by Robert Merle
Next to the bishop’s palace I saw a beautiful mansion, with an exterior stairway in a tower leading to two cantilevered stories, and figured that it must be Montcalm’s lodgings. Finding the door wide open, I went in, followed by Miroul, and saw a dozen armed guards, more focused on destruction than pillaging, and whom my arrival seemed seriously to disturb. One of them, whom I recognized as the tall redhead who had announced the supposed death of Catherine de’ Medici and the capture of the king by the Huguenots, scowled at me angrily, as though surprised to be caught in such disgraceful looting. Cocksure and disdainful, he headed over to me with a bullying air, brandishing his pistol, and said in the most insulting possible tone, “Hey, you bumpkin, what’s your business in here?”
“Monsieur,” I replied, standing up to him, “my name is Pierre de Siorac, I’m the younger son of the Baron de Mespech in Périgord, who,” I lied, making it up as I went, “holds a bill of credit for 500 livres payable by Monsieur de Montcalm and I’m here to collect it. But perhaps I’ve come too late? Seeing you all here collecting his goods, I suppose that Monsieur de Montcalm is dead and you’re his heirs.”
“He’s not dead!” yelled one of the looters. “He’s fled!”
“Shut your mouth, Vidal!” yelled the redhead. “And as for you, idiot,” he said, turning towards me, still snarling and putting on his superior airs, “I don’t believe a word of this cock and bull story about credits and barons and such. I already saw your lying face somewhere and I think you’re a spy sent by the papists to steal our secrets.”
“Monsieur,” I said, pulling myself up to my full height, crimson with fury, hands on my hips and speaking very loudly, “if you would please put up your pistol and unsheathe your sword, I’ll stuff your dirty accusations back in your throat! I’m of the reformed religion, and better than you, I dare say! For if I’m right about what’s going on in here it’s more about looting than about faith!”
“Insolent knave,” he cried, striding forward and striking me in the chest with his pistol. With his other hand, his eyes suddenly wild, he opened my doublet, which I’d left unbuttoned because of the intense heat, and uncovered the gold medallion to Mary that my mother had given me on her deathbed. Seeing this, his fury redoubled and he screamed: “So you dare pretend you’re a Huguenot? And you wear this idolatrous image around your neck! You’re a papist, a scoundrel, and, what’s worse, a papist spy! And the only thing you’ll get from spying on us here is a quick trip to hell!”
But he didn’t have time to finish his sentence, since Miroul, with the flat of his palm, had knocked his pistol out of his right hand. Then, with a well-aimed kick, he threw this mountain of a man to the ground, straddled his chest and, whipping his dagger from its sheath, placed its point on the man’s throat. It was a marvel to watch this David flatten this Goliath in the twinkling of an eye.
“Monsieur,” said Miroul, “should I finish him off for his nasty insults?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. I then unsheathed my sword, picked up my assailant’s pistol and aimed it at him with one hand while pointing my sword at the group of looters with the other, for they had recovered from their surprise at Miroul’s exploit, had pulled themselves together and were now brandishing their weapons with very menacing looks.
“You there!” I shouted, braving their angry stares. “I didn’t lie! I’m a Huguenot. It’s for love of my dead mother, who was a papist, that I’m wearing this medallion, and not out of idolatry. If any one among you doubts me, take me to your minister and he can test my religious convictions.”
My tone, the force of my declaration, my black clothes and my proposal to be examined seemed to give them pause. “Maybe we’d better take him to Monsieur de Chambrun,” said the man the redhead had called Vidal. “Otherwise, how’re we going to decide?”
“All right,” said another, “but who’ll take him?”
They looked at each other for a moment in silence, none of them apparently willing to abandon his role in the looting to the others while he escorted me to the minister.
“Monsieur,” said Vidal finally, “if your valet will free François Pavée, we’ll let you go without any problems.
“Do I have your word?” I replied, and though I gave very little credence to the word of a looter, I realized that I had to accept.
