by Robert Merle
This change in attitude didn’t escape the sparkling eye of Aglaé de Mérol, when she came out to greet me in the antechamber to lead me to Madame de Joyeuse’s apartments. In the half-tender, half-ironic tone she had adopted with me, she said, “For a man whose head is hanging by such a thin thread, I have to admit, Siorac, that you look awfully full of yourself!”
“That, Madame, is because I’m so happy to see you!”
“Professor! Keep your inane compliments for others.”
“Professor, Madame?” I said, stopping in my tracks and looking her in the eye, “What do you mean by that?”
“Didn’t you take on my mistress as a student in your School of Sighs? Well, you must be an excellent teacher, for every Wednesday, I hear her moaning louder than before.”
“Madame, if I had the good fortune to be your husband, I’d keep you in school morning, noon and night.”
At which she laughed, blushed and undulated from head to toe. “But wouldn’t that be too much schooling and too much studying?”
“Not at all! Moaning doesn’t require so much work. All you have to do is let yourself go.”
She laughed again, those dimples next to her lips showing deliciously.
“Oh, Madame,” I said, “your dimples! I’ll have to kiss them right away!”
“Why so?” she frowned, affecting disdain. But instead of taking her leave, she turned and seemed to be moving closer.
“Because, Madame, you owe me these dimples since I made you laugh,” I said, and, taking her in my arms, I kissed her thrice, once on each dimple, once on her lips.
“Fie, Monsieur,” she said in an angry tone, while shuddering with delight, “you’re trying to use force to recruit me into your school. Go on by yourself. I’m staying here.”
Whereupon she sat down in one of the armchairs, turning away from me, no doubt hoping to hide her confusion from the other ladies-in-waiting. As for me, I made a large bow to the other women but omitted any flourish of compliments since I was in a hurry to be alone with Madame de Joyeuse, after my “heated” exchange with Aglaé.
“Oh, my sweet!” cried Madame de Joyeuse as I pulled the curtains closed on her four-poster. “What’s this? What do you want? Jesus, what a man! What? In medias res?* Am I a chambermaid to be treated this way? Are you a soldier? How tyrannical you are! You’re killing me and sacking my castle! Oh, Pierre, this is so crude! Oh, my sweet!”
To be sure, I did not go about things with a light hand in this furious assault, as preoccupied as I was with my virility and my own pleasure, having rediscovered my sword. But given her generous heart and her own intense interest in such activities (whatever her confessor may have thought) she was kind enough not to resent me for my abrupt manners—quite the contrary, in fact, for she laughed with pleasure at the return of calm between us.
“My sweet,” she giggled, “Montaigne’s sachet has worked miracles! Have you been wearing it every day?”
“I never took it off. But,” I added, taking it from around my neck, “I wonder what’s in it? It seems woefully thin!”
“Well, let’s take a look!” she proposed, and, with a mischievous look, she grabbed a pair of scissors from the bedside table, cut the sachet loose and opened it. It was empty. At the sight of which, she laughed even harder.
“Oh, Madame,” I cried, “you knew it!”
“Of course I knew it, since I was the one to sew it!”
“Madame, you’ve made unfair sport of me!”
“But, my sweet little cousin, I had to! You got knotted up by a trick and had to be untied by another.”
“Oh, my joyous lady, what a genius you are!”
“The genius was in the idea, which is Michel de Montaigne’s. The execution was mine,” she said without a trace of vanity.
At this I threw myself in her arms, thanked her a thousand times and told her I despaired of ever finding a way of adequately demonstrating my gratitude.
“Oh, my Pierre!” she laughed. “Don’t despair. You’ve got a very beautiful way of expressing it!” And as I was lying on top of her, kissing her neck, she placed both of her plump hands on my shoulders and pushed me gradually downwards, letting me know that she wanted the same caresses she’d required of me previously. “Aha!” I thought as I obediently followed her lead. “Aglaé, you were wrong, I think. My mistress is not so much following my schooling as I am following hers.” In trying to remember the recommendations she’d given me with as much tact as possible, and following the intensity of her moans, I tried to give her the most exquisite pleasure I could, amazed at our bodies’ resources for giving pleasure, during our short stay in this life, to those we cherish.
