City of Wisdom and Blood

by Robert Merle

  “Monsieur,” I replied in French (since Joyeuse had spoken in the language of the north without a trace of our Provençal accent, though he’d spoken this language to his lackey), “I’m happy to remain standing.”

  I bowed a second time.

  “No, no, Monsieur de Siorac! Take a seat, please! Couiza,” he said to his lackey, “bring a chair for my guest.”

  And, since he hadn’t begun by requesting a chair for me, I understood how right my instinct was to refuse the first offer, and that such a refusal was expected of me, and had to do with certain protocols that Joyeuse expected of his guests.

  And so I sat down, whereupon the captain of the archers, bowing deeply in his turn, said in his very poor French, “Monsieur, shall I withdraw?”

  “No, no, my dear Cossolat, stay! I may need your advice. Sit down.”

  “Monsieur,” said Cossolat, with a second bow, which felt more like a military salute, “I am too conscious of my soldier’s duties to sit in your presence.”

  “Enough ceremony, my dear Cossolat!” replied Joyeuse as he uncovered one of the dishes on the table, releasing a mouth-watering odour that made me nearly dizzy with hunger. But he did not ask Couiza to bring up a chair, and Cossolat remained at attention beside the table.

  “Aha!” I thought. “Here’s a pretty kind of etiquette that’s full of pitfalls. They tell you to sit and would be offended if you obeyed!”

  “Siorac,” Joyeuse continued, “I beg that you excuse me for having taken the liberty of disturbing you this morning. My duties require me to know everything that’s going on in this city, and if it’s agreeable to you, I’d like to hear from your own mouth the story of your engagement with the brigands in the Corbières. But pray, Monsieur, will you do me the honour of sharing my humble breakfast?”

  By the seventy-seven devils of hell, I was sorely tempted! Such meats, such wines, such delicious odours! And under my very nose! So close I could touch them! But just as I was about to give in, I realized that my cruel tempter had not ordered Couiza to set a place at table for me, and so, lowering my eyes, with a thousand thanks I declined.

  “Well then, I’m listening,” said Joyeuse as he delicately took a mouthful of crispy roast pigeon wing, whose last flight I was unable to prevent my eyes from following until the baron’s beautiful white teeth closed over it.

  Remembering how, after his return from the war, my father recounted to our assembled household the siege of Calais, improvising his tale with amusing embellishments, I decided to imitate his manner. I believe audiences are often annoyed when the author of the story too obviously vaunts his own prowess and courage, but, on the contrary, are grateful when he makes light of his achievements, giving you the impression you would have done the same thing if you’d been in his shoes.

  Joyeuse seemed prodigiously tickled by my story and, when I described the way I unburdened Caudebec of his cask of Malvoisie sherry to give it to Espoumel, and how the latter, after I’d freed him, asked if he must come back to have himself hanged, Joyeuse, rocking back against his chair, laughed uproariously until his eyes watered—but did not have the decency to cover his mouth with his brocaded napkin.

  Anne de Joyeuse, listening wide-eyed and open-mouthed to my tale, asked his father permission to speak and, once it was granted, asked, in his sweet little sing-song voice, a thousand questions about various details of my story, either because he hadn’t heard them or because he wanted to hear more about the event. To each of his queries I responded patiently, choosing very simple language and accompanying my words with mimes and dramatic gestures.

  “Ah, Siorac,” cried Joyeuse when I’d finished, “if you weren’t a student of medicine, what an excellent teacher you would make instead of this old pedant who’s teaching my son the history of our kings. But I wanted to ask you, Monsieur, if your father, Baron de Siorac, took part in the fratricidal war that so devastated the king’s subjects?”

  This question brought me up short, for, from the tone in which it was posed, it seemed to me that Joyeuse already knew the answer.

  “No, Monsieur,” I replied promptly. “Although my father was devastated by the outlawing of the reformers, he never wanted to take up arms against our sovereign, having so well served the king’s father, Henri, in Calais, and his grandfather, François, at Ceresole, and owed to each his entire allegiance for having ennobled him.”

