City of Wisdom and Blood

by Robert Merle

  “I did as much for Balsa when he was younger,” said Maître Sanche, shaking his head, “so that he could read the Holy Scriptures, and although he has only one eye, he reads very well.”

  At this, the eye in question glowed with gratitude, which touched me deeply since this is a rare feeling in men.

  Meanwhile, remembering that our host had begrudgingly agreed to have Miroul take his place at the table next to his cyclopean servant, I ventured to try to raise Miroul further in his esteem, adding, “But Miroul has many other talents. He is a good and brave soldier, sings the Psalms of David beautifully, and accompanies himself on his viol.”

  “But this is marvellous! It is the God of David who has sent him,” cried Maître Sanche, whose eyes sparkled with happiness as he rocked back and forth on his stool, furiously stroking his greying beard. “If it please you, my nephew, would you ask your valet to fetch his viol?”

  But Miroul was already on his feet, questioning me with his eyes of blue and brown.

  “Go ahead, Miroul,” I said.

  Slender, rapid, he took off like an arrow from a crossbow, and in the silence that followed, Luc, who hadn’t breathed a word during the entire meal, except to amend his father’s benedicite, now raised his head and looked at the apothecary as if to warn him of some danger that he couldn’t name out loud. Seeing this mute prayer, his father nodded and said, “Balsa, when Miroul begins to sing, go stand outside the door to see if there are any passers-by in the street who might hear the words of his Psalm, and if so, come back in and tell me.”

  Scarcely had Balsa gone out with his rolling giant’s gait when Miroul, flying across the room, came up to the table and placed his winged foot on his stool with the viol on his knee.

  “Very illustrious master,” I asked, “which Psalm should Miroul sing?”

  “The one that God inspires him to choose,” said Maître Sanche, quietly.

  Miroul bowed his head over his instrument, his face suddenly marvellously focused, and lightly plucked a few sweet chords that seemed to make all the angels in heaven descend from the skies into the common room. But, at this moment, Maître Sanche raised his hand to interrupt him: “Fontanette,” he commanded, “go into the kitchen. Close the door tight behind you and stay there until I call for you.”

  “Yes, master,” replied the poor chambermaid, making, with evident reluctance and reticence, a small bow that perfectly expressed her displeasure at being asked to leave just as the music was beginning to enchant her.

  With more spite than a one-eyed cat with its back up, she left, slamming the door behind her. It was only later that I understood that the reason for her exile was the master’s fear that, as a good Catholic, she might talk about it outside the house. Maître Sanche, with evident emotion, made a sign to Miroul, who recommenced his playing, and then, suddenly raising his eyes to heaven with a serious look I had never seen before, since he was always so full of laughter, he began to sing with a voice so clear and limpid that one would have thought a mountain stream were flowing over smooth white stones.

  Hear my prayer, O Shepherd of Israel,

  Your people walk along the road

  Like a flock that You are leading.

  Bring them out of their troubles!

  I’m not going to quote the entire Psalm. But those of my readers for whom it is not a sin to read the Bible (as, alas, the papist priests attempt to make us believe, making it a crime to have translated it into a vulgar tongue) know that in this Psalm, David compares the people of Israel to a vine that He has planted, but which the wicked seek to destroy:

  What has broken down your fences?

  Why are you exposed

  Like prey to every passer-by?

  And how does it come to pass

  That wild boar have destroyed

  What God Himself had planted?