“My Pierre,” she breathed as she emerged from this swell of passion that had swept over her, “tell me where things are in this sad business of yours.”
Realizing that she already knew everything through Cossolat, and that she was only asking in order to hide her sources and to learn my own version of these facts, I went through the sequence of events as faithfully as I could, omitting nothing except Fogacer’s name, whom I didn’t want her to link to the Présidial judge, thinking that Cossolat, as circumspect as he was, would not have named my tutor in his version of the case.
Madame de Joyeuse, who was a very smart and well-informed lady, did not seem offended by this omission, quite the contrary. “Pierre,” she agreed, “you’re quite right to hide the name of your friend, because he’s taking such risks for you. But, listen carefully, the minute you’re told that Cabassus gave your name under torture, get yourself here as quickly as possible, whether it’s day or night. They’ll let you in. I’ll give the orders and this house will be an inviolable asylum for you.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Madame, for your help. But I’m not alone in this. I have two companions.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Madame de Joyeuse frowning. “But they’re not noblemen, there’s the snag! How can I let them in here?”
Knowing the value she attached to nobility, I couldn’t argue with her, and just looked at her without saying a word. After what seemed like an eternity of trying to tell her with my eyes what my lips were forbidden to pronounce, her natural generosity got the better of her feelings about rank, and, finding a compromise which seemed to accommodate the one and the other, she said casually, “Oh, my sweet! Let’s not get overwrought about this! Your friends can be guests of my major-domo and can stay with him.”
I covered her hands with kisses, then her arms, which were so round and firm and velvety, and lavished praises on them. But then we had to go over her entire body as usual: “Yes, my arms are beautiful, but what about my nose, Pierre? Isn’t it too big?”
“But, Madame, not at all! It’s a noble nose and can only be judged in the company of your striking face and in the surroundings of your gorgeous blonde curls and in the light of your golden-brown eyes!”
“Yes, my features are pleasant, but what about my neck? What do you think of my neck? Some nasty people—”
“Oh, Madame, don’t even mention these vipers! If I knew them, I’d crush them with my heel! Your neck, Madame, is divine, sweet and soft and I never look at it without my lips itching to cover it with a thousand little kisses.”
“Well, my sweet,” she laughed, “what’s stopping you? I couldn’t ask for better.”
And so, my appetite whetted anew, and happy enough not to exhaust my brain trying to come up with new compliments, I began furiously nibbling at her neck, then her breasts and… But I must desist from the rest of my attentions. Everyone knows that kisses are little animals that like to travel everywhere. And hic et nunc† the School of Sighs, as Aglaé called it, opened its doors to its two students and, to be honest, I don’t know which of the two lectured to the other, so much did our sighs complement each other.
As I left the Joyeuse mansion, someone took my arm from behind. It was Cossolat.
“Zounds, Siorac!” he whispered. “You’re snorting and prancing and breathing fire like a s
tallion in a pasture full of mares! I’m guessing that you’ve been cured of the curse,” he laughed. “But we have to undo some other things as well. Your head is hanging by a thread. The canons have ordered Cabassus to be defrocked tomorrow. The scaffold will be erected in front of the pharmacy, on the Place des Cévenols, virtually under your windows. I’ll be there. When the defrocking is over, I’ll try to take the ex-abbot to the city jail, where, on orders from the Présidial judge, at about three in the afternoon, they’ll begin torturing him.” Then, lowering his voice, he added, “Tell Fogacer that he must go to see his friend tomorrow evening and to tell you immediately if Cabassus named you. Every minute will be precious.”
The strange thing was, despite the fact that the danger was now so near, armed with my newfound courage I didn’t fear it as I had before, and took in this warning calmly, without wincing or blinking. Cossolat was astonished by my impassiveness. At dinner, with Maître Sanche, I was more voluble than usual, and argued heatedly with both my illustrious master and my tutor about the spread of syphilis, my tutor agreeing with the famous doctor of Verona, Girolamo Fracastoro, that the contagion spread from body to body by means of tiny insects, smaller than the eye could see. To which Maître Sanche replied that since Fracastoro couldn’t see them, then they weren’t there. It seemed to me as I listened to them that common sense favoured Maître Sanche, but perhaps not a finer logic, for how could it be that in all the maladies that spread from body to body, the contagious agents were never visible to the human eye, even though we knew they were there?
