City of Wisdom and Blood

by Robert Merle

  2

  I DIDN’T WANT TO RISK waking Samson with those two fat monks taking up so much space in the bed, so I slipped into the small adjoining chamber and, as Miroul was already out tending to our horses, I fell into his bed as the first light of dawn began to tinge the oil paper of his window.

  When all our other voluptuous desires have been exhausted, there is always sleep, which is not the least among them. What a delight to find myself alone and able to stretch out full length on this little couch, my body so weary, arms and legs akimbo and eyes closing as soon as my head touched the blankets.

  Samson was amazed to discover me so completely dead to the world when he decided to awaken me at noon—I who, at Mespech, was the first to rise and always the first downstairs in the great kitchens, arriving even before la Maligou had set the water on to boil. I explained as best I could, as I ran my fingers through my dishevelled hair, how exhausted I’d become doing all the interpreting the night before, but felt a bit ashamed at this lie since he immediately set about trying to comfort me. Oh, Samson you are such a guardian angel, but, thankfully, not so good a guardian, luckily for my sins!

  For his part, Caudebec got softer by the minute in this inn whose two angels hid two devils, whose names were, respectively “good victuals” and “sweet wench”. The night before he’d informed me he’d be leaving at dawn, but at noon he had no Samson to wake him and was still snoring at three in the afternoon. As he began to stir late in the day he immediately called for meat and wine. And, having lavishly eaten and copiously drunk his fill, he declared that the wise man always takes good care of his horses and, in the interest of the quadrupeds, he would put off his travels until the next day. But of course the next evening he fell asleep with the breasts of a wench for his pillow and didn’t awaken until noon the following day. I do believe that, at this rate, he would have tasted every conceivable menu the Two Angels could prepare, and bedded each of their twelve serving maids, had not Brother Antoine, who still held some sway over him, reminded him that his wife was dying of the fever in their chateau and that if they continued to tarry thus they might well arrive in Rome after Our Lord had received her into His peace.

  Thus it was that the two Siorac brothers and their page Miroul, having arrived on a Sunday at the Two Angels inn, did not take their leave of the place until the following Thursday at dawn—four days that seemed to Samson like lead weighing on his shoulders but to his brother seemed as light as cork, since I was not lacking for diversions; my “interpreting skills”—and I use the term without any ambiguity intended—were in such demand.

  The innkeeper provided very good company for me during this period, though her friendship did not lead to any reduction in our bill—except for the supplement she’d threatened to add after our first night there. But when I asked her to reimburse Franchou for the damages to her petticoat inflicted by the baron she refused flat out. I sensed that if I insisted too much it would not help Franchou and that my hostess might well kick her out after we left, which would have left me feeling very guilty on her behalf, since, I confess, she’d garnered a bit of my heart in our short time together. She was a wonderfully good girl, with eyes more tender than my mare, Accla’s, her lips softer than a baby’s bottom, and so loving and trusting it brought tears to my eyes. In my arms, she melted like butter. Alas, poor Franchou! Although I’d taught her “the right herbs” and “where to put them”—one of la Maligou’s secrets that I’d learnt from little Hélix—she ended up getting pregnant a year later from some guest or other, and died in childbirth. I find it so unfair that Nature can play evil stepmother to so many women who produce a life only at the expense of their own.

  But, to come back to these petticoats, which the baron employed to wipe his greasy hands, I didn’t want to betray either my promise or the hope of the poor girl, and had Samson advance me twenty sols (accompanied by a very severe sermon) on the pretext that I’d lost this amount playing at dice with Caudebec—a story that Samson believed willingly enough but that lit up Miroul’s brown eye (while the blue one retained its perfect tranquillity).

  Seeing herself so handsomely paid, Franchou jumped for joy, and, throwing her two wonderfully cool arms around my neck, pulled me towards her with such force I thought she was going to nest in my entrails. But then, suddenly remembering that I’d be leaving the next day, she went, in the blink of an eye, from happy to sad, mixing smiles with sighs, showering me with a thousand thanks, and as many kisses on the neck, watered by her tears. I was very moved, as you can well imagine, by these demonstrations of her affection.