  Hearing this lament, which recalled the terrible persecutions that Israel had suffered, first Typhème, then Luc and finally Maître Sanche began shedding silent tears, since each of them knew the tortures, the autos-da-fé in Spain and Portugal, where so many had perished before being exiled. The terrible accounts and bloody stories of their ancestors—the very people whom Louis XI had welcomed to Provence—were so many open wounds lodged in their memories through their secret adherence to the Jewish rites, which even today risked exposing them to denunciations by their neighbours, inquisitions by the priests and trials by hostile judges, not to mention the blind fury of the populace. Certainly, I was not ignorant of the fact that the reformed religion’s belief in the divinity of Christ separated us from these Sephardic people, and yet Rome had inflicted on our people, ever since François I, so many jailings and executions, that our common persecution and our daily practice of the Bible tended to connect us, if not in our beliefs, at least in our feelings. For “the people of Israel”, for whom this inspired Psalm was written, designated, in our heart of hearts, our own people every bit as much as theirs. I had only to recall how much my father and my uncle were troubled as they listened to Miroul sing these verses, remembering that, in 1562, the Huguenots had been outlawed by parliament, so that in Sarlat the Catholics, who considered that the law authorized it, began to pillage and murder our fellow religionaries. This was the prelude to the first of our civil wars. Meanwhile the Psalm finished on a note that, after so many tears and lamentations, restored our pride and called us to hold our heads high and inflate our chests:

  Oh Lord, have pity on Your vine!

  If the people You have chosen

  Are now deemed unworthy of You,

  Deign now to pardon them.

  Let Your arm uphold this day

  The children whom You once supported.

  Raise us up and give us Your grace:

  And we will walk before Your face.

  On the last word and the last chord, Miroul, who had been standing with one foot on his stool, his viol on his knee, sat down, and for several minutes no one could speak, and we all looked at each other, our eyes red with tears, our lips trembling, communing together, Huguenots and Sephardic Jews together in remembrance of a cruel past and in the hope of a triumphant future.

  * “I am a physician and I believe only in medicine.”

  † “Greetings, very illustrious master.”

  ‡ “Training the mind is of especially great importance in our youthful years.”

  § “Few are those judged worthy to enter here.”

  ¶ “What a good question!”

  || “I am not a doctor.”

  ** “Trust me, for I have the requisite experience.”

  †† “An overfilled stomach won’t readily turn to study.”

  ‡‡ “I myself, Maître Gabriel Sanche, lord of Montolivet.”

  §§ “Beware of silent dogs and still waters.”

  5

  WE’D BEEN IN Montpellier scarcely five days when, one morning as I was getting dressed, Fontanette burst in, visibly alarmed and out of breath, to tell me that an officer of the watch was asking for me downstairs. I immediately rushed down to see what could be the matter and discovered in the entryway the same captain of the archers who, on the day we arrived, had opened the la Saulnerie gates for us after enquiring about our religious beliefs. He was a heavy-set fellow, but very trim, without an ounce of fat on him, straight-backed and with head held high, very dark-haired, dark-eyed and dark-skinned. He was armed with both sword and dagger, but wore no coat of mail, only a red doublet and breeches of the same colour, with black hat and sleeves. He looked very serious indeed, though neither rude nor as aggressive as his dress at first seemed to indicate. Indeed, as he looked me over, I noticed a very friendly light in his eyes. He greeted me right civilly, told me he was called Cossolat and that he was ordered to bring me to Monsieur de Joyeuse, who desired to speak with me.

  “What is it?” I asked, half alarmed, half pretending to be. “Are they going to arrest me, lock me in prison and try me for the crime of being a Huguenot?”

  “Nothing of the s
ort,” Cossolat replied with a smile. “I told you before that I’m of the reformed religion. Joyeuse is a Catholic, but, in truth, not a very zealous one and I faithfully serve a papist governor. I wish to God that all the papists and Huguenots in this city got along as well as he and I do. But it’s not always the case. Ever since the Edict of Amboise re-established the papists and their former domination, we’ve had nothing but troubles, plots and back-stabbing. The papists are intending to get their revenge on us. They’re growing uneasy at our numbers. They’ve been organizing labourers’ parades in town and getting these ignorant peasants to throw stones at our houses. In response, some of the most hotheaded of our people have been sending their children to sing the Psalms of David as loud as they can in front of the cathedral of St Peter while the papists are celebrating Mass.”

  “But what’s all this got to do with me?” I replied in astonishment. “I’ve scarcely arrived. I’m here to study medicine, not to become embroiled in local passions.”

  “This is precisely what Monsieur de Joyeuse would like to know. It seems that some Catholics in Montpellier, having heard of your bravery in the Corbières hills, suspect that you’ve been sent here by the Prince de Condé to lead an uprising of the reformers and take over the city.”