“I give you my word,” said Vidal. “Leave, Monsieur!”
“Not before your leader retracts the things he said against me,” I shouted, while Miroul continued to hold the point of his dagger at François Pavée’s throat.
“I retract what I said,” said François Pavée in a faint voice, but hatred was oozing from every pore of his villainous face.
“My friends, that will suffice! Lean your arms against that wall while my valet and I withdraw.”
They obeyed, and I discharged Pavée’s pistol against the ceiling and then threw it on the floor next to him. Then, making a sign to Miroul and with no regard for my rank, I scooted off like a scared rabbit and crossed the square, Miroul flying along at my side with his usual grace—and it was a good thing we did, for two arquebus shots rang out behind us, but neither hit its target. But as soon as we’d rounded the corner of the nearest street, I stopped and sheathed my sword, convinced that none of those soldiers would follow us, being too busy enriching themselves with their looting.
When I say “soldiers” it’s just in a manner of speaking. For this François Pavée, as I learnt later, wasn’t a beggar taking advantage of the chaos. He was one of the well-to-do merchants of Nîmes, with a large house, overflowing coffers and property in the countryside, thanks to which he could call himself lord of Servas. But his bigotry, cruelty and avarice had taken over his soul, and he was one of the three Huguenot leaders in Nîmes who, unbeknownst to the other leaders in their community, carried out the sinister massacre that I was to witness.
“Master,” said Miroul, “you now have a mortal enemy in this Pavée character. We should leave this city while we still can.”
“Yes, but not before seeing Monsieur de Chambrun.”
“Why should we go to see him?”
“So he’ll know that I’m really a Huguenot and so that he’ll tell others. But most of all to try to stop these damnable excesses if we can.”
“Ah, my master! You always want to fix everything!” sighed Miroul. But suddenly embarrassed, in his peasant sensitivity, that he’d given the impression of censuring me, he fell silent.
Monsieur de Chambrun, who was as humane and flexible in his thinking as Monsieur de Gasc was imperious and strict, examined me with great care and was happy to recognize that I was not only well versed in all aspects of the reformed religion, but seemed sincere in my feelings and in my observance of its rites. He did, however, reproach me for continuing to wear the medallion of the Virgin around my neck, which certainly gave me the appearance of being an idolater. It was his opinion that I should sacrifice to my faith the word I’d given my dying mother. We argued over this for a good bit without either persuading the other, and finally he “remanded me to my own conscience”, a phrase that seemed to be in vogue with our ministers, Gasc having already used it with me. But Monsieur de Chambrun was less bitter about it than his Montpellier counterpart—quite the contrary. On the other hand, when I touched on the present and future excesses of the Nîmes rebellion, and the necessity of trying to rein in these abuses, he threw his hands heavenward and said:
“Monsieur de Siorac! In these times of war, arms will not give way to the cloth! I’ve reported to the consistory the most violent of our leaders, François Pavée, Captain Bouillargues and Poldo Albenas, but they don’t seem to care that these men have taken the law into their own hands. They will respond to my warnings with apparent respect when this is all over. And of course these three will deny everything, accusing others of the executions they themselves have ordered. The only thing the consistory can do is to try to limit the number of executions. And, at best, to put a term on them.”
I was stunned
by the powerlessness of the Nîmes ministers to limit the cruelty of their captains, and, reflecting on my own fortunes, I realized I was in grave danger, François Pavée now having both the desire and power to kill me with no one to oppose him.
“I agree!” confessed Monsieur de Chambrun. “François Pavée is the worst of them all! And the most arrogant. You’ve defied him and he’s not the man to suffer it. I’ll write a note to Captain Bouillargues explaining who you are and the evil suspicions Pavée conceived about you, and ask him to write you a safe-conduct pass so that you may leave Nîmes before Pavée can get his hands on you.”
