by Robert Merle
“I’ve already explained all this to the king, and he certainly doesn’t wish to put pressure on your father. But he thinks that the Baron de Mespech, if he believed the king were in danger, would, like Cincinnatus, quit his plough to take up the sword.”
“Well,” I exclaimed in my delight, “I shall certainly repeat these words to my father, who will be very honoured to have been spoken of so highly by such an august personage.”
Quéribus’s escort was so numerous and well appointed that my father decided to ask only Giacomi, Cabusse, Fröhlich and Miroul to accompany us—these last two being our valets, Giacomi our master-at-arms and Cabusse our devoted friend ever since the rewards he’d received from the siege of Calais had provided him the means to purchase the farm at le Breuil, although he’d never lost his taste for adventure.
Four men was but a small escort for the Baron de Mespech to provide—if he’d dared, Quéribus might have bemoaned the fact that his company wasn’t more magnificent, but he’d already had a hard time convincing my father to provide Catherine with an appropriate trousseau for her wedding, as well as outfitting our little company for our voyage, and so he didn’t insist on an increase in our number, preferring to focus on questions of quality rather than quantity. He spared no expense—in terms of labour or lucre—for our sartorial needs, inviting the master tailor of Sarlat to Mespech to take our measurements and to provide each of us with a doublet and hose à la mode de Paris, whose design left this poor artisan dumbfounded. Miroul and Fröhlich were each fitted for liveries.
“Liveries!” exclaimed my father in the privacy of the library. “What do I need with liveries for my servants? Isn’t their work just as good without them? By my faith, this fop is going to ruin us with such unnecessary excesses! What would my poor Sauveterre have said of such silly vanities? The hose look like women’s girdles, the way they hug your thighs!”
“But that’s the style in Paris now, my father!”
“And who decides this style?”
“The king, I suppose.”
“The king should spend more of his time worrying about his kingdom and the various factions that are pulling it apart. My old clothes fit me well enough! I don’t like leaving them in my chest to dress up in such finery! Zounds! I can’t bear these expenses and this ridiculous style!”
“But Father! There’s nothing we can do! This is the style in the capital!”
“Well then,” he exclaimed raising his two hands heavenwards, “I wish I could give la mode a great kick in the arse so she’d gallop back into Paris!”
Of course, I laughed at this little witticism—though, along with its humour, this outburst also contained some tenderness, as though my father had wished to play Sauveterre’s role to bring him back to life for a moment. And looking back on it now, I am quite certain that I wasn’t wrong in this conjecture, for more than once I surprised my father in this affectionate and almost magical doubling of the shadow of his brother, as though he were imitating Ulysses, who had one of the shades in Hades drink blood to get him to speak his thoughts.
Meanwhile, when the tailor returned with the doublet and hose—which were of a light green (my late mother’s colour, which the Baron de Mespech wore throughout his life)—my father, having abandoned Sauveterre to re-embody Siorac, didn’t disdain putting them on and prancing around in front of his mirror, and only with great difficulty hid his guilty pleasure at wearing “these silly vanities” from Quéribus and me.
It took nearly a month to finish our preparations, which I watched impatiently from day to day, gnawing at my fingernails till there was nothing left—my Angelina now so close and yet so far, and my Miroul undoubtedly happier than I, since, having heard about the voyage, he’d got permission to wed his Florine in the Huguenot faith at Mespech. Seeing this, my little sister, Catherine, who couldn’t have Franchou for her chambermaid since she was still breastfeeding her new baby, and who refused to take Little Sissy, whose insolence was so intolerable to her that she referred to the wench as “scorpion” and “snake” to her face, asked my father to give her Florine, half to oblige herself, half to oblige the girl. I agreed to this, but only for the duration of the trip, since I wanted to engage this sweet and gentle wench in the service of my Angelina, Miroul having asked to remain in my service, despite all the gold he’d taken from the bearded monster he’d killed during the St Bartholomew’s eve horrors, as I’ve already recounted. (On my father’s advice, he’d given the gold to an honest moneylender in Bordeaux to invest for him.)
