By the time he was scrubbed to pinkness, the first Mass was over and the household was bustling. When he entered the kitchen again, Pere Chape found fourteen cooks already working on preparing the mid-day meal that would be served to the Cardinal’s guests who remained at the palace while the Cardinal himself was in attendance on the Queen Regent. Pere Chape approached the cook Valerot and, after offering him profuse thanks, inquired casually about Jumeau.
“That one,” scoffed the cook. “He is probably in the garden. He goes there during breakfast, so that he will not eat. He has said that he does not wish to add flesh. He prefers to be skinny as a rake.”
“Perhaps it is a pious discipline,” suggested Pere Chape gently.
“That one wouldn’t know piety if it were a pigeon dropping on his shoulder,” Valerot declared roundly. “He does it to be interesting. Pious men do not have that look of discontent and anger to their faces.” He gestured with a ladle. “Try the garden. On the side away from the herbs. And when you have done, I will make you an omelette with mushrooms and little peas.”
“After Mass, I am afraid,” said Pere Chape, wishing he could afford the luxury of accepting the offer now, while he was so ravenous.
“Bien sur,” said Valerot. “You have only to come to me.” He went back to measuring out precise amounts of a thick, savory sauce into a huge tray of small pastry shells, muttering all the while about the poor quality of the minced lamb that would be added before the upper crust was placed on them.
The mist of the Seine was thick enough that the garden was wet from it; in the hazy light it was difficult to make out the young secretary among the sculptured shrubbery of the small garden. He was seated on a bench, a book in his hands, his eyes fixed in a hostile stare on something beyond the walls. As Pere Chape approached, he looked up, forcing a welcome expression onto his face. “God be with you, mon Pere.”
“And with you, mon fils,” said Pere Chape, offering a blessing. “I was told you were here.”
“Oh?” There was more suspicion than greeting in his ambiguous response.
“Yes.” He sat down on the bench opposite the one Jumeau occupied. “I have been thinking about what you said to me.”
“And what is that?” It was not an encouraging reaction, but Pere Chape did what he could with it.
“About your station here,” said Pere Chape, doing his best to appear conciliating. “You have said that you are capable of more than answering invitations for His Eminence, or keeping track of which letters are to be burned and which are to be saved. I can see that you are capable of greater service than that, and it distresses me that the Cardinal is not yet aware of the treasure he has in you.” It was as much as Pere Chape dared say, and even then, he feared his effusion might arouse Jumeau’s distrust as much as his vanity.
“And what have you decided?” Jumeau’s tone was deliberately snide, and he started to rise.
“No, good secretary, hear me out,” said Pere Chape. “What can it hurt you to listen? If you dislike what I tell you, you may always deny I have ever spoken to you at all.” He indicated the bench Jumeau had just left. “Please, my friend. Listen.”
Jumeau crossed his arms over his chest and remained standing. “Say what you have to say.”
This was more daunting than Pere Chape had expected. “All right,” he said heavily. “Perhaps I was mistaken, after all. Forgive me for imposing on your solitude.” He got up and turned to leave.
His ploy worked: “Mon Pere,” Jumeau called as Pere Chape took his first few steps away, “I was over-hasty, perhaps.” He resumed his seat and waited while Pere Chape returned. “It is only that the hour is early and I slept badly,” he offered as an excuse for his surliness.
“I have had such mornings myself,” said Pere Chape. He sat down again and fussed with the simple ruffles at his wrists. “Still, we must persevere.” When he was satisfied with the ruffles, he looked directly at Jumeau. “We are living in a dangerous time, and in a dangerous place.”
“God knows it,” said Jumeau, and crossed himself.
“Those with sufficient courage may discover advances for themselves, if they are willing to risk themselves.” Pere Chape stared down at the plain toe of his simple shoes. “Our superior is a very great man, a man who has had a great burden placed on his shoulders; we, who are his supporters, must do all that we can to ease that burden.”
