Alas, alas!
I never hear your prayers;
I listen, but you are not praying.
(Casimir Delavigne, The Soul in Purgatory.)14
At the commencement of every endeavor, every Christian ought to invoke the name of the Lord, without whose mercy nothing can be brought to a successful conclusion.
And as we, humble sinners, can obtain nothing from God, except by the intercession and merits of the holy Virgin Mary, the immaculate mother of the savior of the world, I intend to commence the veridical history you are about to read by presenting to that celestial queen the august salutation that the angel Gabriel brought her from the heights of Heaven: Ave Maria; begging and imploring all those who see the present book to recite that prayer, in order better to understand the great information and good examples contained herein.
My name is Raoul Beaugenin, presently in religion, in the order of Minims, under that of Père Berthe. I am the legitimate son of Bartholomé de Beaugenin, vassal and squire of the noble and powerful Seigneur Enguerrand Le Portier, Sire de Marigny, treasurer of the King of France. My very honored mother Anne-Marguerite Bonvouloir, brought me up in dread of sin and the love of God, until the age of sixteen.
Now, one evening, after having recited the prayers of my rosary, I had just requested her blessing on my knees, when she started weeping bitterly and hugging me for a long time to her bosom, agitated by a great emotion. Finally, through many sobs and lamentation, he told me that Sire Enguerrand, for love of my father, was sending me in the quality of page to the house of his brother, Monseigneur Philippe de Marigny, bishop of Cambrai in Cambrésis.
“He is,” she said, “a venerable prelate, and you will find in his house edification and good examples. Now then, dear child,” she added, redoubling her tears, “hold yourself ready tomorrow, after having heard a mass in honor of Saint Julien, patron of travelers, to depart under the escort of Messire Jacques Marly, canon of the chapter of Our Lady of Mercy. That worthy priest has been sent to our suzerain by the prelate of Cambrai, and is returning, after having terminated affairs of great importance to everyone’s satisfaction.”
For myself, I was weeping too, for the sight of my mother’s sadness had afflicted me. But a childish merriment soon brought me consolation. Nevertheless, I scarcely slept, turning in a hundred fashions in my bed. I was breathless with joy merely in thinking of making such a long journey riding a fine hack.
So, I was the first one standing when the hour sounded for the mass said with my intention. Afterwards, I soon perceived that I was not the only one who had spent a sleepless night, for no one ever saw a woman paler and more mournful than my mother. Without proffering a word, so heartsick was she, she put around my neck a reliquary on beautiful golden chain, containing a fragment of the true cross, and then she hugged me in her tremulous arms. Suddenly, she let herself become inert, her head on my shoulder.
Finally, my father, who was standing there, trying to be firm—although, in spite of his efforts, large tears were flowing down his cheeks into his beard—recommended me in an emotional voice to be a good Christian, devoted to the Holy Virgin and loyal to my new sovereign. After that, he gave me his blessing, and it was necessary to extract me from my mother’s arms. I departed in an indescribable sadness and bitterness. Alas, an anguish far more poignant would have squeezed my heart if it had been given to me to foresee events to come: if I had known that my father would be struck by death defending his master Sire Enguerrand; if I had been told that my mother would die suddenly of the grief.
After a month of risky travel, during which we were fortunate to have twelve of the King of France’s men-at-arms riding before and after Messire Jacques Marly’s litter, we arrived at Monseigneur Philippe de Marigny’s Episcopal manor on the eleventh day of the month of May in the thirteen hundred and twelfth year of the world’s salvation.
Monseigneur Philippe was a charitable and pacific prelate, who had set his heart on reestablishing peace between messires the canons and the townspeople—which was not, truth to tell, an easy thing, for the people of Cambrai, proud and jealous of their franchises, rioted continually under the pretext of defending them; and for their part, the canons, seeing those franchises with envy, never wearied of contesting their rights and privileges.