  Although my hostess was far from having the same effect on my feelings as Franchou, not being made of the same tender metal and her bright brown eyes too closely focused on her figures, I nevertheless wanted to help her as well, realizing that I would likely see her often on my travels between Mespech and Montpellier. I thus warned her that the payment that was due her from the pilgrims would not come easily since the baron was much quicker to undo his flies than his purse strings. She well understood my meaning, and was careful to fatten up her bill over these four days, a good bit more than she ought to have done.

  Once alerted to the danger, and since she enjoyed the favours of the lieutenant of the Toulouse police force, favours she had more than one way to repay, the lady invited him (with four archers) to attend her settlement of accounts with the baron. He agreed to appear and his presence did wonders. When he caught sight of the lieutenant, the baron suddenly left off storming and thundering his threats to slash his hostess’s breasts to ribbons and generally to reduce the entire household to a juicy stew.

  When calm was restored, he argued nevertheless (through my translations) with such skill and at such length—the lieutenant being unable to validate the innkeeper’s figures—that a goodly part of the bill’s stuffing was removed and everyone parted company satisfied with the outcome.

  But since all of this haggling took a good deal more time than we would have wanted, the troop didn’t manage their departure until the sun was well up and they were unable to travel more than six leagues before nightfall.

  We spent the night in a little village that was badly defended and in an inn that had meagre food at meagre prices. The chambermaids were a notoriously decrepit lot, and our host visibly on his guard against these Frenchmen from the north.

  “Holy God!” Caudebec moaned, as he distastefully tested a spoonful of watery bean broth in which a few morsels of salted pork floated mournfully. “We’ve fallen directly into hell from our former Paradise. This wine tastes like piss! Monsieur my interpreter, ask this Lenten-faced innkeeper to provide me a good young wench to watch over my sleep tonight.”

  I translated his request, and, in response, our innkeeper frowned angrily. “Monsieur,” said he, “I don’t keep a shop, nor do I deal in women.”

  “What says this sad sack?” cried Caudebec.

  “That there are none to be had.”

  “What? No women? In this whole town? ’Sblood! Are you making fun of Caudebec?”

  “Not at all,” I answered to appease him. “He claims they’ve all gone off to the hills to help with the harvest.”

  Whereupon Caudebec rose to his feet and, swearing he’d kill everyone in the house, unsheathed his dagger. But the innkeeper remained unmoved and, merely frowning harder, stood his ground.

  “Monsieur,” I urged, “put away your dagger. These people don’t like us. Let’s not start a fight. One night without a wench is quickly passed.”

  “Not so!” roared Caudebec, suddenly growing sad. “Without a pair of breasts to lay my head on, I’ll end up thinking about my death, the fires of Purgatory and all my terrible sins!”

  “Monsieur,” said Brother Antoine, “if you could manage just one night without a wench, your sins would be less terrible…”

  “Alas!” replied the baron. “I may well sin with a whore, but I certainly don’t contemplate my sins while I’m at it! And sin is not really the question, it’s how we
think about it.” This said, he began sobbing. Yes, this high and mighty baron was crying like a baby. Of course it is true that he’d been drinking heavily.

  I turned to the innkeeper and assured him he could go in peace and that he’d not be molested by his guest. But our host answered in his dialect and with marvellous self-assurance of both voice and aspect, “I’m not afraid. No misery can touch the just.”

  From this quote from the Bible it was clear that he was one of ours. And indeed I’d guessed so from the outset, so hostile was his every look at the pilgrims’ medallions and monks.

  “Oh!” moaned the baron, the tears falling from his eyes like the autumn rain. “I’m already in Purgatory! To have to eat this slop and drink this vinegar! To be served by these toothless hags—and in such miserable and ugly surroundings! Oh, God help us! I’m already dead and damned!”