I was awakened the next morning by the hammers of the artisans who were building the platform under my window. On this Thursday morning, neither Dean Bazin nor Chancellor Saporta were giving their private lessons at the Royal College of Medicine, so I remained in my room to go over my notes, and was much more able to concentrate than I would have expected, given how soon we could expect an outcome to this drama.
At exactly eleven, with all the pomp they loved to give their ceremonies, about forty papist priests arrived in a very brilliantly coloured parade of camails and chasubles as if they were processing into a solemn Mass at Notre-Dame des Tables. The vicar general, the canons and curate of Saint-Denis (Cabassus’s parish) took their places on the platform, while the smaller fry—abbots, deacons, subdeacons and acolytes—remained standing on the pavement below, but were in the first row, in front of Cossolat and his archers, so that no one would miss the fact that clerical authority trumped lay authority in this matter.
The bishop arrived in an open carriage pulled by four horses, mitre on his head and crozier in hand, loudly acclaimed by the foolish crowd of people who’d rushed to watch this spectacle. The bishop, who appeared to be sick, climbed onto the platform with a majestic slowness, protected from the sun by a purple canopy held by four clerics.
Someone knocked at my door. It was Fogacer, who asked permission to watch the defrocking from my window, since it provided a better view of the proceedings than his. “Ah,” he sighed, “there’s poor Cabassus, who was imprudent enough to want to correct human failings.”
“But where is he?”
“There, way over on the left, flanked by those two fat canons.”
I hadn’t recognized him at first, since, before bringing him up, they had washed him, shaved him and dressed him in the sacerdotal vestments proper to his rank, notably a gold-embroidered silk chasuble that they were going to defrock him with. And other than the fact that I’d never seen him so clean, or so splendidly dressed, I noticed that he was no longer rolling his eyes, but kept them glued to the ground, and far from chattering, shaking and moving constantly about, he remained quiet and calm with an expression less sad than grave.
“Ah, Fogacer,” I said very troubled, “is he going to persist?”
“Of course! He wants to burn and thereby bear witness to his belief in the nonexistence of God. Which is a crazy thing to do, since non-belief, not being belief, but its opposite, doesn’t require martyrdom.”
The ceremony began with some Latin chants celebrating the glory and power of the divine Lord. Then Monseigneur the bishop, who was very pale and seemed to be suffering from some stomach disorder and intestinal ache, for he kept pressing his hand to his stomach, rose and pronounced a short homily on the same theme. After which he sat down and said to Cabassus in a paternal tone of voice, more sad than severe, “Fili, credesne in Deum?”‡
“Domine, non credo in Deum. Nego Deum esse.”
“Nominas Deum. Ergo Deus est.”
“Deum verbum atque nomen est. In se non est.”§
At which the bishop sighed, which did not appear to be a ceremonial facade, and I later heard from Monsieur de Joyeuse that, believing, as did the curate of Saint-Denis, that Cabassus was crazy, he would never have defrocked him without pressure from the Présidial judges.
“Fili,” he continued, “errare humanum est. Perseverare diabolicum.”
“Diabolus non est,” replied Cabassus.¶
The bishop, then turning to a very tall canon sitting on his right, told him in a very tired voice to continue. This canon stood up. He had a very red but handsome face, a more imperious than evangelical look, and a very sonorous voice. And as gentle as the bishop had been with Cabassus, this man was hard and loud. And although his imprecations were useless after Cabassus’s public confession, his Latin diatribe lasted a very long half-hour, during which the bishop kept rubbing his stomach and his epigastrium and appeared to be suffering greatly in his body, but even more so in his mind, for he seemed extremely impatient with this eloquence—which he put an end to with a few brief whispered words to the orator. The canon, who appeared to be quite embarrassed by this interruption—this ceremony before a great crowd of people being his moment of glory—next pronounced the official defrocking of Cabassus. Then, turning to the bishop, he asked him if he approved this sentence. The bishop replied in a very soft voice that, yes, he did approve it, and his pain seemed to increase dramatically.