Monsieur de Chambrun did as he had said, and I left him after a thousand compliments and thanks, but precious little reassured. His letter to Captain Bouillargues found its way into my doublet, joining Cossolat’s missive to the same captain, who appeared to be impossible to find: these two notes were feeble bulwarks against the armed platoons my enemy commanded.
My alarm wasn’t ill-founded: scarcely had we taken a hundred steps after leaving Monsieur de Chambrun’s lodgings when we were confronted by a dozen armed men, who pointed their arquebuses at us, fuses lit. Though my heart was pounding like an alarm bell, I stepped boldly up to them, though I was sweating profusely from the sun’s heat and from having so many barrels pointed at my chest. But affecting a calm and smiling tone, I yelled, “Comrades! What’s this? You’re aiming your guns at me? Why so? Do they send people into your town without explaining the what and the why of things? Are you common throat-slashers or seasoned artisans faithful to the reformed religion?”
And even while I was speaking to them with apparent calm, I inwardly trembled lest one of them discharge his arquebus and shorten my sentence for me. But happily they had no thought of such butchery, and were swayed by my words, like most Provençal natives.
“Monsieur!” said one of them, stepping up to me, who turned out to be our old friend, Jean Vigier. “’Tis true you’re a friendly fellow despite your birth, and don’t despise us workers, but we have orders from François Pavée to kill you within the hour, both you and your valet, as papist spies.”
“Ah, Jean Vigier!” I laughed. “I’m neither a spy nor a papist! I’m the son of a Huguenot baron! I’m a Huguenot myself. Want proof? I’ve got a letter here,” I said, pulling the letter from my doublet, “that Monsieur de Chambrun has written to Captain Bouillargues telling him that I’m definitely a member of the reformed Church, whatever François Pavée might claim, and requesting the guards at the gates to allow me to leave the city.”
“I can’t read,” said Jean Vigier, pushing my letter away.
“Comrades,” I said, “is there anyone among you who’d like to read this letter?”
But not a one of them knew his letters, and I judged from their faces that there wasn’t one of them who didn’t resent me for making them admit it. So I changed my tactics hurriedly.
“So,” I said, “the important thing isn’t the letter! It’s that I’m a good Huguenot, and you can see that with your eyes closed! I can sing you the Psalms of David from beginning to end, without skipping a single one. And so can my valet! And I can denounce seventeen papist heresies,” I continued, buttoning up my doublet since the chain of my medallion was beginning to burn my skin. “The truth is that François Pavée has sworn to kill me because I caught him looting Montcalm’s lodgings, filling up sacks with his personal take while you good fellows were running about the city, sweating in your chain mail. Why didn’t François Pavée kill me himself if he really believed I was a spy? The reason is that my father is a powerful Huguenot baron in Périgord, and a great captain who fought at Ceresole and at Calais. And François Pavée was afraid that if he killed me by his own hand, my father would take his revenge on him. So he sent you out to do his dirty work for him, preferring, no doubt, that it should be you lot my father would send to the gibbet!”
This speech did not have the effect on them I’d hoped. I clearly saw that it was as hard to get a new idea to penetrate their skulls as it was to drive an old one out, once it was in there. On the other hand, if my words bounced off their helmets like hail, they didn’t seem to think I was such a bad person.
“It’s a fact,” said one, “that the man doesn’t have a bad face.”
“And he’s pretty young,” said another. “And such a handsome fellow it’d be a pity to kill him.”
“Nor does he look like a spy,” said a little round balding fellow.
“Nay!” said a fourth, who was tall, thin and had a very jaundiced look. “The man doesn’t look like a villain. But he’s not from Nîmes… What’s he doing here?”
“What?” I said. “Does that make everyone who comes to admire your beautiful city a spy?”
“But orders are orders,” said Jean Vigier, looking at me with his friendly and naive little eyes. “And by your leave, Monsieur, our orders are to kill you!”
“Jean Vigier,” I said, “who’s your captain? François Pavée or Captain Bouillargues?”
