“It could have happened to the nuns’ chapel,” said Frere Gautier wistfully. “All those good Sisters with their orphans’ school.”
“That’s a worldly thought to hold,” said Frere Servie. “Do not bring sin on yourself, Frere.”
Frere Gautier took the rebuke without anger. “Oh, not sin: nostalgia.” He grabbed a new slate and set it in place expertly. “God does not expect us to forget we are men.”
“But He does expect us to make an effort to rise above it.” Frere Servie shook his head as he kept on working. “I will pray for you, Frere Gautier.”
“And I for you,” said Frere Gautier at once. He winked, but only Frere Crepet chuckled.
It was nearly two hours later that the five monks, dried and in fresh habits, gave themselves to ministering to those who had come to the monastery for charity, offering their sympathy and prayers.
Frere Gautier made it a point to speak with the fellow he had seen below them. It was not correct for him to place the needs of this one man over anyone else’s, but his curiosity was piqued and that he decided was sufficient. He approached the ragged fellow who was sitting on a bench eagerly sucking up the last of the simple pork-and-onion stew. “Stranger,” he said as he would have said to anyone in the room, “be welcome in the Name of God and the Holy Innocents slaughtered in His stead.”
“To you,” the man said while continuing to eat.
“You were the man I saw on the road, aren’t you?” He read suspicion in the other’s features, and he shook his head. “I and four of the others were repairing the roof.”
“Oh,” said the stranger, less guarded. “Is there a chance I could get some more of this stew?” He spoke with an accent and although he managed the words well enough, his rhythms were from another tongue, something more musical.
“Are you starving?” asked Frere Gautier, studying the man’s face: it was lean but not pinched and his eyes were not sunken.
“Not yet, but I’m very hungry, and stanco … tired,” said the stranger. He held up the empty bowl. “Not much there to fill a man.”
“Enough,” said Frere Gautier with a new sternness in his attitude. “It is all we monks are given.”
The stranger had the grace to cough. “But still, you are monks, living here, not walking down these infernal French roads.”
“Where are you going?” He was all but certain now that this stranger had been a soldier—he had the manner—but the stiff leg that poked out from the bench would have made him a liability to a regiment, for it would slow him down.
He sighed. “I don’t know. If things were otherwise”—he slapped the thigh of his stiff leg—“I might go home. My wife may have softened to me, for I’ve been gone some time. Her family opposed our match, and since we were poor, in the end it was easier for me to leave, to become a soldier, than to remain where we spent so much time arguing. So long as I was going to fight,” he said with a faint smile, “I thought I would like to be paid for the risk and have a chance of a victory or two.”
“Where is your home?” asked Frere Gautier; in his years as a soldier he had heard tales of many men who had followed the drum to end their poverty as much as for honor.
“In the Papal States,” answered the stranger at once. “A little place not far from Rome. You won’t have heard of it unless you’d been there.” He leaned back against the wall. “I had hoped I would bring something home to my wife, to show that we would not always be scratching in the dirt like chickens.”
“Many another has suffered the same fate,” said Frere Gautier. “Where were you wounded?”
“You mean the leg? It was during La Marfee when the Due de Soissons was killed, before de Bouillon surrendered. I was on the line of cannon when one of them … blew up.” His chuckle grated, like the sound of a saw on a brick. “Not even enemy fire. There might have been some glory in that.”
Frere Gautier knew that the stranger probably received no money for the wound, since it did not come from the enemy. He shook his head, saying with feeling, “That is unfortunate.”
The stranger shrugged. “I am not the only man to suffer this.” He looked keenly at Frere Gautier. “How long has it been since you rose to trumpets instead of bells?”
“Four years,” said Frere Gautier. “So you see, I do know what can happen, even to the best of soldiers.” He hunkered down so that their conversation could be more private. “What are your plans, then? Back to Italy?”
The stranger faltered. “I … truly, I don’t know. I am not sure … My wife and I did not part on good terms. Her family took her in, and I know they have the money to care for her better than I can. I have a little land of my own, and I could work it, but with my leg, I might be less successful than before. I’m strong enough, but a lame man…” He shook his head. “Perhaps it would be best if I sold the farm and gave the money to my wife and never came home.”
“She is still your wife,” Frere Gautier pointed out, less willing to believe that any man would want to stay away from a spouse whose family was better off. “Under the circumstances, might not her family arrange for some help?”
The stranger gave a gesture of mixed impatience and resignation. “I can’t be sure.” He caught his lower lip between his teeth before continuing. “I admit that by the time I left, I was glad to be free of her. We had done nothing but shout or be silent as stones for months and months. I had not brought in a good crop and we had even less money than we had anticipated, which was very little, not more than two dozen scudi to last through the winter.”
“Two dozen scudi—” began Frere Gautier skeptically.
“Silver scudi, not the gold ones they make in Milano.” His disgust was very strong. “I was angry with her, and with her family who said that I was a wastrel and other unkind things. One of her brothers offered to help me, but it came to nothing, and Angela went back to them.”
“But your leg … surely they will provide assistance.” He hesitated. “And there will be sons.”