“Of course,” said Jumeau, his eyes narrowing with the intensity of his unasked questions.
“And yet,” said Pere Chape, deliberately taking his time, “it is difficult to know whom to trust. With so much at risk, the Cardinal cannot assume that anyone near him is truly disinterested.”
“We all have families,” said Jumeau, with more hostility than he knew.
“And other concerns as well,” said Pere Chape. “And it is fitting that we strive to do our duty as best we may to all concerned, as they merit it.” He leaned back and peered into the luminous fog as if he could read the future there. “I am worried about one of the Cardinal’s suite: an excellent woman, without doubt, but a woman, for all of that. She has taken on more hazard than she was prepared to deal with, I think. And it is fitting that someone aid her in her efforts on the Cardinal’s behalf. If you, or one such as you, were posted to her estate, the dealings with couriers would not have to concern her any longer, and she would be free to continue with the entertainments the Cardinal has asked her to prepare for those he wishes to know better.” He clasped his hands, not quite in prayer. “It would provide a splendid opportunity for someone as eager as you, and it would spare that good woman, Bondame Clemens, any more danger than she has already endured.”
Jacques Vidal Jumeau crossed himself, this time with genuine feeling. “I would be honored if the Cardinal saw his way clear to permit me to serve him in this way. And I would be forever in your debt.”
“Nonsense,” said Pere Chape in his best bluff manner. “I am not a man who collects favors. It isn’t tolerated in priests, and it is against my nature.” He leaned back against the hedge behind him. “But here I see a capable young man languishing and bored, and I see a woman in the Cardinal’s suite enmeshed in matters she can know nothing about. In the Cardinal’s interests, I believe that all would benefit if this situation were to change so that you alleviated her burden.” He waited a moment, like a capable fisherman sinking a hook; then he said, “When the Cardinal returns, I will mention this to him.” He got up, ignoring the expression of rapt ambition that suffused Jumeau’s lean face.
Text of a letter from Charles d’Artagnan to Atta Olivia Clemens, dictated to Isaac de Portau.
Olivia, my dearest, dearest love;
We are preparing to return; the orders came down yesterday, and there was not a man among us who was not gladdened in his heart to hear the news. But I am certain I was the most glad of all, for none of the others will be returning to you. That delight is reserved to me.
As I told you in my last letter, there was some bloody fighting, but most of what this campaign has been is nothing more than long stretches of waiting. It is inconceivable to think of how long it takes to move an army. The commanders congratulate themselves if we make any distance in a day. It is not just because of all the supplies and arms we carry, but, in our return, there are many wounded, and what we have lost in supplies we have more than gained in injured men.
The wound I received is minor and nearly healed. I am a little stiff yet, but there was no real damage done to my shoulder and I can promise you that aside from an interesting scar there is no lasting damage from the musquetball. I was afraid that there might be, but the physician attending the monks at a nearby monastery has confirmed that my recovery should be complete by the time I come through the gates of Paris, or the doors of Eblouir.
I do not intend to alarm you, but we have been hearing rumors. I know that the army is always rife with rumors; worse than prison, they say. However, since these rumors touch on Mazarin, and, through him, you, I wish to warn y
ou, so that you may make adequate preparations to deal with any problems that may arise. I am confident that any truth that may be present in these rumors is very small, and that what has happened is that a minor remark has been taken as a battle cry for those who did not comprehend the scope of the remark. Nevertheless, it is being said that there are certain nobles who are dissatisfied with the regency of the Queen and the rule of Cardinal Mazarin, and they do not mean des Essarts and de Troisvilles, whose opposition to Mazarin is well-known by everyone. I know that there have been rebellions before now, some of them recent. It could be nothing more than the same complaints repeated, and therefore of no immediate concern. But it is also possible that there may be some nobles who are doing more than grumbling. It is possible that a few are making plans, preparing to obtain more power for themselves, with whatever cost that may bring to the Queen Regent and the King, who is so young. I think that is what is most vexing to me, that they would think to plot against a little boy who has already lost a father and has had to listen to the gossip of court impugn the honor of his mother and the late Cardinal Richelieu. That is not the way noblemen should conduct themselves. It is more to be expected of the peasants and the tavemkeepers than men of rank who have sworn allegiance to the Throne.
