During the period when Protestants were in such a hurry to flee France that they had no time to put their affairs in order, jewels of considerable value had been deposited in this goldsmith’s care; the latter dabbled in usury and had loaned out various sums that were far inferior to the actual value of this collateral. Later on, the refugees sent representatives to reclaim the jewels and to repay the sums that were owed. The goldsmith resorted to an easy ploy: he simply denounced these claimants to the authorities. This then was the background to the expedition in which captain Roland was participating.
What a fine novel all this material could have made! The abbé de Bucquoy and the captain are quite compelling as characters. Let’s imagine what would happen if we slightly nudged the story along a different route: the abbé, now fallen into the hands of the salt smugglers, — who are retreating through the woods, loaded down with loot, — is taken to a castle. — The castle of Longueval, the birthplace of his family line, if you will, or the castle of Orbaix, another residence of his great uncle. — There, like some hero out of a Walter Scott novel, his memories take him back into the landscapes of his childhood, the Gothic vaults, the trefoils perforated with stained glass windows, the armory, the royal chamber all hung in white, the room to the rear where the lovely Angélique received La Corbinière. — All the loves of yesteryear, all the flowers of the days of yore, faded, yet still scented, like those sweet memories slumbering in a grandmother’s chest of drawers.
The majestic portraits of figures with moustaches and goatees à la Louis XIII, or the full beards of the reign of Henri IV, or the tapered beards of the Medici plunged him into a state of melancholy reverie, especially when he recognized eyes whose shrewdness now and then simmered with dark fires, or noble brows creased at an early age with the worries of war or the anxieties of adventure, or cheeks pale and hollow with fatigue, or thin lips that only sometimes softened into a dream, — all signs familiar from these images that have been conserved for us, and which he rediscovered within himself.
And then this other series of portraits of figures dressed as Diana or Venus, later all decked out with headdresses made of nets of gold and strands of pearls or large dashing hats and long-waisted gowns with trunk hose . . .
Now imagine a certain portrait of a young girl with locks of ash-blond hair cascading down from beneath her ribbons. Let this be, if you will, the portrait of a cousin of his, — a cousin long lost, be it because of a marriage or because she belonged to a Protestant branch of his family and was forced to follow her parents into exile.11
Would all of this not serve to explain just why the lovesick abbé, — herein following the example of his superior, the abbé de Rancé, — entered the Trappist monastery? — After all, the motivations behind this decision of his have always remained quite obscure.
Why exactly, as if suddenly struck by a lightning-bolt of illumination, did he cry out: « I adore the God of Saint Paul! » Can this only be attributed to personal convictions? Yet after having left the Carthusians, he subsequently walked away from the Trappists, claiming he could not find sufficient solitude in their midst, — and, in the end, only renounced his saintly vocation because, despite all of his efforts to lead the contemplative life, he was unable to succeed at making miracles. — This was obviously the decision of a very clear-sighted individual, for this being the case, why bother to be a saint?
One might object: « But this love, this despair, these changes of station, all this is far too vague for a decent novel; in novels, romantic passion must rule the day. » But what if, in this ancient castle where the salt smugglers are hiding out, frightening all the locals with tales of their ghostly apparitions, — for it was their habit to appear out of nowhere, as the story of Mandrin proves; — what if, in this ancient castle, one arranged to have him meet up again with the young girl whom he had so loved and who, fleeing with her family, pursued from one hiding place to another, now found herself in this very castle, protected by the rebel bands, awaiting the right moment to cross over the border into Germany? What if the abbé’s Catholic convictions stood in the way of his love for a Protestant? What if the castle, now surrounded by the archers of Louis XIV, were ordered to surrender? What if we mixed in an element of rivalry? What if we placed the ironic and majestic figure of the captain Roland at the center of the plot, either in the role of protector or romantic rival? Given all this, how could one possibly doubt we had a novel on our hands?
Alas, this genre is off limits to us. — Let’s plunge back into the domain of sober fact.
The salt smugglers, — who had attempted, for reasons known only to themselves, to orchestrate the escape of the abbé de Bucquoy, — found their route blocked beyond the river Aisne. A number of them were captured and then hanged or broken on the wheel, depending on their rank. The historical records no longer mention captain Roland, — and as for the abbé de Bucquoy, under greater suspicion than ever, he was transported to the Bastille.
When he was removed from his coach, he barely had occasion to cast an eye to the right and left, « whether onto the drawbridge or onto the counterscarp . . . they left him no time to dream up an escape», for he was immediately whisked off to the tower known as the Bretignière.
