Fortunes of France 4: League of Spies

by Robert Merle

  “Who’s there?” came the voice of the duchesse, as sour as vinegar and as stinging as mustard.

  “It’s Franz, Madame,” replied the lackey. “I’ve brought you the Chevalier de Siorac.”

  “And you dared cough in my presence?!” yelled the Duchesse de Montpensier, her piercing voice reaching new heights. “Tell the major-domo to give you ten lashes with the whip right now!”

  “Madame,” said Franz, indignant, “all I did was cough! I didn’t say a word! Nor did I say that you live in a pigsty!”

  “You didn’t say it, you knave, but you heard it! And to punish your indiscreet ears, tell the major-domo to give you another ten lashes!”

  “Yes, Madame,” muttered Franz, now red as a crayfish in boiling water. And, having made his customary bow despite his mute rage, he backed out of the room.

  “Frédérique,” came the voice from behind the curtain, “what do you think of the Chevalier de Siorac, since you’re looking at him?”

  “He’s not very tall but well built,” replied Frédérique, who approached me and looked me over closely, as if I were a bull she wanted to buy at the fair. “What’s more, he’s got hazel eyes, blond hair with a bit of grey around his temples and a ruddy complexion, and is, I believe,” she continued, feeling my biceps, “fairly muscular. In short, Madame, he’s very gallant and seems to enjoy looking at women’s bosoms.”

  “What you mean is, you hussy,” replied the voice bitterly, “that you’re showing him enough to keep him looking!”

  “Well, Madame, no more than is in keeping with today’s styles!”

  “Enough talk, you minx! Lead the chevalier over here by the hand. And make sure he doesn’t step on any of my jewellery! He’d crush it into dust!”

  My curiosity carrying the day against all the trepidation I’d felt since entering the lair of this she-wolf, I was now quite eager, after hearing her voice, to see this famous wild duchesse, who was the primary and principal enemy of my king in Paris, and who had used her vast wealth to turn the entire clergy of Paris into a counterweight bearing down on the populace, and to assemble around her a kind of counter-court, consisting of a bunch of debt-ridden noblemen (often quite high ranking ones), who were either disgraced, malcontents or ambitious, along with ladies of the same ilk, whom she made dance like puppets on a string for the greater glory of her brother and the greater detriment of my king. The most astonishing thing about this muddle-headed witch was that she found the time, occupied as she was with all the little intrigues of her household, to hatch an infinite number of political plots tirelessly and with infinite irascibility.

  When the curtains were finally drawn, I found the duchesse seated, rather than lying, on her bed, propped up by a mass of pillows, and, though it was almost noon already and lots of natural light flooded the room, she had a candelabrum placed on her night table that provided even more light. What struck me immediately was how immodestly she was dressed, or rather undressed, since her night dress fell wide open on her bosom, which struck me as remarkably unspoilt by age, though she was already past thirty, after which age, in our country, a woman is no longer considered young. But her body certainly didn’t look the least bit ravaged by time: her breasts were firm—though perhaps not as firm as Frédérique’s—her eyes sky blue, her abundant blonde hair falling in tresses onto her well-rounded shoulders, her mouth large and her lips firm, with teeth that had not stood the test of time very well. As for her expression, there was nothing of the haughtiness of La Vasselière, but a sort of tranquil self-assurance, as though, being the sister of the future king of France, she had power over the life and death of every Frenchman alive, as legitimately as if they were the back of her poor lackey.

  I had ample time to examine her, or rather to counter-examine her (though I did so with a pretence of respect), since, after my gaining entry into her little space, she considered me for quite some time (her pen held in suspense in her right hand over the escritoire she had placed in her lap, her bed strewn with various papers), with such an impersonal gaze that I felt as though I were a saddle horse, or a hunting dog she’d just acquired, or even a draught horse that she was examining to see whether it would be robust enough to pull its barge. Of all the varieties of haughtiness, this was probably the worst, since in its silence and disinterest there was no deprecation—the very idea of attaching any worth whatsoever to me would never have occurred to her. Or at least any moral worth, for she’d bought the allegiance to her brother’s cause of so many priests and noblemen that she knew, to the nearest écu, the price of every man in the kingdom.

  As she prolonged her examination, so did I mine—with no risk of offending her, any more than the gaze of a dog would offend a bishop. All the while I noticed that, in addition to the various papers that were spread over her bed, there was a disorderly collection of objects: pots of make-up, a mirror, jewels and other trinkets, a large plate of dragées, almond paste and dried fruits, which she was selecting with her left hand while her right hand was occupied by her pen. From time to time she’d grasp a handful of these confections and stuff them into her mouth (which was, luckily, quite large, given what she tried to force into it). She chewed on these various sweets while she talked, and, as soon as she’d swallowed a mouthful, she’d cram another handful into the maelstrom.