While discord and contention were thus seen to rein in the town, peace and honor took refuge in the Episcopal manor. How could they not be brought there by the angel of bounty and grace who had made her abode there, the beautiful and pious Berthe de Marigny, the prelate’s young sister? A coarse manual laborer or a brutal mercenary would have felt a desire for courtesy at the sight of her welcoming smile and her pensive expression; and even had they been as hard of heart as the enemy of humankind—God preserve me from his ambushes!—and deprived of the light of Heaven, it would have been necessary for them to yield to the soft speech of her suave voice.
For myself, when I saw her, I stood motionless, as if dazzled by such marvelous beauty. A week later, I made a vow to the Holy Virgin never to love any other lady. However, I knew only too well that I would never be permitted to confess my respectful tenderness, much less to think of obtaining any in return.
Three years when by rapidly for me, in a kind of sad and ineffable happiness, for Madame Berthe had taken me in affection. She was kind enough to praise my zeal; she sometimes cited me as an example to the other pages. She was far from having any suspicion of the motive that made me act. Nevertheless, a benevolent word from her, such as “handsome page” or “faithful varlet,” caused me to shiver with a frisson that I cannot express, and caused me as much joy as pain. I surprised myself by repeating it aloud. While I was at prayer, she caused me a sin of distraction.
Alas, today, when I am ninety-one years old, that memory still causes me a great disturbance, and causes tears to flow from my desiccated eyes.
In the times of Bishop Guy de Collemède, there had arisen between him and Robert, Comte d’Artois, a grave difference on the subject of a jurisdiction that the officers of the comté arrogated over the villages situated between the two towns of Cambrai and Arras. Belatedly convinced of the injustice of his pretentions, the Comte d’Artois had renounced it. But when he was dead, his widow, Comtesse Mahaud, revived that iniquitous quarrel and had the lands of Cambrésis within easy range of Artois ravaged by her men-at-arms. It was necessary to use reprisals; endless wars ensued, which cost many lives.
As Bishop Philippe was greatly afflicted by such a state of affairs, he proposed to his enemy that they resort to the arbitration of the King of France. In that, he gave proof of a rare prudence, because the Comtesse Mahaud, being a vassal of the monarch, could not refuse the arbitration of the prince; then, when a sentence was rendered, she would be obliged to submit to it or incur the wrath of a powerful suzerain. Now, convinced of the evidence of his right, Monsieur Philippe had no doubt that the decision of the King of France would be favorable to him; thus the war would be infallibly terminated and there would be an end to the unjust pretentions of the Artesian Comtesse.
It was his own brother, Prince Charles de Valois, whom the King of France chose to arbitrate in the dispute.15 Monseigneur Charles de Valois thus arrived in Cambrai on the twenty-eighth day of the month of May in the year thirteen hundred and thirteen.
The first days were spent in feasting and hunting, but soon, the Prince, who had initially seemed so ardent for those pleasures, began to make eulogies to repose and retreat, which the prized above all if it was necessary to believe him. Men-at-arms had sounded the trumpet, dogs barked and hunting-horns delivered fanfares in vain; he paid no heed to them at all.
In the morning he was seen to arrive in Madame Berthe’s oratory, and always with some rare gift to offer her; sometimes it was a popinjay that talked and laughed in bursts like an old woman; sometimes it was some rare flower bought at a great price, or one of those rich knickknacks opened by long and difficult work.
Those gifts, at which Madame Berthe never failed to marve
l, were seen to be followed by gallant words that were prolonged considerably. As the objects came from France, Italy or Germany, the Prince de Valois took the opportunity therefrom to narrate the travels he had made in those distant lands.
He never said anything about the high destiny that he would infallibly have had in the last-named country, without the scheming of Pope Boniface; for, on the assassination of the Emperor Albert, killed near Reinfeld by the Duke of Swabia, the electors wanted to give the crown to the Duke de Valois, but the pope made sure that nothing came of it. In that he was following his hatred against the King of France, with whom he had had grave quarrels.
In spite of his modest silence with regard to the above, however, the name of Germany pronounced by Monseigneur Charles gave sufficient pause for thought, and caused to shine on his person a reflection of illustrious misfortune that moved Madame Berthe to a respectful commiseration.