Still, it is quite disheartening for a writer who thought he might try his hand at the novel, — that most lucrative of all literary callings, — to realize that he will have great difficulty finishing a project he had promised for publication some three months ago, before all this Riancey amendment business. The author had not only come up with a corking plot for a novel, — but he had also read a slew of works about the century of Louis XIV; he had imagined descriptions of the festivities given in honor of the Duchess of Burgundy, — this figure whose pallor already indicated her forebodings of her approaching death . . . and yet whose gaiety enlivened the pomp and circumstance of the final years of Louis XIV’s reign. To create a contrast to all this, he would have staged the sudden appearance at court of the dowager de Bucquoy, cutting a severe figure (just like her ancestors in the League) as she arrived on the scene of the festivities in order to demand that her nephew be released from prison, given that the due process of the law was not being observed in his case: — we shall later cite the memorable petition that this great lady addressed to the king, whose tone was such that she herself almost risked being thrown into the Bastille.
What a picture might have subsequently emerged of the misfortunes that befell the court? Victories transformed into defeats. All the offspring of the old king dying within a few years, including that brilliant Duke of Burgundy whom everybody wanted to make into a hero and yet who merely displayed the courage befitting a Frenchman or the dignity of his position, — which however did not stop him from losing any number of battles. Of these princes who died in the service of their king, only one survived, the son of the Duke of Burgundy, — the future Louis XV. — One was already hearing the following observation being made back in those days: « My brothers, only God is great! »
We therefore also have to abandon the fruits of a visit we recently made to Baden, where we were able to locate the most attractive figure of the grand margravine Sibylle who, while her son was off waging war against the Turks, had become a second Marguerite de Navarre. Her residence, the château de la Favorite, also summons up memories of the Renaissance: especially to be admired are the one hundred fifty figures painted in silhouette on the mirrors of her boudoir, — representing her in a dizzying variety of carnival disguises.
What a series of landscapes and dramatic tableaux one could have painted while recounting the welcome that the grand margravine might have extended to the abbé de Bucquoy and his cousin! Following this, one might have caught glimpse of Villars off in the distance, threatening the region, burning castles, bringing the war to the Danube, — and finally escorting the unfortunate count de Bucquoy back to the Bastille, where he was forced to once again become a mere abbé.
But our reader will have to forgo all this. — Can the b
are-bones account of a poor prisoner compensate for the absence of dramatic highlights such as these? . . . We have nonetheless thought it would be of interest to disassemble the machine that we were unable to put into motion as a whole, to reveal its inner workings, — its anatomy, if you will. Sometimes one takes great pleasure in visiting the wings of a theater to take a peep behind the scenes at all the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the step-ladders and demon-traps, in short all the tricks of the theatrical trade . . . We have just laid before your eyes all the compositional secrets of an historical novel, — fully mapped out, but alas no longer feasible!
LIVING HELL
There were eight towers to the Bastille, each of which had its own name and each of whose six floors offered light by a single window. A grate on the exterior and interior walls revealed a sort of room hollowed out by the space in between, at the far side of which one could draw breaths of fresh air.
The abbé had been placed in the tower of the Bretignière.
The others went by the names of: the tower of the Bretaudière, the tower of the County, of the Well, of the Treasure, of the Corner, of Liberty. The eighth was called the tower of the Chapel. As a rule, one left these towers only in order to die, unless one was marched down the dank stairs into one of those legendary oubliettes , the remnants of which were rediscovered when the Bastille was finally demolished.
The abbé de Bucquoy spent several days in the lower rooms of the tower of the Bretignière, which was a sign that his case seemed quite serious indeed, for otherwise prisoners were normally better treated upon their arrival. His first interrogation, presided over by d’Argenson,12 allayed suspicions that he had been the willing accomplice of the salt smugglers of Soissons. In addition, he relied on his family’s highly placed connections, with the result that governor Bernaville himself graced him with a visit and invited him to lunch, — a common practice upon the arrival of prisoners of a certain rank.
The abbé de Bucquoy was placed in a room on a higher and better ventilated floor along with other prisoners. This was in the tower of the Corner: a place where inmates enjoyed more privileges, thanks to the presence of a certain turnkey called Ru known for his gentle humanity toward his guests.
Upon entering the cell that he was to share with the other inmates, the abbé was seized with amazement upon seeing that an image of Christ on the frescoed walls had been grotesquely disfigured.
Red horns had been drawn on his head and on his chest had been printed the word: Mystery.
Above this, someone had written in charcoal: « The great whore of Babylon, mother of all the depravities and abominations of the earth. »
It is clear that this inscription had been placed there by some Protestant who had previously inhabited the prison. But no one had thought to erase it thereafter.
Above the fireplace there was an oval portrait representing Louis XIV. Another prisoner had scrawled the word Spitoon around his head and his features were barely discernible under all the mutilations.
The abbé de Bucquoy said to the turnkey: « Ru, why has one allowed these respected images to be defaced in this fashion? » The turnkey just chuckled, replying that « if one had to punish all the crimes committed by the prisoners, we’d be here all day breaking them on the wheel and burning them, so it’s far better just to allow educated gentlemen to see to what extremes their exaggerated ideas can push religious fanatics. »
The inhabitants of this tower enjoyed a relative amount of liberty; at certain hours of the day they were allowed to take strolls in the governor’s garden, which was situated in the center of the fortress and was planted in quincunx with lime trees and included a bowling green and tables where prisoners with money could play cards and enjoy refreshments. Governor Bernaville had sold the franchise for this concession to one of the prison cooks.