  He was so despairing of his lot that he ended up drinking too much of this awful swill and rolling under the table. Nevertheless, when he finally awoke late the next morning, he hadn’t forgotten his financial acumen, and spent the better part of an hour arguing with the innkeeper over the bill—which was entirely accurate. In short, it was high noon when we finally got under way again on the road to Toulouse and Montpellier.

  That day we made barely five leagues, stopping this time at Castelnau d’Ary. Samson, Miroul and I were all very impatient with this pace, for our small horses could have easily covered ten leagues a day they were so fast and so strong. Samson, in particular, was unhappy at the expense of so many inns. Unfortunately for my dear brother, the inn at Castelnau was named the Golden Lion and this lion was no more angelical than the Two Angels in Toulouse, for it had a huge mouth to devour all it could and large claws to strip bare the tender prey that was foolish enough to enter its “lodgings”—as the innkeeper so humbly referred to them.

  Our hostess, moreover, was an accomplished pastry chef and I couldn’t possibly name all the astonishing array of tasty cakes that emerged from her ovens. Her pastries were displayed on the table throughout the day in the great hall of the inn and were available to the paying guests in such quantities that the most strident appetite could easily be appeased. What was even more surprising was the fact that these marvels were not considered additions to our bill of fare, but were offered as nibbles of little consequence. I didn’t have to be urged to eat my fill of them. To this day I cannot pronounce the name of Castelnau d’Ary without drooling over the memory of these delicacies so freely displayed and offered at the Golden Lion.

  Our good hostess, who had such nimble fingers to shape her pastry and such a giving soul to offer them, was a petite, dark-haired and quite rotund person, who was familiarly known as La Patota—the word for a doll in the langue d’oc—since her face was so round and rosy. She was, moreover, wholly enamoured of her husband’s moustaches, as faithful as a diamond to him and, though thoroughly gracious, was to be looked at, not touched.

  But many more palpable wenches were housed in these lodgings whom Caudebec ogled like a fox in a henhouse, and so we were trapped for five long days in order to “rest our horses”, who were left to enjoy the ample supplies of oats provided in the inn’s stables. We would still be there, combing the Lion’s mane, to Samson’s great dismay, given the deleterious impact on our purse, had not Brother Antoine, who confessed Caudebec each morning (the only time he wasn’t in bed with a wench), finally knit those huge dark eyebrows into a serious frown over his baron’s sinning ways. The next day we set out for Montpellier.

  I found out from the little page, Rouen, that to get his master to leave, Brother Antoine had threatened to cut a hundred days from the indulgences the baron had just purchased. For if the good man was exceedingly parsimonious with his neighbours, he was quite the opposite regarding his salvation, and kept a very exact account of the number of days of indulgences he had bought with his offerings to the Church, which he counted on to diminish the number of days he’d have to spend in Purgatory. But on this subject, however scandalous these questions of Purgatory and indulgences may seem to me, I shall not expose my feelings here for fear of annoying those of my readers who may have different ideas on the matter.

  Before leaving Castelnau d’Ary I went off alone—Samson claiming he was feeling poorly—to see the Norouse stones, which stood on a hill overlooking the town. It was said that an old dowager was passing on the road, took seven pebbles from her apron pocket and tossed them individually onto the infertile ground, swearing that these stones would grow larger and larger as long as the women in the village continued their shameful and dishonourable acts. I visited the site and walked around the rocks. And certainly, if this story is true, from pebbles these stones have grown into enormous boulders that together make a high wall. The townspeople seem to give credence to this wicked fable, though in my view the story was invented by some mad and spiteful husband.

  As we were leaving the Golden Lion I went to say goodbye to La Patota, begging a kiss on her round cheeks, which I gave her quite chastely, my hands behind my back, without squeezing her or pinching her in any way. In truth I didn’t know what to prize most in our hostess: her beauty—for she was a flower of a woman—her pastries or her virtue. I hope I shall be lucky enough, when it comes time for me to marry, to find a woman of my rank and condition who is her equal!

