or maybe a student, all tender and innocent. I could eat him afterwards.

  Maître Bellier, who had come out of a tavern still arguing a point of theology with several friends from the Sorbonne, felt the demon’s stare and looked up. Crouch, that’s him, he thought. What has happened to turn his hair so white? And that gross fellow he’s with, all dressed in imitation of a gentleman. Some shopkeeper, some, ugh, I can’t imagine, but certainly no one for a man of distinction to associate with. With an almost invisible gesture, he pointed out the pair to Eustache, who followed behind the little knot of theologians, just outside their conversation. Eustache blinked, then broke away to follow the unholy pair.

  “Power, Lord Belphagor,” said the wily Crouch, who knew exactly how to gauge the signs of fatigue in minds smaller than his own. “I will show you how to get it.”

  “I know how already. I’ll just buy slaves with this money that you’ve got for me. Isn’t that how it works here on earth?”

  “Of course, Your Damnedness. Money buys everything. Don’t you see how it bought the tailor and the ship captain?”

  “It didn’t buy mules.”

  “That’s because they weren’t there. But in general, there’s not anything you can’t get with money. Or any person, either. All humans have their price.”

  “Then what’s wrong with my plan, Crouch?”

  “Lord Belphagor, you must buy them one at a time. If you learn how to gather power, you can destroy thousands with a wave of your hand. Why use old-fashioned methods? Just as buying people is quicker than tempting them by whispering in their ears, power is quicker than buying out people one soul at a time. If you set it up right, you can have them all at one another’s throats without all that tiresome flitting about you must have had to do. All you have to do is sit back and harvest them when they’re ready.”

  “Oh, splendid, splendid. I didn’t realize power over men could be obtained. With us in the other world, it just is as it has been, since the beginning of time. Power remains exactly the same as it began.” Interesting, thought Belphagor. Power rearranges itself with these creatures. If I learned their secrets, perhaps I might raise my rank in the sphere of the infernal. “But these humans seem different in so many ways,” he said aloud. “Tell me, have they invented a science of rebellion?” Crouch was delighted at Belphagor’s speech. It was almost as if the old demon counted him as a fellow demon. His g
uard is slipping, thought Crouch.

  “Trust me, your damnedness. I have only our own interests at heart. Through my help, you can gain supreme power here on earth.”

  Hmm. And in hell, too, perhaps, if I master these secrets, thought Belphagor. Suddenly, the demon glanced suspiciously at Crouch’s bland, pale face. The green eyes were glowing with malice and ambition. “Trust you, Crouch, whatever for? You’re a damned soul. They don’t make them much more treacherous than you, even in hell. I’m not stupid, you know.”

  “Lord Belphagor, I respect a mind that is a subtle web of scheming. Like is drawn to like, you know. Trust me not because of my word of honor, which is indeed worthless, but because of my respect, which is worth far more than honor. I respect you as my master in deviousness and evil. Besides, I am necessary to you, just as you are to me. Why not trust me? Aha, here’s the place. The Pont au Change. We’ll soon have enough French money to carry out your plan. Lord Belphagor. Now watch out for these money changers; they clip the coins. And sometimes the gold is false.”

  “My nose smells true gold. No mortal can deceive Belphagor.” Crouch was silent but smiled inwardly. He paused, surveying the street with an arrogant stare, and then stepped down on the mounting block before a tavern with a sign featuring a monstrous cask guarded by a sleeping giant. As the lackey held the spotted horse, the black imps in the form of mules grumbled softly to each other in a language that only they understood.

  “After we have changed our money, you might deign to look at some of the wonderful shops of antique curiosities on this bridge, my lord,” said Crouch, as they entered the low door of a money-changing establishment.

  “I don’t see why you like them. They certainly aren’t antique to me,” said Belphagor. “I’d rather stop in for a drink.” As they vanished into the shop, a drunk came out of the Giant’s Cask and stared at the two black mules, who were waiting without being held. Then, with inebriated curiosity, he peered closer at their nostrils. His eyes widened in horror, and he fled right back into the tavern.

  The shop door opened again, and two contented figures emerged. “You see, my lord? It works every time.”

  “I still don’t see why we have to change it at all. I thought you told me money was the universal solvent.”

  “It is, it is, Lord Belphagor, but each country has its own. I spoke in general terms.”

  “And this tourney everyone is so mad for. Why, that man simply couldn’t stop going on about the foreign lords who’d come for it. Is it worth seeing? I’d hoped to visit an orgy or two, or perhaps some murders while we were in town on our business, but everyone seems to have given them up for the tourney.”

  “It is planned for five days, and with any luck, you’ll have enough mayhem to please you, my lord. And then there’re the banquets at night. Plenty of assignations and things going on in dark corners, I’ll warrant. So you see, you will have both orgies and murders in the most respectable and ornamental form.”

  “Ah, I see, I see. Crouch, you are changing my idea of pleasure. Civilization, how splendid. Sin with artistry. I feel myself growing more refined daily. And to think, I once settled for simple things. I think I’ll have some more new clothes made. The French style is more splendid than the English. What think you to an Italian brocade, embroidered with brilliants? I intend to cut a figure at this tourney. And…oh, yes…” He broke off and looked at the mules. “I’ll be wanting something a little more impressive than mules. You boys will have to become chargers. Big ones. Nothing less than the best.” The two mules looked at each other, their red eyes full of annoyance, and grumbled again in the strange language.