“Oh,” he said, “how I would like now to spend my life in these peaceful and pleasant lands, far from grandeurs that are heavy and tormenting. Will it never be given to me to have no other care that to obtain, by dint of submission and amour, a smile such as you sometimes form?”
And Madame Berthe, moved, formed a smile that filled me with despair, and lowered her eyelids in order to hide the disturbance in her gaze.
Gradually, with the Prince arrived, Madame Berthe acquired the habit of sending her pages and ladies of the bedchamber to the antechamber. She had, according to her, important affairs on the subject of peace to disentangle with Prince Charles. She therefore remained alone with him, and many a time when the hour or supper sounded, it was necessary to warn them that Monseigneur the Bishop was waiting for them to commence the benediction of the table.
While I had death in my heart, everyone around me rejoiced; the most discreet nodded their heads mysteriously and talked in whispers about marriage; others, less reserved, said aloud that the sister of the rich and noble treasurer of the King of France might well become Comtesse de Valois—for, according to them, nothing was too worthy of a lady who combined high lineage, marvelous beauty, angelic virtue and immense wealth. Finally, it was continually repeated that: “Comtesse Mahaud surely will not win her case, and Monseigneur the Bishop is certain to recover his good lands of Cambrésis.”
Those rumors, at first confided to the manor, were soon known to the townspeople and arrived in Arras. Comtesse Mahaud, who, in order to delay the verdict, had pretended to be seriously ill, then made a sudden decision. Trusting in her rare beauty and diabolical cunning, for all means were good to her to achieve her ends, she was seen one evening, without her being expected there, to arrive at the Episcopal manse, escorted by a rich and numerous retinue.
“Now then, Monseigneur de Valois,” she said, in a treacherously polite and agreeable fashion, “here I am, come to beg you and ready to ask you for mercy, barefoot and with a rope around my neck, because for four long months a dolorous fever has retained me in a sickbed and rendered me poor and paltry, while those two beautiful eyes, I see, have won Messire the Bishop’s case. They have also, I’m sure, more than was necessary, irritated the brother of the King of France against a humble and sad window.”
In concluding those bold words, at which Madame Berthe blushed deeply, the Comtesse d’Artois made as if to kneel down. The Prince did not let her do so, and lifted her up with the most gracious urgency.
Then, leaning on the Prince’s hand, she started whispering in his ear, turning to ridicule the virtuous simplicity and naïve grace of Madame Berthe, so effectively that Monseigneur de Valois, circumvented by her perfidious speech, began to be ashamed of what had at first, rightly, charmed him so much.
From then on, the merriment and confidence in which the Episcopal manse had been frolicking became sadness and discouragement.
Prince Charles, from that day on, no longer had any other care but pleasing Comtesse Mahaud, and scarcely gave a thought henceforth to the sad Madame Berthe. To the detriment of the endless conversations in the oratory, falcons and lances resumed favor; nothing was heard but charger snorting and hunters playing fanfares; everyone whetted lances to run to the field of combat. Finally, at the demand and insistence of the Comtesse d’Artois, a solemn contest of arms was proclaimed for the ninth of the month of November. Prince Charles put off until the same day the proclamation of the verdict relative to the argument that he had to judge.
The following day, the second of September and the day of the fête of Notre-Dames-de-Anges, Monseigneur the Bishop enjoined me to depart with a herald of arms to carry messages to the knights of the land inviting them to come and take part in the jousting.
We were to return on the eve of the tournament, the eighth of November.
In spite of the great urgency I put into it, it was not granted to me to appear before my noble mistress either on the day of my arrival nor even the following morning. It was necessary, therefore, as my duties as a page enjoined me, to remain at the foot of the velvet tent erected in the place of honor to receive the noblest ladies, the bishop, the judges of the lists and messieurs the canons.
How eager I was to see Madame Berthe arrive, the pleasant sight of whom her not been permitted to me for two months and seven days. She finally appeared, escorted by Messire Le Borge de Mauny and marching behind the bishop, who was giving his hand to Comtesse Mahaud.