The abbé de Bucquoy, who no longer posed any threat of escape and who had enlisted the help of powerful friends, was now part of this privileged circle. He had been supplied with gold, a commodity rarely frowned upon in prisons, and had managed to gamble away several louis in cards to Corbé, thus gaining the friendship of this nephew of the previous governor of the prison (M. de Saint-Mars), who still retained a position of considerable influence under Bernaville.
It might be useful to provide a portrait of this Bernaville by quoting the physical description left of him by one of the Bastille’s prisoners who later took refuge in Holland.
« He has two green eyes that are sunken under two thick eyebrows: when he looks at you, it’s as if you were pierced by the gaze of a basilisk. His brow is as wrinkled as the bark of a tree on which some mufti had engraved the Alcoran . . . The pallor of his complexion seems to express all the yellowing cares produced by a lifetime of envy. Avarice has etched its gauntness into his facial features. His cheeks are as creased as an old coin purse or a monkey’s buns . . . The stubble of his beard is a reddish bay shading into burnt umber.
« When he was formerly a chevalier de la mandille (i.e. a lackey), he wore his hair flat and twirled into rolls like candlesticks. He later dropped this affectation.
« Although he rarely speaks, he no doubt must listen to himself talking, because his mouth stretches from ear to ear. And yet he opens it only to utter monosyllabic commands, which are immediately carried out by the minions he has trained to fawn over his every word . . . »
Bernaville had in fact formerly been in the service of the marréchal Bellefonds and had worn the mandille, that is, the livery of the household; but at the latter’s death he managed to insinuate himself into the good graces of his widow, whose children were still quite young, and it was on her recommendation that he was placed in charge of the hunts at Vincennes, a position which proved quite lucrative, seeing as it involved the supervision of the hunting lodges and eating establishments where the gentry of the court spent money hand over fist. This explains why he was contemptuously referred to as that greasy spoon . . . He was the perfect example, — or so the inmates claimed behind his back, — of a lackey who had spent so much time with his feet on the backboards of carriages that in the end he had just clambered in . . . But let us not make any rush judgments before actually having observed the conduct of the said Bernaville; it would hardly be fair to lend credence to the exaggerated tales of prisoners.
As for the aforementioned Corbé, his henchman, here his portrait, drawn somewhat in the style of the school of Cyrano:
« He wore a short gray jacket of Nîmes cloth that was so threadbare that he scared the daylights out of thieves when dangling a noose in front of their noses; his trousers were blue, worn at the seat, patched at the knees; his hat was all faded and its ancient black plume had lost most of its feathers, just as his wig was a mere memory of red. His coarse features, which placed him far below his actual station, were those of a lowly prison guard, not an officer of the law’s. »
The abbé of Bucquoy, playing at piquet with Renneville under a trellised arbor, remarked: « How comfortable we are here; with evening soon approaching, who would even think of trying to escape?
— The thing would be impossible, said Renneville . . . But before you wax ecstatic about the kind of treatment we’re receiving in this castle, wait a bit longer.
— You do not feel at ease here?
— Very much so for the moment . . . You remind me of my first honeymoon days here.
— How did you end up here?
— Quite simply, like many others . . . I have no idea why.
— You must have done something.
— I wrote a ditty.
— Recite it to me . . . I’ll give you my honest opinion.
— The problem is that this little ditty gave rise to another poem, a parody of mine, using the same rhyme schemes and which was later erroneously ascribed to me ...
— That sounds far more serious. »
At that very moment, Corbé passed by, all smiles, and said: « Ah! you’re discussing your poem again, are you, M. de Renneville? ... D
on’t worry about it: it’s just a charming trifle.
— Well, it’s the reason I’m locked up here today, said Renneville.
— But can you complain about the conditions?
— How could I? We are in the care of such gentlemen! »
Corbé, his vanity flattered, moved to another table wearing his implacable smile . . . He was offered refreshments by the prisoners but, as usual, refused to partake. Now and then he would cast his eyes toward the windows, from which one could occasionally glimpse the vague outlines of the lady prisoners across the way, — and it seemed to him that there was no place on earth more delightful than the confines of this prison of the State.
« And just what exactly, said the abbé de Bucquoy to Renneville while shuffling the cards, did your ditty consist of?
— It was just a traditional tribute. I had addressed it to M. le marquis de Torcy with the idea that he might show it to the king. The poem praised the powerful union of Spain and France leagued in battle against the allies . . . which I developed using a conceit drawn from the rules of piquet. »
Renneville proceeded to recite his ditty, which ended with the following lines, addressed to the Northern allies:Should you dare to enter battle against France and
Spain,
You will not take a single trick . . .
In your hands, you will be left holding a Fourteenth
The Salt Smugglers Page 17