  “Monsieur chevalier,” she said at length, “please be seated.”

  “Madame,” I replied, “forgive me, but I see no stool to sit on.”

  “Sit down on my bed. Am I so repulsive?”

  “Madame,” I replied with a deep bow, “my eyes have already told you with sufficient clarity that you are assuredly the most beautiful princess in Christendom.”

  “And yet they say that my cousin the queen, whom I haven’t seen in a very long time, isn’t so rotten that Henri couldn’t give her a child if he were capable of it.”

  “Madame,” I assured her with another deep bow, “the queen is certainly very beautiful, but she could never hope to compete with you, for all the innumerable graces that you possess!”

  “Monsieur, please be seated,” she said, evidently concluding that I knew well enough how to lay compliments on with a trowel that sufficiently conformed to the tone and flavour of her little court.

  “Madame,” I confessed, “I am entirely your slave.”

  I sat down on her bed. At this, she took me at my word, and asked me to remove the escritoire from in front of her and place it on the night table. This done, I had to collect and fold all the little notes that were spread over her coverlet, which I did, not without having glanced quickly at each one on the sly. As I collected them, she explained that these were the instructions that she was giving to her army of priests for their Sunday sermons. Far from hiding this sacrilegious and rebellious act, she behaved in such a way as to let the entire world know what was going on. Indeed, by manipulating these preachers, she was inflicting more damage on the king and doing more for the eventual triumph of her brother than all the armies that Guise had assembled in the east.

  “Frédérique,” she said, “tell Guillot to carry my sermons to each of the priests in person and to give each one ten écus.”

  “Ten?!” gasped Frédérique. “Ten, Madame? These sermons are going to ruin you! You gave them only five last week!”

  “That’s because,” laughed la Montpensier, “this week the message I’ve asked them to spread is a little harder to swallow, so they will need to have a good drink before they regurgitate them and feed them to their flocks. My coins will lubricate their throats. Their zeal will do the rest. And Frédérique, when you’ve given the order to Guillot, don’t come back here. I want to be alone with the chevalier.”

  “Madame,” I observed, “the king himself has said that you have a remarkable talent for inventing stories.”

  “’Tis true,” she gloated with an ironic smile. “And I’m delighted to be so praised by the king, who is so lacking in this talent.”

  “And which inspired you to claim that th
ere were 10,000 Huguenots hidden in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, who were awaiting the signal from Navarre to execute their own St Bartholomew’s day massacre on the Catholics.”

  “Well!” she laughed. “That was a good one! I didn’t have them sermonize on it, but only repeat it during confession.”

  “Along with the story that Pierre de Siorac is said to have given 200,000 écus to Navarre from the king so he could wage war on his Catholic subjects.”

  “A story I had a lot of trouble denying after I’d spread it, since people tend to believe me when I speak through my clerics.”

  “So why did you say it?”

  “So that someone would decide to kill you without my having to order it.”

  Madame de Montpensier said this straight out as if it had been the most natural thing in the world.

  “Madame,” I declared with a little bow, “I’m delighted that you retracted it.”

  “Well, I’m not sure that was the right thing to do,” she replied, throwing me a sudden trenchant look with those blue eyes of hers; then she added, “Didn’t you go to Boulogne to warn Monsieur de Bernay of Aumale’s plans?”

  “Not at all!” I said, following the inspiration of the moment. “That was not me!”

  “And yet you were seen in Boulogne one week before the event.”

  “No again! That’s not possible. I was never there!”

  “But,” she broke in, “you weren’t in Paris either.”

  “No, Madame,” I agreed, but suddenly felt on very shaky ground, which could fall away at any moment.

  “So, where were you, Monsieur?”

  “Madame,” I temporized, feeling my alibi take shape little by little with each word I spoke under this intense inquisition. “Can I hide nothing from you? Am I at confession? Must I tell you where I was? And why not, while you’re about it, ask me who I was with?”

  “Who were you with?” queried the duchesse implacably.

  “With a woman,” I answered, trying to appear as confused and trapped as possible.

  “Aha!” she laughed—I would almost say she “gave a belly laugh” given how much of her anatomy was exposed. “I’ve got you now, Monsieur hypocrite, you who are reputed to be so faithful to your wife! You went to play the beast with two backs in the provinces, didn’t you, knowing that in Paris you couldn’t get away with it?!”