The day finally arrived when we were ready to depart from Mespech. Catherine was mounted on a white palfrey, and so Quéribus’s energetic steed was forced, despite its own sense of protocol, into service beside it, frothing at the bit, its legs all atremble at having to maintain such a slow pace. From time to time he’d give it full rein and my own Pompée, who’d never consented to let anyone pass her—stallion, gelding or mare—burst, whinnying, into a gallop in pursuit of the insolent mount that dared run ahead, so off they both went at full speed until they encountered too steep or too rocky a patch of road to keep running, and would slow to a walk, happy and snorting from their exertions, with Quéribus and me now side by side.
“My brother,” I confided, seeing that we were some distance from the main body of the escort, “help me understand this mystery! I spent more than a month at Barbentane, recovering from the wound in my arm those bandits inflicted on me when Father Anselm and I were delivering the Montcalms from their clutches, but during that time I never laid eyes on—or heard either her mother or father speak of—Larissa.”
“Well,” sighed Quéribus, his demeanour suddenly sad and serious, “there’s a good reason for that! And it’s only fair that you should know about it, especially since the comte bade me inform you of it, since you’ll be joining the family. Poor Larissa was the cause of terrible suffering and despair, though initially there was every appearance that she would bring them as much joy as your Angelina.”
“Do they look alike?”
“Two peas in a pod. Their height, hair, eyes, traits, voice, step and manner—everything is so uncannily alike that you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart if nature hadn’t decided to place a distinctive mark on Larissa’s face: a small mole on her chin, an ‘imperfection’ she’s always been ashamed of and tried to hide under her make-up.”
“Well, at least there’s a way to tell them apart!”
“Well… no! For Angelina, who is the most benign and accommodating daughter of any mother in France, has often allowed Larissa to persuade her to wear a mark in the same spot, a doubling that, when they were children, often spared Larissa the whip that she deserved, and gave it to Angelina though she didn’t deserve it in the least.”
“Oh, what a nasty business!”
“Well, not really. Larissa isn’t as malicious as you might think. She’s quite charming, though has always had a wild and fantastical side, ever since she was a child. But, alas! it pains me terribly to tell you the rest.” And he fell silent for a few minutes, his head lowered, his eyes fixed on his stallion’s mane. “Isn’t it a pity,” he mused, “that such a noble family, so rich, so virtuous and so well known for its honour and good works, is so prey to the workings of the Devil?”
“The Devil?” I replied, unable to believe my ears.
“Who else?” replied Quéribus, looking more serious than I’d ever seen my normally brave and light-hearted friend, now visibly uneasy about what he was about to tell me. “Listen to the infinitely deplorable tale I witnessed when I was a young lad visiting my cousins at Barbentane. Larissa was going on thirteen when Madame de Montcalm took an interest in a poor young fellow from one of their villages, cleaned him up and made him her page. And when I say ‘page’, I do not mean her minion, for the lady’s virtue is irreproachable and, as everyone in the area knows, she treated him almost as the son she’d never had, intending to have him serve as her little valet, as is often the custom among Parisian women anxious to make
their mark in society. As for me,” Quéribus continued, a little stiffly, “I know what I know, and if I were the husband of one of those women, I wouldn’t suffer such an extravagant and daily commerce with these common pages, these little brown-skinned Africans, or even these dwarves whom our gallant ladies of the court are so fond of. To my mind, that’s placing temptation too close to appetite. And it’s no surprise, given such imprudent customs, when, one fine morning, your wife bears you a little dark-skinned baby, or a little short-legged one—and how can one avoid confessing to such progeny without completely dishonouring the family? But, ’sblood! That’s all beside the point! Madame de Montcalm is not of such coarse cloth, and, in a word, the danger didn’t come from her, but from Larissa.”
“What! Larissa? But she was thirteen years old!”