  “Me?” I gasped. “What kind of story is this? Me, captain of the reformers? At fifteen? Who would believe such a thing?”

  “Ah, Monsieur scholar!” replied Cossolat with a gleam in his dark eyes. “You’ll be all right with Monsieur de Joyeuse. You have a ready tongue. Is your brother your equal at this?”

  “Sadly, no, he’s practically a mute, and when he does speak, he has a most regrettable degree of honesty and strictness of faith that expose him to the greatest peril.”

  “Well then, we’ll report that we had to leave him behind to recover from this fever that you reported he’d been fighting during your trip here.”

  Hearing this, I beamed at Cossolat and found myself suddenly quite unable to say a word.

  “As you see, I know a lot of things,” smiled the captain of the archers. “My work requires me to be exceptionally well-informed. Come, Monsieur scholar!” he said, taking my arm. “Let’s not dawdle here. My lieutenant will lend you his horse. Like all great men, Monsieur de Joyeuse doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  We didn’t ride as fast as Cossolat would have liked, since the narrow, winding streets of Montpellier were crowded with people, especially girls and housewives heading out to do their shopping. We had to slow our horses to a walk, which I was happy to do since there was so much to see in these streets.

  “Monsieur scholar,” said Cossolat with a smile, “you seem to enjoy looking at skirts.”

  “Not at all, my friend,” I replied, “I don’t aim so low. But I notice that my position on horseback offers very nice views of the local topology.”

  “Especially when it is so hot as it gets here in Provence. And anyway, why hide the gifts nature has given you? The maids of Montpellier are reputed to be the prettiest in the kingdom, and some claim they’ve inspired the name of the city itself: Mons puellarum—the hill of maidens. In any case, I think it’s the most beautiful city in France. I wouldn’t leave it for all the treasures of the earth, even if the king gave me Paris and his Louvre.”

  This made me remember the knife-maker Pécoul’s boasting about Montpellier. “And yet,” I replied to prick my guide’s pride a bit, “some say Toulouse and Marseilles are bigger than Montpellier.”

  To which Cossolat, as Pécoul had done, furrowed his brow. “Size is not important. How do you judge a wench, by her size or by her beauty?”

  “Beauty, of course. And I’m willing to grant you that Montpellier is the most magnificent city I’ve yet seen. Though I don’t know Paris.”

  “You won’t fail to be disappointed when you see the capital,” replied Cossolat. “Here we have little subterranean canals that drain off our sewage. But Paris has nothing like these conveniences. It’s an ugly town, Monsieur scholar, a disgusting town! Kitchen water, piss and faeces all end up in the street. What’s more, you can’t get anywhere there are so many carts and carriages in the streets. Everywhere you go the noise is deafening! And the insolence of the Parisians is legendary—pages, lackeys and other rascals included—and you’d be drawing your sword every three steps if you weren’t a good Christian.”

  Such comments deprecating Paris and the other cities of the kingdom and putting Montpellier on a pinnacle were common on the lips of the Montpellier citizenry, who were besotted, nay entranced, by the beauty of their city. And however agreeable I’d found Cahors, Toulouse, Narbonne or Carcassonne on my travels, the inexplicable charm and contentment one finds in Montpellier are so great that, after only a few months of living there, I began repeating these outlandish praises and considering Paris to be the lowest of the low—I who had never set foot farther north than Périgueux.

  “Here we are in the rue de l’Aiguillerie,” announced my guide, “so we’ll take this next right on the rue Bocador. Monsieur de Joyeuse lives in the beautiful house that the financier Jacques Coeur built—worthy of a king, and indeed, in 1564, our own sovereign Charles IX stayed here, God protect him! You’ll find another dozen houses like this in Montpellier where the rich nobles and well-to-do merchants live.”

  I was indeed astonished by the monumental stone staircase that led up to the apartments of Monsieur de Joyeuse, and by the very rich rugs, paintings and furniture that adorned them. I’d never seen the like nor in such profusion. I followed Cossolat through two reception rooms and we stopped on the threshold of a third, even more magnificent than the first two, illuminated by three large, sunny windows.