The two canons who were flanking Cabassus, each taking him by the arm, brought him to the centre of the platform, facing the bishop, and proceeded to strip him of his vestments, explaining in Latin the function of each of the different ornaments and the reason it was being removed. The chasuble, which was of purple silk, embroidered with a knotwork of gold, was removed from his neck, a young cleric receiving it with great respect on his two outstretched arms as if it were an idol. This done, they continued to explain in Latin (which was understood by no more than a dozen people other than the priests) the uses and symbolism of each ornament, and the canons, each taking a corner of the stole, pulled it over his head and placed it on the chasuble held by the young cleric. And finally, ordering Cabassus to raise his arms, the canons removed his alb, a sort of white chemise decorated at the bottom with embroideries of the same colour. The unfortunate priest stood there in his hose while another cleric brought him some very ugly, threadbare lay garments and helped him put them on.
Next came another cleric carrying a stool. One of the canons ordered Cabassus to sit down and the other held a kind of metal blade with which he scraped Cabassus’s tonsure. But his scraping turned out to be purely symbolic, since he was so bald. This done, Cabassus held out his right hand with the index and middle fingers raised, and the canon scraped them as well, explaining in Latin that he was removing the abbot’s powers to bless. That was the last act in this long ceremony, which the crowd watched in silence, and which appeared to move several of the priests there to tears. Others however, were frowning in disapproval and looked at poor Cabassus in horror.
The tall canon, who had read the sentence of the tribunal against Cabassus, stood, and, turning to the bishop, asked him what they should do with this man who was now no longer a priest. To this the bishop, his hand painfully gripping his abdomen, and his face distorted in pain, replied in a weak voice, “I order you to deliver him to the secular judges.”
The curate of Saint-Denis hid his face in his hands, as though ov
ercome with shame that one of the priests of his parish should have merited such a downfall. But the bishop leant over to Cabassus and, with a look of kindness, said several words in his ear that seemed to calm him. The tall canon made a sign to Cossolat, who, having gathered his archers and set them up in a double row leading to the steps of the platform, climbed to the platform and bowed very civilly to the bishop, who turned away, making scarcely any gesture of response. Of course, I knew why: many priests there considered that Cossolat’s Huguenot heresy qualified him every bit as much for the stake as Cabassus’s atheism. Cossolat, however, helmeted and wearing his battle armour, appeared to be blissfully unaware of the bishop’s snub. Rather, he wore an expression of secret mirth as though he thought this entire papist pomp and ceremony were but another version of carnival.
“Monseigneur,” he said, with a respectful coldness, “should I arrest this man?”
The bishop, without even looking at him, nodded briefly, and Cossolat walked up to Cabassus and placed his right hand on the former abbot’s shoulder. The defrocked priest, who had managed to remain marvellously serene, composed and firm during the entire ceremony, did not flinch in the least at being delivered over to secular authority, understanding all too well what this would mean for him. Cossolat took his arm, without the least resistance from the abbot, and led him down the stairs, where the crowd, which, up to that point had remained calm, suddenly became enraged and rushed at him, shouting, “Kill him! Kill the atheist!”
Cossolat shouted an order to his archers, who lowered their pikes to a horizontal position and used them as a barrier to repulse these bloodthirsty knaves. Cossolat, sword in hand, grabbed Cabassus by the arm, and they ran through the corridor created by the archers, and climbed into a carriage that had been stationed some twenty paces from the platform. They barely made it into the carriage before some of the spectators (though they probably weren’t merely observers, since the whole tumult looked very much as though it had been secretly planned in advance) pushed up against the wheels and tried to tip the carriage over, shouting, “Kill the atheist! Kill the Huguenot! Kill them!” But Cossolat leant over from his seat atop the coach and began administering blows with the flat of his sword (and occasionally with the point, as far as I could tell), and shouted an order to another group of archers who had been stationed in the rue de la Barrelerie, who came charging to the rescue of their comrades and, catching the rascals from behind, pricked their backsides with their pikes and soon put them to flight. Seeing this, Cossolat, shouting at his sergeant to whip on the horses, carried off his prisoner at a gallop, as if the now-precarious life of his prisoner were every bit as precious as his own. But the populace, seeing their prey escaping, continued to shout angrily. The two groups of archers now joined forces, and, led by a lieutenant, charged the crowd with no quarter, since they were so furious that their captain had been insulted and attacked while protecting Cabassus.