Holy Virgin! The piteous state of my noble and unhappy mistress informed me only too well that frightful chagrins had caused her distress; she had become pale and timid; already there was I know not what skeletal appearance in his thin, but still beautiful, features; an imperceptible nuance of indecisive pink and blue surrounded her eyelids, and made her eyes seem larger. Finally, a dry cough continually escaped her throat, whistling.
At that sight, it became impossible for me to retain a cry of surprise and despair. She heard it, she understood it, and she darted a glance at me. Oh, it desolated my soul!
After a few moments of expectation, the trumpets played the fanfares and the knights entered the lists. The Prince de Valois was wearing the colors of the Comtesse de Mahaud.
I cannot relate here the prowesses of that day; my gaze was scarcely directed toward the field of combat; it was fixed on a dearer and more dolorous object. I shall therefore say briefly that Monseigneur Charles, Prince de Valois, remained the champion of the day.
It was Madame Berthe, as the sister of Monseigneur the Bishop Philippe de Marigny, who had to give the victor the prize of the tourney, to wit, a golden chain with an emerald of great value in each link, and a well-tempered sword in the pommel of which a relic of the blessed Saint Géry had been enclosed.
The Prince therefore came to kneel before Madame Berthe; but as she came forward, the courage of my mistress failed, and she fell unconscious. While all the ladies hastened around her, shaking her with great emotion and careless of everything else, the Comtesse d’Artois—I was told subsequently; I was in too dolorous a panic to see—picked up the chain and passed it graciously around her lover’s neck; for she no longer hid that fact; she even took vanity in granting the Prince the gift of amorous thanks.
Would one believe that it as in the midst of the disturbance of such an accident that Prince Charles de Valois had his verdict on the difference between Cambrésis and Artois proclaimed?
That verdict condemned “the city of Cambrai to pay compensation of thirty-two thousand livres in sound coin, four thousand each semester until the entire payment.” It only enjoined the Comtesse to “restore the items stolen to the villages belonging to the Chapter and in the contested places, which were evidently within the jurisdiction of Cambrésis.”
How to describe the night that followed? The townsmen of Cambrai, outraged by the injustice of the verdict, gathered in mobs here and there in the town, vociferating and ready to assail the wing of the manse where Monseigneur Charles was lodged. The Prince’s men-at-arms were alert, spears in hand, in fear of an attack, and the varlets made hasty preparations for the departure. Thei
r master had announced to the Bishop that he would leave the manse at dawn the next day. It was easy to recognize in such a lack of courtesy the advice of the Comtesse d’Artois. It was said, at least, that the Prince had only made that impolite decision after much hesitation; seeing that the wicked woman that he loved had declared that she would depart alone and never see him again as long as she lived if he did not consent to escort her the following day. Such was the power she exercised over him that it was necessary to concede.
At daybreak, therefore, a great noise of hoofbeats was heard. Madame Berthe enquired as to where it was coming from. Monseigneur Philippe, who had sent the night at his sister’s bedside, replied frankly: “It’s the Prince de Valois and Comtesse Mahaud who are leaving the manse without warning. They are going together, like husband and wife, to the court of King Philippe.”
Madame Berthe put her hands together, emotionally, tried to proffer a few words, but could only murmur a feeble cry. It was her last.
For more than seven weeks I lay abed, overwhelmed by fever and delirium, calling loudly for Madame Berthe, having not yet been able to shed a single tear. Everyone around me marveled at that sudden illness, and I was told afterwards that Monseigneur the Bishop exclaimed one day: “By Saint Philippe”—that was his blessed patron—“I’d give a thousand livres of sound money to whomever could cure this poor page in such great peril of dying for regret of his mistress. Nowadays, it is not in dozens that varlets so faithful are counted!”
He should have said lovers so heartbroken.
One night, when I was able to become drowsy, unusually, I suddenly heard my name being called: “Raoul! Page Raoul!”
Jesus my savior! It was the soft voice of Madame Berthe. She was there, the unfortunate woman, standing next to me, as mournful as on the last day that it had been given to me to see her. At the sight of her, I sensed a mortal sadness, liked Our Lord Jesus Christ in the Garden of Olives. Since that moment, no Christian has seen me smile even once.
The Angel Asrael Page 12