  “Your father did well,” admitted Joyeuse. “Monsieur de Siorac,” he continued, I am Baron d’Arques, and my barony includes hills and valleys in the Corbières between Mouthoumet and Couiza, where my valet, here, was born. I am infinitely indebted to you for having killed some of the brigands who have terrorized this countryside. It’s a great pity that I, myself, am unable to punish these rascals. But, alas, I cannot; there is so much to do in Montpellier, trying to make peace between Catholics and Huguenots, who zealously provoke each other to some trouble or other, scratching each other like tomcats, and who would massacre each other if I let them. Siorac, believe me, you must not get drawn into these troubles.”

  “Aha!” I thought. “Now it’s clear. Cossolat advised me well: they’re sounding me out and warning me.”

  “Monsieur,” I answered with all the gravity I could muster, looking him straight in the eye, “I came here to study medicine and not to shake things up. It is neither my nature nor my inclination to do so. I’m a younger brother, and although some might consider medicine an unworthy occupation for a gentleman, I have to make my fortune, so my firm and abiding aim is to make my way by my studies and not by rebellion.”

  “I understand,” replied Joyeuse, who fixed on me his most penetrating stare as we spoke. “And yet I must ask you to explain a circumstance which I find most intriguing. This man Caudebec, whom you mentioned, arrived in Montpellier yesterday. He’s lodging at the inn of the Three Kings. He has lodged a serious and public complaint against you for having villainously fooled him. He claims that you tried to pass yourself off as a Catholic and even went so far, to dupe him, as to make confession to a priest.”

  I scowled at this accusation, and said with some heat: “I have not deceived this gentleman. I served as his interpreter without any remuneration of any kind for a fortnight. At my risk and personal peril I spared him a battle with the Corbières brigands in which more than one of his troop would have no doubt perished or been wounded. If I confessed to one of his monks, it was a ruse of war, to protect my life, for Caudebec, in his fanatical zeal, had threatened to pass his sword through my liver if he learnt that I was a heretic.”

  “May I speak, Monsieur?” asked Cossolat.

  “You may, my dear Cossolat,” replied Joyeuse, who was good enough to call him “my dear” but not good enough to offer him a seat.

  “Monsieur, according to what I have discovered, when Caudebec arrived at the Three Kings, where he learnt of Siorac’s religious beliefs, he began shouting violent threats and horrible, nasty slurs against this man. I went to the Three Kings and met individually with different members of the Norman pilgrims. They confirmed the report that Siorac has given here.”

  “And you questioned everybody?”

  “Everyone except the women and monks.”

  “And why not these?” said Joyeuse, raising an eyebrow.

  “The former because they love our hero too much. The latter because they love him too little.”

  “Ha, my dear Cossolat,” laughed Joyeuse, “you’re not just a good captain! You have a ready wit as well. And you’re going to need it,” he continued, “to smother this chick while it’s still in the nest. I don’t want the hens to go about cackling and pecking at each other and making blood and feathers fly. For if this Caudebec, who strikes me as too excitable, ends up killing or wounding Siorac here, the Huguenots are going to seek revenge on these pilgrims, the Catholics will come to the aid of the pilgrims and, from this quarrel, we’ll see a tumult arise that could lead who knows where. Siorac,” he added, turning to me with great civility, “if it suits you to fol
low my counsel, I would dare advise you to go immediately to the Three Kings and lower the horns of this Norman bull.”

  “But I’m not armed!”

  “Nor should you be, since you’re such a high-handed, proud fellow as suits your courage and the bloom of your youth. But Cossolat will accompany you and won’t let you out of his sight. I very much hope that he’ll know how to make peace between you and the baron. This is what I want: a reconciliation that is public and complete.”

  The Vicomte de Joyeuse pronounced this request in a stentorian voice, his head held high, his brow furled and looking me straight in the eye, as if he wished me to understand that he was speaking in the name of the king. At this, I made him a profound bow and assured him that to keep the peace in Montpellier I would be as easy and flexible as he desired.

  Joyeuse took his leave of me politely but without getting up from the table, and if a nod can be interpreted by the degree of inclination, then the one he gave me seemed to signify several degrees more of respect than the one he gave my companion.