“The captain.”
“And what do you think he’ll say when you bring him the letters you’ll find on me when you kill me?”
“Ah, now that’s a point you’ve got there!” And raising his helmet he began scratching his head.
“I think,” said the tall, thin man, “we ought to dispatch him right here and now and quit all this bargaining. Just remember, he’s not from Nîmes. And it’s really too hot to stand here arguing with the scoundrel, I’m filling up my armour with sweat. Finish him!”
“Comrade,” I said quickly, “you’re right about the heat. Let’s go and discuss this at the Seashell inn in front of a few good flagons of wine—on me, because I love Nîmes and because I love life!”
Everyone was busy seconding this idea when Jean Vigier broke in, “But wait! We’re expressly prohibited from going to the inn today.”
“Ah, but not from accompanying me there, since that’s where I’m staying,” I countered, “and surely you can leave me there if you haven’t made up your minds what you’re going to do with me!”
“Ah, you’ve got a point there!” said Jean Vigier.
But still he hesitated.
“Lets go to the inn and have a drink and then we’ll kill him,” said the tall, thin fellow.
This suggestion won the day, and we all set off, my executioners and I, towards the Seashell inn, they sweating like pigs in their armour, and I in my doublet, the afternoon sun still strong upon our backs.
I suggested we all enter the inn by the back door, so no one would see us. But when we got there we couldn’t seem to get anyone to come to open the door, no matter how much noise we made. So I ordered Miroul to scale the wall up to the second floor and to go back through the little window he’d emerged from that morning. Which task he accomplished with an agility that left our dangerous guests gaping with wonder, for he climbed vertically, almost as if he were a fly, and made no sound whatever doing so.
“By my faith,” said the thin man, “if I were that rascal, I’d become a thief! I could earn a better living doing that than I do as a cobbler.”
Fearing to leave them any time to think, and fearing that they might reconsider our plan, I told them the story of how Miroul had penetrated Mespech’s defences by night, by leaping from wall to wall, and I kept them on tenterhooks long enough for the innkeeper to open the door, which she did without the least appearance of fear, but with the aplomb and the self-assurance of a wench who knows how to keep order in her house amidst a group of rowdy men. Moreover, I learnt that Miroul had quickly explained the danger of our situation to her and so she’d known how to win over our mob with her welcoming manner.
“Friends,” she said, “you’re very welcome in my house as long as you’re friends of this Huguenot gentleman, for I’ve been ordered to give neither crumb nor cup to any papists—though I’m a papist myself.”
“It’s all right if you are,” said Jean Vigier. “We don’t touch any women.”
“And it’s a go
od thing you don’t!” said our hostess. “Otherwise, who’d roast your meat? My friends, put out those fuses on your arquebuses before coming in! And remove your armour and helmets and put ’em in a pile in the corner. I don’t want you scratching my table! I’ll go and get some nice cool wine and some goblets.”
My executioners meekly obeyed all of her commands, as if she’d been the captain of a garrison, and sat down and began drinking. And when, after two or three flagons, the thin man suggested that they decamp and go out and kill me in the back alley, the hostess objected that they couldn’t go off without having something to eat, and the chambermaids brought in an entire ham, some Bigorre sausages, a cold roast with mustard, some brook trout and a good deal more wine, which had been cleverly doctored. While my captors were gorging themselves on this feast, I asked Miroul to go and get his viol, and then suggested to each of them that they cite the first verse of the psalm of their choice, and then I sang the entire psalm while Miroul accompanied me. But this was wasted effort, as became quickly evident.
“Well, my friends,” I said when I’d finished singing, “what do you think, am I a Huguenot or not?”
“Sure enough,” replied Jean Vigier, “that was sweetly sung. But François Pavée warned us that you were very good at pretending to be a Huguenot. And the fact is that you’re wearing a medallion to the Virgin Mary around your neck. Do you deny it?”