You will do me the favor of preparing yourself against unfortunate developments. I want to see that you are ready to make any necessary changes, so that I will not be so worried for your well-being. It sickens me to think that this intrigue could harm you in any way. And do not protest that you cannot be harmed, for you have admitted otherwise to me. The Cardinal can protect you only so long as he himself is secure. In these times, you cannot depend upon that; the Cardinal is as much or more the target of noble displeasure as the Queen Regent is, and no one forgets that he is a foreigner, no matter how he spells his name. So I ask you, Olivia, for my sake if not your own, to be on guard, and take care to protect yourself from the actions of venal and greedy men who may attempt to harm the King and those who have made it their cause to see that he arrives at the age of rule unscathed by these times.
I will send word as soon as I am in Paris, and I will inform you then when I will be given a few days leave, or when I will be permitted to leave the city. I would ask you to come to Paris to meet me, but after what I have just said to you, it would be foolish of me to make such a suggestion, would it not? But, oh, it is tempting, very tempting. Do not offer to come to me, for I would not be able to resist you, and it is not wise that we meet in the city, for the risks are much greater there.
Now I must prepare to march. My friend de Portau tells me that his hand is exhausted and that he is ready to blush at all I have said. He is an excellent fellow, and good-hearted, and I gave him my word I would say so before I ended the letter, which I shall sign myself.
Charles d’Artagnan
King’s Musqueteer
De Portau again, Bondame: on the 3rd day of September, 1645.
After the siege of Bourbourg.
Destroy if necessary.
7
His monk’s habit was cumbersome and restricting, but Nino bore with that inconvenience for the sake of the advantages it gave him; in this habit, he could cross the estate of Bondama Clemens without question or other imposition. He took another swig from the bottle he carried and had to stop himself from singing a chorus of a rowdy song he had learned while he was still a soldier. He carried two sacks of round, smelly cheeses on his back, which served to disguise the other, more sinister things that were hidden under his monkish garb.
As he reached the widest of three streams that flowed through the estate, Nino stopped and sat down on the bank. The ground was damp from recent rains and the fallen leaves were beginning to turn musty. He inspected the bridge without appearing to be doing anything more than resting his feet. The stream was still low, the first rains having done little more than dampen the parched ground. Nino glanced up and down the stream, trying to estimate how high the water could be expected to rise. Nodding at what he saw, he leaned back, for all the world like a man who has nothing better to do than admire the end of the autumn, taking a last look at the golden sun before it hid itself in winter clouds.
When he was satisfied that he was not being watched, he reached under his habit and pulled out a short, brutal saw. He had taken it from the monks’ carpentry shop earlier that day, in anticipation of this walk. Getting up slowly, and leaving his sacks of cheese behind him in the shade of an oak tree, he ambled over to the bank near the bridge, and then, as agilely as his lamed leg would permit, he scrambled down to the nearer supports that held the bridge. He patted the two uprights—both enormous rounds of oak, almost whole trunks—and looked up at the floor of the bridge. Then, smiling, he set to work, using the saw on the inside of the supports, straining as he labored, cutting both of the uprights almost in half before he was satisfied with his labors.