“No,” said the stranger, shaking his head slowly. “No children. I have been told by the physician of the local landowner that there is some defect, some lack in my wife that will not let her breed as she ought. Her family blames that on me as well as all the rest. They say that if she had not married a poor man, she would have children.” He folded his arms and looked belligerant.
“It is the Will of God, perhaps,” said Frere Gautier.
“It doesn’t matter whose will it is,” said the stranger with muted fury. “She’s barren as a post.”
Frere Gautier frowned, thinking. He was taking a great deal into his hands, but he said, “We have need of lay Brothers here, who take no lasting vows. You could work here awhile until you decide what you wish to do.”
“What?” the stranger said, his wrath turning to astonishment. “What are you saying?”
“It is something to consider,” Frere Gautier said a bit more cautiously. “If you think you would want to live in a monastery and eat simple food.”
“Simple food!” The stranger gave a single bark of laughter. “What soldier isn’t used to simple food? Half the time it’s a duck stolen from some farmer and cooked on a spit.” He leaned back. “It’s a generous offer, but what use am I to you, if I am not any use as a farmer?”
“Oh, there are other things,” said Frere Gautier. “We have a smithy and a wheelwright; if you could climb to the roof, you could repair the slates.”
“The way you were doing?” the stranger asked. “I am not much use on a ladder, I’m afraid.”
“We make cheese as well, and need cowherds and dairymen.” Frere Gautier got to his feet. “I’ll leave you now, but perhaps you will allow me to speak to the Abbe on your behalf?”
“I’ll … think about it,” the stranger said, his tone indicating he would. “What of those near here? Might not it be better if I found employment with someone else?”
“Well, there is a stud farm adjoining most of the northeast side of our land, a
nd the work there is controlled by an evil fellow named Octave and his brother Perceval. They would not take in one they do not know. They are left to run the place alone and they abuse their master by stealing from him and giving the profits to themselves.” Frere Gautier had the strange sensation that the stranger was too eager to know about this place.
“Who is the master?” he demanded.
“Actually, it is his widow who has inherited the place, and she is never there,” said Frere Gautier. “Women—”
“Yes,” said the stranger, his accent growing stronger. “I know how capricious widows can be. They have no business running stud farms, or anything else, for that matter.” With a visible effort he calmed himself. “Perhaps I have come to the right place,” he said, looking directly at Frere Gautier.
“We would not coddle you, if that is what you are hoping, but we will not despise you for the ill God has visited upon you,” said Frere Gautier, starting away from the stranger only to be called back.
“What would the Abbe expect of me?” He rubbed his stiff leg without paying attention to it. “I am willing, but there is much I am not certain I can do.”
“I’m sure that’s understood,” said Frere Gautier. “For six months there is no reason you must take any vow at all. At the end of that time, you may become a lay Brother, or, if you find you have a vocation, you may begin to join us as a Brother. It would have to be secondary, for your wife is still alive.”
“As far as I know,” the stranger appended. “I have not been able to send word to her very often, nor she to me. Neither of us can read or write, and I think she begrudged the price of a scribe.” He coughed. “I had a letter sent to her just after I received this”—he slapped his leg again—“but since then I have not been able to afford…”
“We will remedy that,” said Frere Gautier with a smile. “Tell me where to write, and to whom.”
The stranger gave a smile that Frere Gautier suspected was forced. “It is best to write to her brother. He works at the biggest estate in the area. It’s that or the parish church, San Andrea.”
Frere Gautier regarded the stranger. “And what is your name, so I may tell the Abbe?”
The stranger smiled. “I am Nino,” he said, providing himself a grand family name. “Nino Colonnello.”
“A cadet branch of the family?” suggested Frere Gautier, not wanting to give offence to any relative of Cardinal Mazarin’s, no matter how remote.
“Not quite that, but related, nonetheless.” It was a lie that no one would bother to investigate, in case it would stir up scandal that was better forgotten. “There are documents, somewhere.”
“It has happened before,” said Frere Gautier, knowing how he could approach Abbe Gottard now. He gave Nino an encouraging gesture, one that had more soldier than monk in it. “I will have an answer for you by morning.”
“Thank you,” Nino said, doing his best to sound grateful and humble while he let himself imagine the revenge he would take, with Bondama Clemens almost in his hands.
Text of a letter from Charles de Batz-Castelmore to his older brother Paul; dictated to Niklos Aulirios.
My dear brother,
It is fortunate for both of us that you do not have to struggle through my horrible efforts at writing; for once I have found someone willing to take down what I say as I say it and will ask nothing of me but my signature, which I can manage well enough.
I have had another interview with M. de Troisvilles, and he has advised me that I will not be admitted to the Musqueteers this year, but perhaps there will be an opening next year. He has encouraged me to make an effort with the King’s Guard, so that I will have a reputation to offer the Musqueteers when I am permitted to be among their numbers.
For he does not rule out all hope—in fact, he has been most encouraging—but rather is bound by the regulations that make it impossible for him to install more than a certain number of new men at any time. I am attempting to be sensible and to accept this state of affairs without chafing, but that is often more difficult than I want to admit.