“Barely! But she hid her guilty commerce so successfully that no one would have ever known of it had her chambermaid, who was in on the secret, not become afraid someone would discover it, and decided to tell Monsieur de Montcalm. Unable to govern his fury, her father burst into her room in the middle of the night and, finding the little rascal in her bed, drew his sword.”
“Merciful God—did he kill him?”
“He didn’t have time. The terrified page leapt from the bed and jumped out of the window, but fell awkwardly and broke his neck. Seeing this, Larissa, who was making cries that sounded more bestial than human, guessed who’d betrayed her, seized a small dagger from under her pillow and plunged it into the breast of her chambermaid, and would have then killed herself had her father not seized her wrist. After which, she threw herself on the ground and rolled about with atrocious contortions, foaming at the mouth and for the next several hours continuing her terrible screams, wild-eyed, her face distorted, her skin as red as the flames of hell, and hitting and biting anyone who dared approach her.”
“Good God! Two deaths and a madwoman for a little pleasure!”
“Not two. Against all expectations, the chambermaid survived, but the doctors, having examined Larissa and found her physically healthy in all respects, opined that this so-called malaise of the patient could not be explained or cured by any known remedy and that consequently it must be the work of the Devil.”
“Ah, what a marvellous diagnosis!” I cried indignantly. “Are we supposed to believe that all human maladies have been inventoried and remedies found?”
“Well, I certainly don’t know about that,” replied Quéribus, “but Larissa’s subsequent behaviour certainly seems to lend credence to the doctors’ judgement, for at times she would lie pathetically in a corner of her room, weeping silently and shaking her head; at other times she would take up her unbearable wailing and roll around, foaming at the mouth, striking and scratching the floor; at still other times she would undo her braids, strip naked and run through the chateau, seizing every man she encountered, no matter what his age or condition, hugging and squeezing him, her face enflamed, crying a thousand obscenities.”
“And did my poor Angelina observe any of this wild behaviour?”
“No. She was sent away from the chateau. And as for Larissa, the Montcalms decided to consult a Capuchin friar in Montpellier, Father Marcellin, very learned in demonology, who, having observed the poor wench, declared he’d discovered unmistakable evidence of satanic possession: first, her flushed face, wild eyes and hideous countenance; second, her great torments and the pains in her stomach, bowels and sexual organs; third, an extreme twisting of her torso and hips when she fell to the floor; fourth, a continuous and frenetic desire for sexual contact; and fifth, a tendency to employ obscene, lubricious and outrageous language any time her will was thwarted. Father Marcellin concluded that Larissa was prey to five different demons that had got hold of her, but he was confident that he could rid her of them by virtue of his practice of exorcism.”
“And did he?”
“Not at all! He tried on at least three occasions and failed each time. So Monsieur de Montcalm paid him handsomely and sent him away.”
“But,” I gasped in surprise, “did he have to grease his palm if he repeatedly failed to cure her?”
“Absolutely! Otherwise, Father Marcellin would have denounced her to the bishop as a witch, which would have put her in great danger of being burnt at the stake, whatever her claim to nobility. Which is also why Monsieur de Montcalm, despite his great love for her, had her locked up in a convent, where the poor girl remained for years, and would have spent the rest of her days if Samarcas had not managed to have her withdrawn from it.”
“And who’s this Samarcas?”
“A Jesuit. Venerated by the Montcalms because he managed to bring Larissa back to Barbentane, exorcize and purify her and restore to her the possession of her soul.”
“And when did this Samarcas complete his miracle?” I asked, at least as astonished by the cure as I had been by the sickness, since I do not believe in demonic possession, maintaining, as Monsieur de Montaigne does, that these “witches” are simply poor mad-women, possessed by no other devil than their tortured imaginations. However, I didn’t share my scepticism with Quéribus, since it so goes against the grain of popular opinion in our times and would be considered sacrilege to both the Huguenot and Catholic Churches.