He was sweaty and covered in sawdust when he finally hauled himself back up the bank, standing to admire his work and catch his breath at the same time. He dragged his grimy palm across his brow, leaving a wide streak of woodchips and mud there. “Next time you ride this way, Bondama Clemens,” he said through his teeth, “you had best pray that your angel rides with you.” He stepped gingerly onto the bridge and was relieved that there was no immediate shifting or groaning of the timbers to give warning. He patted the handrail. “Last long enough to drown her, that’s all I ask.” He went back to the oak to retrieve the cheeses and to hide the saw once again under the folds of his habit. Then he hoisted the cheese sacks onto his shoulder again and started in the direction of the monastery. He went slowly, for not only was his leg hurting from the unaccustomed exertion, but he wanted to be certain he arrived after the monks had assembled for prayers so that he would be able to return the saw to the carpentry supplies without being noticed.
Frere Gautier met him later, as the monks and the tertiary Brothers like Nino took their places for their evening meal. “I hear you brought us a real treasure.”
“If treasure can be chunks of hard milk, I suppose I have,” said Nino, remembering to laugh so that Frere Gautier would share his amusement and not wonder at his state of mind.
“You’re always such a dour fellow, Nino,” Frere Gautier declared. “You’ll have to learn to be more accepting if you are going to become a monk.”
Nino lifted his hands to show his helplessness. “Until I am given a vocation, I can be nothing but a tertiary Brother. You and the Abbe and all the rest have said so.” He crossed himself. “If God inspires me to more charity, to more goodness, then, well, we will see. I am in His hands.”
“That is a first step,” said Frere Gautier, clapping him on the shoulder. “Humility is a fine beginning.”
The two men entered the refectory, Frere Gautier going to his place with the other tonsured monks, Nino to sit with those taking charity at Sacres Innocentes, which included the few tertiary Brothers at the monastery.
Today’s fare was a bean soup, fortified with scraps of mutton; round loaves of bread with thyme and nutmeg served with fresh butter; and a large bowl of cooked vegetables, most of which appeared to be cabbage.
Frere Aubri was given the honor of reading the lesson for the day; he stood before the simple lectern, his face shadowed by his cowl so that only the words of Scripture might be heard and no thought given to the monk reading them. He raised his hand and blessed himself. “In the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen.”
Everyone in the room copied the gesture and repeated the “Amen.” All of them were anxious to eat, but most of them tried not to appear so, though the food was in front of them and turning cool as Frere Aubri spoke.
“From the book of Proverbs, the 24th chapter. ‘Have no envy of wrongdoers, nor wish to be like them. Their hearts are destructive and their words are deceptive. It is wisdom that builds enduring houses, and comprehension that gives it form; knowledge is the treasure of the house, and learning makes it pleasant. The man who is wise has t
rue strength; his strength is increased through gaining knowledge.’” Frere Aubri paused, his eyes moving down the page.
Nino listened, doing his best to keep his face attentive while he strove not to let his temper be reflected in his eyes. Who was Frere Aubri to read such a lesson, and what right did he have to judge Nino? Under other circumstances he might have challenged the monk to explain himself, but he checked his urge, trying to convince himself that it was merest chance that caused Frere Aubri to read that lesson on this day. He glowered at his wooden tankard which held a generous measure of raw wine. If he opposed the lesson, it might lead to difficulties, and that might upset his plans. He was too close to achieving his revenge to be distracted by monkish moralizing.
Frere Aubri went on. “Take no satisfaction in the misfortunes of your enemies, and do not be happy when they falter. God knows your heart and it does not please Him to find evil therein. Do not be vexed by the wicked, and do not look on them jealously. There is no reward in doing evil, and all that is gained thereby is lost. Let all of you respect and fear God and the King; do not enter in with those who seek alteration; their sought-after change will come upon them tenfold, and none shall know the extent of their ruin.’ Hear the words of God and ponder them as you give thanks for the food He has provided to nourish your bodies as His Scripture nourishes your soul.”
Once again a ragged “Amen” was offered in response to this lesson, and everyone was secretly pleased that it was as brief as it had been. As soon as Frere Aubri stepped away from the lectern, there was a sudden increase in the level of noise in the cavernous room, the cacophony increasing as the rattle of wooden utensils on wooden plates grew louder.
A Candle For d'Artagnan Page 37