  “My young Monsieur,” La Patota said, “you have been so good to everyone during your stay here that I’m like to weep at seeing you set out to brave the dangers of the high roads with such an obliging valet and such a handsome and silent brother. May God keep you and care for your brother with his fever—though he looks much better already! Would you like another kiss in parting?”

  With great enthusiasm and in wholehearted friendship, I kissed her again on both cheeks.

  “By St Honorat, I’m weeping!” sobbed La Patota, overcome with tenderness. “I’m so silly to get so attached to my guests who pass by on the highway like boats on a river! My noble Monsieur, study well in Montpellier! Avoid quarrels and gambling and, by the Virgin, don’t overdo it with the wenches there! They’ll ruin your body and send your soul to perdition, as you know all too well!”

  “But wait!” I countered. “Aren’t you speaking ill of your fair and gentle sex? But, very well, I promise. I’ll practise those arts in moderation… just as I did with your excellent pastries,” I added with a smile.

  At which my La Patota laughed heartily and I felt thus licensed to ask, “One more kiss, my dear hostess?” And I bowed reverentially.

  “Just a minute, my friend!” cried her husband pulling nervously on his copious moustaches. “You’re going to wear out my good wife’s cheeks at this rate!”

  My host was a solidly built fellow, bright-eyed, quick in repartee and certainly fully aware of how lucky he was to have such a valiant, virtuous and culinarily gifted wife. And though he was a bit jealous, his pride had taught him to hide his discomfort behind a ready laugh.

  I was already in the saddle and off at a trot when a pretty chambermaid ran up behind Accla.

  “Whoa, Accla, easy girl!” I called, reining her in. “What do you want, my pretty?”

  “My mistress sends you this small provender of cakes to enjoy on your ride!” She handed up this delicious gift, wrapped in a clean cloth, the four corners tied together. I deposited the packet in my saddlebag with profuse expressions of thanks for the girl to pass on to La Patota, and spurred on my steed. I’m ashamed to admit that my throat got all knotted up and tears nearly clouded my eyes, so much did these feminine attentions remind me of the tasty little offerings Barberine prepared each time I left Mespech, even for an afternoon.

  I caught up with the rear of our cavalcade, but as we were starting up a long hill I slowed Accla to a walk and fell into a long reverie about Mespech, which ended up being particularly painful since I was overcome with memories of little Hélix that I tried to push out of my mind in order not to feel again the sadness I had felt when she died. But even when I managed to chase her f
rom my thoughts, Mespech remained all too vivid, with its large pond, green prairies and sunny hillsides. Ah, such a heartache gripped me when I thought of my warm nest and the sweetness of my little community.

  What’s strange is that I missed not only my father (my model and my hero), Uncle de Sauveterre, my little sister Catherine, my two cousins, as naive as they were sweet, but the very walls, the towers, the battlements, the drawbridge and the little fort at the entryway, as well as all of our people at the chateau, who were constantly coming and going, never idle, and seemingly never at a loss for stories, proverbs or practical jokes. I didn’t doubt that they missed me as well, for almost all of them were already there when I was born and virtually all of them considered me (rather than my idiot of a brother, full of his haughty and superior airs) the prince of the castle, since I had the same open laugh, quick wit and amiable manners as my father. Forgive me, but I need to name each of them here in writing as I went over each of their names in my heart: Jonas the quarryman, Petremol and Escorgol, the most recently hired, Cabusse, my master-at-arms, Faujanet, Coulondre Iron-arm—these last three legionnaires who had served with my father—and lastly Marsal, who’d been killed by the shot of an arquebus in the fighting at la Lendrevie—all of them good and reliable people, along with their women: Cabusse’s Cathau, Jonas’s Sarrazine, Coulondre’s Jacotte and, up at the castle, sweet Barberine, the gossip la Maligou, our severe Alazaïs (who had the strength of two men, not counting her moral strength) and finally Franchou, to whom Heaven, it seems, had given the mission of sustaining my father in the prime of his later years.