  At the place where the Pont au Change joins the Right Bank, there is a very tasteful little gallery where just the right statue or tapestry may be purchased at a bargain, if you are lucky, and where a gentleman in need can get a very good price for a table clock or perhaps the family nef, or saltcellar, without waiting or dealing with distasteful people of the lower sort. But best of all are the paintings that can be found there. Just the thing to add elegance to an otherwise barren reception room or cabinet. Subjects worthy of public or private contemplation, religious, secular, mythological can be seen mounted on the walls all the way to the ceiling, though how the proprietor gets them down is a mystery, for she is a crippled hunchback, and very pale from illness, her hair gone quite translucent.

  Still, the neighbors speculated that she might well have been married, if it were not for her deformity, for her face is very lovely. And the artists of Paris found something sympathetic there besides a ready buyer for speculative works otherwise unsaleable. Perhaps it was the sight of a new work in the Italian style, or the serene smile of an ivory Madonna on display in the corner, or the humorous, encouraging look in the dealer’s face as she said, “Why, the brushstrokes here on the hand are perfection itself! What do you mean, the count would not take it? He has missed owning a masterpiece.” But whatever the mystery, a man could come in discouraged and leave full of inspiration. And sometimes a woman, too, for many of the illuminators of the city were the daughters and wives of the makers of rare books, and the woman in the shop also dealt in exquisite manuscripts and antique missals and books of hours.

  “Ah!” said Hadriel, flinging off his old gray cloak and stretching out his wings. “Not a customer today! They must all be off trying to wangle an invitation to the tourney. The social event of all Paris! A little higher, my dears, and to the right.” High up near the ceiling, a half dozen twittering little cherubs, their wings beating faster than a hummingbird’s, were holding a heavy gilt picture frame with a stained canvas portrait of Saint Jerome in it. A seventh was pounding a big nail into the wall with a hammer. “Yes, that’s it! Perfect!” cried Hadriel, clapping his hands with pleasure, and the little curly-headed creatures fluttered down and settled on the counter, putting away the hammer beneath it.

  “I saw Uriel today. He was flying over the city in a storm cloud. What will you do if he catches you, Hadriel?” asked one of the cherubs.

  “Why, I’m just doing my job. Can I help it if I’ve had an inspiration about doing it? And it’s ever so much more efficient this way. Flying here, flying there, whispering in people’s ears to inspire them, I tell you, it was a poor use of my time. This way, I just set up shop and they all come to me. Artists, would-be artists, everyone who loves beauty and craves wonder comes here, and I inspire them in great batches. Once I have the kinks worked out of my plan, I’ll set you all up in branch offices, as the Italian bankers do. Oh, I tell you, I could have worn my wings off, just flying between Rome and Florence! And there were so many neglected. Why, I haven’t had time for the Scythians in centuries. Same old horses. Same old panthers. What’s the good of being the angel of art if you are confined to such a narrow, old-fashioned way of doing business?”

  “They won’t like it, you know, the archangels. They don’t approve of changes. You’ll get in trouble,” announced another little cherub, his dark brown eyes serious.

  “Oh, pooh! Where would the world be without new things? It’s time those old fellows quit being so stiff! After all, I don’t inspire the same old art all the time. Otherwise, these mortals would still be painting bison on the rocks. And now, just look!” Hadriel announced happily, gesturing around him. “I don’t think I’ve had so much fun since I stopped at Mistress Susanna’s house. Why, I’ve half a mind to take time off and go see that tourney myself. The way these Parisians carry on about it, it really ought to be worth seeing.”

  “Hadriel, you’re playing too much. You know if they find out, they’ll be angry with you. Suppose they tell the Father?”

  “But isn’t it fair to take a little time for yourself if you’ve saved so much by inventing a better way of doing business? Entirely fair,” said Hadriel, answering his own question. Taking a comb from the pocket of his extraordinary robe, he peered into a mirror mounted on the wall for sale and combed his translucent curls down flat over his forehead. Then he turned his head this way an
d that to admire the effect.

  “Hadriel, can we go, too?”

  “Oh, yes, me too, me too!” cried the others.

  “I thought you didn’t approve of playing,” said Hadriel.

  “We don’t.”

  “We’ll be working.”

  “Yes, we’re working for you. It’s all your fault,” the cherubs’ high little voices twittered. They were neither girls nor boys, just as Hadriel was neither man nor woman, although humans, who think their own way of doing business is the only one in the world, were continually trying to assign a sex to them. The Father had made them first, then changed around his plans when he made humanity, although no one knew why. After all, He wasn’t entirely satisfied with either model, as everyone who has ever given it thought knows. Hadriel himself thought perhaps He had been bored, but then, Hadriel always did have rather odd ideas. The archangels had spoken to him more than once about his problem, and Hadriel always promised to be good, but then he forgot. Then, all over the world, artists got into trouble. They painted bearded patriarchs in the nude, studied anatomy in secret, and dug up ancient pagan statues for copying. It gave everyone ideas, and the world started to change, and the archangels went hunting for Hadriel again, to impress upon him the awful damage his eccentricities could have in a world of simple, gullible souls.

  “Why, that’s so,” answered Hadriel. “The blame’s all mine. Shall we lay bets on the champion? No fair influencing the outcome. You have to promise.”

  “Agreed!”

  “Let’s go!”

  “Vacation!” shouted the little angels, as they rose like a flock of birds right through the ceiling and out into the cloudy gray sky over the city.

  The Eleventh Portrait

  Francis, Duke of Angoulême as Dauphin of France. Eighteenth-century engraving from a lost original.