“Two months after the St Bartholomew’s day massacre,” replied Quéribus. “So it’s been nearly two years since Larissa has been released from her convent. And since I saw her on my return from Venice, I can testify that today she is as healthy as Angelina. The two sisters now share such a close and constant bond that you almost never see the one without the other, almost as though they’re reflections in a mirror, one of the other.”
I couldn’t help feeling some discomfort at hearing this—not, of course, that I wished Larissa had remained confined in her nunnery, but I couldn’t help thinking that this poor girl’s past must have left some traces in her and that these might end up being dangerous for her twin sister, who was so naive and childishly affectionate.
*
The Montcalms lavished a wonderfully warm welcome on my father, on Catherine and even more on me, not only because I was going to be the son that fortune had denied them (their two male children having died in infancy), but also to undo the very unpleasant impression they’d given me when they’d rebuffed me in Paris, in their attempt to marry their daughter to that big oaf, La Condomine.
Our little company arrived at Barbentane at dinner time, and Madame de Montcalm, splendidly attired in an azure gown and wearing her finest jewellery, whispered in my ear, after I’d kissed her hand in the Spanish manner, “Patience, Monsieur! You’ll see your Angelina presently. She’s finishing her toilette.”
“Well, Madame,” I gushed, quite moved by hearing her say “your Angelina”, “patience I have aplenty, having learnt it over these long years—but I swear I bear no grudge to anyone, and entirely respect the scruples imposed by your conscience that caused the delay.”
“Pierre,” she replied, barely able to hold back her tears (which would have ruined the kohl around her eyes), “you’re going to be a good son to us, I’m sure. Give me a kiss!”
She tendered her cheek, and I placed a discreet peck upon it, careful not to disturb the ceruse make-up that covered it, or to get too much on my lips, unsure of the digestibility of this white powder, which, I’m told, contains large amounts of lead and is thought to be poisonous by our apothecaries. From the smooth cheek of Madame de Montcalm I passed to the rough cheek of the comte, who gave me a big hug and several slaps on the shoulder and back, but wordlessly, a tear in the corner of his eye and his throat in a knot—being, I believe, excessively happy to have finally found a way to thank me for having saved his life that didn’t compromise the rigour of his Catholic beliefs.
Father Anselm, patiently awaiting his turn, then stepped up and embraced me warmly, planting a kiss on each cheek in the peasant manner, and, as was his wont, commenting on my health in a wry and jocular tone that made an immediately favourable impression on my father.
I was very happy to be reunited with this man, whose straightforwardness, open expression, large neck, muscular frame, hair cropped like a field after harvest, square jaw, white teeth and sonorous voice produced an instant sense of complete well-being. His laughter shook his plentiful belly so soundly that one couldn’t help joining in his mirth.
To Montcalm’s left stood another prelate, whom my host introduced as the Jesuit Father Samarcas, whose costume surprised me no end, since he wore neither surplice nor cassock, but a black velvet doublet with a large ruff collar and a sword at his side. I judged that he knew how to use this blade, since he resembled Captain Cossolat of Montpellier: large-shouldered, not an ounce of fat on his very muscular body, and with something very quick and supple in his every movement that suggested he was well endowed in athletic prowess. And indeed, no sooner had he learnt that Giacomi was our master-at-arms than he proposed that they face each other the next morning, and subsequently proved himself very adept in the art of fencing. What’s more—or perhaps what was worse, if you will—when he believed he’d sufficiently gained Giacomi’s good graces, he told him in confidence that he’d heard in Paris (which he knew well, along with Rome, Madrid, Lisbon and London) that the Italian was the sole possessor of Jarnac’s secret thrust, and, being an adept of the Jesuits’ own secret thrust, he suggested that they exchange their respective insights. Giacomi immediately rejected this suggestion, though with his usual courtesy, and, the next day, explained his reason for doing so.
“No doubt you are aware, Pierre, that Jesuits are bound to obey their order perinde ac cadaver.* To reveal Jarnac’s thrust to a Jesuit would be to reveal it to everyone in that society.”