  “Well,” said Cossolat on our ride over to the Three Kings, “what do you plan to do?”

  “To stand entirely on ceremony.”

  “Which is not always a question of vanity, but sometimes a way of governing. Remember that not all Catholics use cruelty as their opening gambit the way Montluc did. Some do the opposite.”

  Cossolat was not wrong in this opinion of Joyeuse, as we discovered six years later when, on the morning after the dreadful night of the St Bartholomew massacre, in which so many thousands of reformers perished, the governor of Montpellier received an order from Charles IX to put to death all the reformers in his city. Great courtier that he was and as worried as he was about his own career, Joyeuse considered this infamous commandment dishonourable and refused to comply, saying publicly that he was “a soldier, not an executioner”.

  And indeed, when, both before and after this incident, he was ordered by the king to fight the Huguenots—along with his son Anne, who was to die in the flower of his youth—he acted as a loyal soldier, without bitterness or hatred, conducting himself throughout these battles with the moderation and elegance that were integral to his character.

  The inn of the Three Kings was a large and handsome lodging, where Samson and I had, two nights previously, invited Fogacer to enjoy a succulent roast pork as payment for his lessons. I thus knew how good the food was and realized that such fare would keep Caudebec there indefinitely. On the other hand, despite knowing that my reconciliation with the baron would be a fractious and arduous affair, I was delighted that this extended stay of the Norman pilgrims in our city would afford Samson the occasion to court Dame Gertrude at his leisure, rather than sit around “kissing the wind”, as Fontanette put it.

  As soon as we dismounted, the hostess of the Three Kings appeared in the doorway and greeted Cossolat with a huge smile and told him that the roumieux (which is what the people of Montpellier call the pilgrims heading for Rome) were already sitting at breakfast inside, gorging themselves on large quantities of meat and wine. I entered the inn first with the hostess and Cossolat behind me, and, believing that the captain was still right behind me, went into the common room and headed straight for the baron to make peace with him. But scarcely had he caught sight of me before Caudebec leapt to his feet, throwing the drumstick he was eating behind him and, trembling with anger, eyes bulging and face bright scarlet, screamed, “Ah, heretic! You villain! You monster! You dare show your traitorous face in here? ’Sblood, I’m going to make you pay for your audacity!”

  Drawing his dagger, he rushed at me. I turned, but Cossolat was no longer behind me, and terrified by his absence and at finding myself unarmed before this ball of fury, I began to back up, and, being naturally quicker than the baron, would have escaped had not one of the monks stuck out his foot behind me and caused me to fall. Caudebec, brandishing his dagger and shouting “Kill! Kill!” would certainly have caught me and killed me if the page, Rouen, feigning confusion, hadn’t thrown himself at his legs, for which he was rewarded with a powerful kick that sent him rolling halfway across the room. But that provided only a brief respite, and, jumping to my feet, I grabbed the stool the monk had been sitting on by one of its legs and ripped it out from under him with such force that he fell in his turn, and Caudebec, still in hot pursuit, fell on top of him. Would that God had made Caudebec run the monk through as he fell on him, but alas! that didn’t happen—Providence must have been looking the other way.

  Caudebec, jumping to his feet and growling like a wild boar, immediately recommenced, dagger in hand, chasing me round the table, while some of the pilgrims cried “Kill! Kill!”—though they did not venture to lend a hand—and others shouted, “For shame! An unarmed man!” Some of the good Norman wenches even went so far as to begin bombarding the baron with their goblets and spoons to slow his progress. But realizing that, though I had no sword, I did possess a shield, I turned to meet my assailant, grabbing the stool by its legs and holding it firmly in front of me, bracing my feet and head held high. My stance clearly unnerved Caudebec, and served to cool his anger a little, especially since among his superstitions was the belief that I had inherited from my father the gift of invincibility in battle. He nevertheless made two or three dagger thrusts that I easily parried. However, not content with being on the defensive, which didn’t suit my disposition, I was considering suddenly throwing the stool at his head when Cossolat’s stentorian voice was heard above the confusion in the room. “Baron de Caudebec, I arrest you in the name of the king!”