I am following your suggestion and making what friends I can who may be of use to me later; in one case it is far more pleasure than ambition that drives me to seek out the company of this member of the new Cardinal’s embassy. Lest you fear that I am coming to support the Italian, I wish to remind you that I am aware as any good Gascon of the danger he represents, just as I also know there is no one who is a stronger friend at court now that Richelieu is dead. If Mazarin is willing to aid me, then I would welcome it, and gladly, though he were the Devil himself.
As part of my attempt to improve my place in the world, I have consulted M. de Troisvilles as to the use of our mother’s name, for her family is more noble than our father’s. I do not hold our father and his family in any less esteem, but you yourself have said that I must make use of what connections I may since I lack fortune and exalted title to provide me with the opportunities I seek. If you do not object to this change, I will assume her name at once, and inform M. de Troisvilles of what I have done, for he will take that change into account when he evaluates the various candidates he has for the Musqueteers.
When you wrote two months ago you inquired into the health of the King; I am sorry to say that His Majesty has not improved. There are those who say that the shock of Richelieu’s death—though why it should be a shock, I do not comprehend, for he had been ailing steadily for years—has worsened His Majesty’s condition. His physicians continue to treat him, and have said that they expect an eventual recovery, but for now it is understood that Louis XIII requires rest and the medications and procedures recommended by his physicians. I was told that His Majesty has been made to sit with his feet in the warm blood of fresh-killed bulls to aid in the return of his strength. Perhaps if he drank the blood as well, it would help him more, for blood, I have been assured, has special powers to restore vitality.
It will not be possible for me to return to Gascony for several months. Not only does the weather prevent me—you know what the roads are like—but I have obligations which keep me in the vicinity of Paris. It is in my interests to remain here, where I will be able to take advantage of all opportunities to be of service.
I was permitted to attend a private Nativity Mass yesterday in the company of His Eminence Cardinal Mazarin, and was brought to his attention by the member of his embassy I have already mentioned. His Eminence received me politely and said he would remember my name in future, which is why I gave him our mother’s, so that when you approve the change it will not require me to remind His Eminence of our meeting and his remark.
M. des Essarts has informed me that he will renew his recommendation for my advancement to the Musqueteers to M. de Troisvilles as soon as you have signified your approval of my use of our mother’s family name. I pray you will not take too long to do this. I make full allowances for the roads, but this is December, and it would not be unreasonable to have your reply by February.
With my fidelity and devotion and my assurance to you that I will never dishonor the family, either our father’s or our mother’s, I will now sign myself to you for the first time,
Your loving brother
Charles d’Artagnan
On the Feast of Saint Stephen, 1642.
PART III
Atta Olivia Clemens
Text of a letter from Niklos Aulirios to Gaetano Fosso, acting major domo at Senza Pari.
To my able deputy, my thanks for your continued devotion to our mistress’ interests. I have your letter from three weeks ago, and I am very pleased with the manner in which you have handled the delicate question of who is to be allowed to replace Uberto. You have been at pains to give no offence, and this is most praiseworthy. I believe that the new coachman, the Hungarian, will serve excellently.
Our mistress has asked that I send money to Uberto’s family in appreciation for the long years of service he provided. He was dedicated and reliable, two excellent qualities that are often wanting i
n men. Death came far too early for him; he ought to have had another thirty years at least, and the pleasure of seeing his grandchildren. If it were not for the scratch of a rusty nail, he would be with us still and there would be no reason for grieving and finding a replacement for him. It is sad to learn how much he suffered before the end came. I have seen men bent like a bow before, and it is not a thing to be wished on anyone.
It is a year now since Louis XIII died; the French are still reeling from their double loss—Richelieu first, and six months later, his King—and the court is in turmoil, for to have a little boy on the throne is something none of them are prepared to accept. Of course Louis XIV is not a ruler; his mother is his regent, which has made for some trouble. She was so neglected and abused while her husband lived that now the courtiers who spurned her must do whatever they can to repair the damage they have done. She, in turn, has not been gracious about their past behavior: she continues guarded and suspicious, for she is convinced that the nobles are still against her.
Our mistress has become very popular because of this, for she is known to be part of Mazarin’s suite and a woman of means. Since the Queen Regent trusts no one but Mazarin, those who are eager to gain her good opinion make an effort to cultivate Bondame Clemens as a first step to gaining the attention of Mazarin. It has its amusing moments.
All of which contrives to keep us here. The Cardinal has requested that we do not leave, and he is very persuasive. It is my hope that in another year we will be back in Italy once more, but I confess that it is not likely unless the court here becomes more regulated and the Cardinal’s place as First Minister of France is undisputed. Once Mazarin has the reins firmly in his hands, we will be at liberty to depart. And considering the chore it is to transport our mistress’ household from one place to another, a year might not be time enough to make all the necessary arrangements. Six carriages, with teams and relays, and the full complement of servants is hardly a minor venture. Even if a few of the servants prefer to remain here in France, the least we would have on the road is five carriages, and that requires arrangements and planning.
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 26