  The Vicomte de Joyeuse was in the middle of his breakfast, and since he was sitting facing away from the doorway he didn’t see us—or perhaps pretended not to see us—standing there, so absorbed was he by the choice of delicacies laid out before him. Cossolat signalled to me to remain still and silent, so I had the leisure to observe the king’s representative.

  He was, in truth, a very tall and handsome gentleman, dressed in a brocaded doublet with a large ornate ruff around his neck. He was seated on a high-backed chair at the head of a long table of polished walnut, with a young lad standing at his right—also very good-looking and, judging by the great likeness between the two, his son. Both father and son had the same azure eyes, curly blonde hair and long curving nose that, despite its size, detracted not a whit from their beauty.

  There emanated from this table such delectable odours of the many sweetmeats laid out there, that I was like to faint—especially given the hunger that gnawed at me due to the fact that I’d left the pharmacist’s house before consuming even the weak gruel that was our normal morning fare. On this walnut, polished like a mirror, I counted no fewer than eleven silver platters, each with an elaborately worked cover, which Monsieur de Joyeuse lifted at his pleasure, tasting one or another and, after each mouthful, rinsing his throat with a sip of wine from his goblet.

  He exhibited a rare grace in all of this that pleased me no end, however much my own mouth was salivating at the sight and smell of his choices. I also noted that included in his table setting was a small fork of gold-plated sterling, a new refinement that the brother of Charles IX had reportedly introduced to the court. However, Monsieur de Joyeuse did not use this implement the way the Duc d’Orléans did to pick up morsels from the plates. My host preferred the old way of picking up each piece very daintily between his thumb and index finger, as Barberine had shown me how to do when civility required, and placing it on his plate, and if these morsels were too big he would then use the fork to hold them in place while he cut them with his knife into bite-sized fragments. After which he picked them up with his fingers (very daintily, as before) remembering to wipe his hands and mouth each time with a richly brocaded napkin that an overdressed valet handed to him from his left.

  As for the young rascal standing on his right, who seemed to be about five and of a mischievous, pla
yful and sunny disposition, he was dressed from head to toe in pale-blue silk, but instead of a ruff wore a wide, open collar which displayed his tender, soft neck. He divided his attention between his father, on whom he bestowed a very touching degree of affection, and his father’s plate, on which the latter placed his meats. When he saw a morsel that he wanted, he pointed at it with his little pink finger and said in a charming voice, as clear and musical as birdsong, “May I, my dear father?”

  To which his father, after smiling sweetly, replied very civilly, “You may!”

  Anne de Joyeuse, for that was the lad’s name, with the same daintiness as his father, seized the coveted morsel and put it in his mouth. Oh, how far I had come from the rude and coarse manners of Caudebec who, however baronial he claimed to be, behaved at table like a pig in its sty.

  “What’s keeping Cossolat?” asked Monsieur de Joyeuse, raising his head and addressing his lackey with a lively impatience. “Isn’t he back yet?”

  “I’m here, Monsieur,” said Cossolat without quitting the threshold. “Monsieur de Siorac is with me and we’re awaiting your good pleasure.”

  “Well, come in! Come in, my good man! Don’t stand on ceremony!” answered Joyeuse, who certainly did not appear to be a man who would waive or curtail ceremony of any kind. “Monsieur de Siorac, please excuse me, I beg you, for having failed to rise to greet you!” he said, giving me a nod that denoted very precisely the difference in rank between us.

  To which, advancing towards him, I responded with a very low bow, as befitted the king’s representative. Then, straightening, I greeted little Anne de Joyeuse with feelings of real tenderness, for I felt I already liked him. In return, the boy greeted me with great seriousness, but suddenly broke into a huge smile, revealing a pair of dimples in his cheeks.

  “Well, Monsieur de Siorac,” said Monsieur de Joyeuse, “if my son likes you, then I’m sure I will like you too, for, though he’s only five, he has a very sure sense of things, even if he can’t express it so well in words just yet. But, please, Monsieur, be seated!”