  This had the effect of a thunderbolt, and the terrified pilgrims immediately fell silent.

  “Monsieur!” said Caudebec, turning as if a viper had bitten his heel, and his crimson face now as white as a candle. “Monsieur, what are you saying?”

  “Monsieur,” Cossolat continued when silence was restored, “I’m arresting you for the attempted murder of the nobleman Pierre de Siorac, here present.”

  “But he’s only a Huguenot!” cried Caudebec, whereupon several of the most zealously papist monks among the pilgrims shouted “Have at him!” in support of their master.

  To these, Cossolat replied by leaping on Caudebec’s empty stool, suddenly drawing his sword with a clash of steel, and shouting loudly: “Good people, who among you dares to challenge the captain of the archers in Montpellier? Shall I send for my men and have you all arrested? Or would you rather I have the lot of you—you and your horses—thrown in the garbage pits of the city?”

  Cossolat’s sword, and his vigorous frame, the light in his dark eyes and even his terrible Provençal accent in French worked wonders on the pilgrims, who lowered their heads, quite undone by the idea of suddenly losing the delicious fare and amenities of the Three Kings inn, which they’d so looked forward to.

  “Captain,” said Caudebec at last, quite annoyed to see his people abandon him, yet attempting to regain his credibility, “you cannot arrest me, I am a baron.”

  “Perhaps in Normandy I wouldn’t be able to,” said Cossolat, his voice as chilling as a November breeze, “but here I can. And I will, unless Monsieur de Siorac agrees to reconcile with you and you with him.”

  “Me? Reconcile with this baron?” I cried, wanting to add a few strands to this knot so that the baron would have to work harder to untie it. “I, who saved his life, saved his entire company by standing up to the brigands in the Corbières and chasing them away? I, whom, as my reward for saving him, he tried to kill, naked and unarmed, adding insults to my honour in front of these assembled pilgrims? No, no! Either you arrest this baron forthwith, Captain, or else I shall ram his damnable insults down his throat!”

  At this, the baron turned even paler, seeing himself dead and buried, having to pay for his mortal sins, or already roasting in Purgatory longer than the days of indulgence he’d purchased by the thousands from his monks, his fat carcass turning on the Devil’s spit until it had browned sufficiently to pay the Lord for his sins of gluttony and
adultery. Thinking these terrible thoughts, white as a sheet and head lowered in shame, the baron remained silent. But Dame Gertrude du Luc, with her feminine intuition, having understood the element of comedy in my speech, and very desirous, for her own special reasons, of seeing a reconciliation between the Siorac family and Caudebec, and wanting her own reconciliation with him since she’d been among the first to hurl goblet, spoon and table knives at him as he was chasing me through the room, rushed to my side and with her sweet white hands seizing my right hand (into which she slipped a little note that I quickly hid in my doublet), fell graciously to her knees and said in a piteous voice:

  “Oh, Monsieur de Siorac! Are you a Turk or a Christian? If you are a Christian, as I believe, reformist though you may be, I beg you on my knees, in the name of Christ, spare the Baron de Caudebec, who is like a beloved father to all of us, and without whom not one among us could go on living!”

  At these words, the Norman wenches, who are all quite tall, as I’ve said, and quite beautiful, blue-eyed, with hair like ripened wheat, and who, however manly their height and vigour, were nonetheless possessed of all the feminine wiles, added their prayers to Dame Gertrude’s, and pressed up against me from all sides, moaning, sighing and crying hot tears (real or feigned) and begging me not to kill the baron, their beloved father. To which the baron testily replied, “The plague take these silly wenches! Am I so weak? You’d think I were already dead!”

  Scarcely had he spoken when there appeared in the hall a very handsome and majestic gentleman, followed by a lackey carrying, with the respect ordinarily given the reliquary, a barrel I hoped would be full of precious wine. Cossolat immediately leapt down from the stool, resheathed his sword and bowed deeply to the new arrival.

  “What’s all this?” said the gentleman, frowning. “My dear Cossolat, I see that you had unsheathed your sword. Was there some trouble here?”