  “Madame,” I said very awkwardly, “you’ve trapped me into confessing this with your knife on my throat, but I swear to you by the Blessed Virgin that I will not tell you where I was or who I was with.”

  “You don’t need to, Monsieur,” said the duchesse. “I believe you and was only pressing you to be certain. I already knew that it wasn’t you who warned Monsieur de Bernay.”

  “And how did you know?”

  “Because, when you returned, the king did not shower you with money, as he assuredly would have if you’d been involved in this affair. Which would have made me pity you, Monsieur,” she added with a knowing look. “Anyone who crosses my brother doesn’t live long enough to regret it.”

  “Well,” I thought to myself, “what a relief he gave me the comfit box! Miraculous comfit box! How many thanks I owe you for saving my life!”

  “Madame,” I said, “I am very happy to have had the chance to speak openly with you, since our conversation has allowed me to leave your presence on my own two feet rather than in a sack tossed in the Seine!”

  At this she laughed again, with the kind of cruel cackle of those for whom death is always other people’s problem and not their own.

  “Monsieur,” she said, changing registers, “let us be serious. Do you want to work for me?”

  “In what way, Your Highness?” I asked, open-mouthed.

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “Madame,” I confessed after some reflection, “I cannot receive a salary from the king and, at the same time, one from his mortal enemy. I am not so crooked. And I don’t need the money.”

  “You mean to say, Monsieur,” she replied, with a sudden, not very benign light in her steely eyes, “that you’re refusing me?”

  “I mean, Madame,” I countered with a slight bow, “that if I worked for you I would turn down any offers from your worst enemy. Does being a faithful servant mean nothing? Does the duc have so many of these?”

  “Assuredly not,” she replied bitterly. “He’s only served by those who believe he can overthrow the king. And of this, none of his greatest allies can be sure. Not even Felipe. We’ve heard that Felipe wants us to take matters in hand—not for our house, but for his. When we’ve got rid of Henri, he wants to crown the daughter he had by Isabel de Valois as queen of France.”

  “The Rex Catholicissimus,” I replied, “seems to care very little for Salic law!”

  “Have patience!” she mused, her blue eyes drifting off into space and her expression suddenly very dreamy, as if she could already see her brother on the throne of France and herself at his side. “Do I understand,” she continued, a bit dreamily, as if trying to shake herself out of her reverie, “that you don’t want to serve me? It’s really a shame, in my opinion, that a man as gallant as yourself should persist in serving this poor devil of a king—unless you’re a poor devil as well!”

  “Madame,” I smiled, “if you were to spread such a rumour in your little notes to the priests, there’s not a person at court who would believe you.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it!” she said with a shrug. “Other than to have you killed, what would I do with you? You’re too small a grain to be ground in our royal mills.”

  “Madame,” I replied, somewhat stung by this remark, “I’m not such small fry as you pretend. The Duc d’Épernon owes me his life.”

  “Unfortunately!”

  “And if I’d been old enough at the time, who knows whether I wouldn’t have been able to save your father when he was shot, since he was only wounded in the shoulder!”

  “Monsieur,” she countered, “it seems to me you’re overstating your talents. If, God willing, you could only cure my indigestion, which,” she continued, throwing off her covers and completely baring her stomach, “twists and distends my belly most uncomfortably.”

  And this said, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her belly. After palpating her abdomen here and there, I proclaimed:

  “Madame, if you didn’t spend the day sucking on sweetmeats, you wouldn’t suffer from these little discomforts. A day of dieting and a few infusions will put an end to your obstructions.”

  “Ah, Monsieur,” she cooed, “your hands are so soft and warm! And what an immense improvement these skilled and miraculous palpations are making! Keep going, I beg you! Already I feel all those knots melting away and I’m opening up where I was so closed!”

  “Madame, I’m happy to have eased your discomfort somewhat.”

  “Somewhat, Monsieur! Your touch is so dexterous that I feel like a flower opening up to the sun! Let me guide your hand! The remedy will be even better!”

  “Madame,” I objected, “if my hand continues in the direction you’re leading it, this will no longer be a cure, but a caress, and will be nothing but the prologue to a play that has nothing medicinal about it.”

  “But Monsieur, why delay? Let’s act out the play if you’re as hungry as I am to do so!”

  “Assuredly I am, but why would you let a minnow such as me massage you? Am I not small fry?”

  “Monsieur, let me be the judge of how low I can go beneath my rank. And are you still going to pretend that you’re so faithful to your wife, when you’ve just told me that you’ve sown your seed elsewhere?”

  At this I realized I was caught, and so, to my great shame, I let her continue to guide my hand in ways that allowed her to attain the proper “grist” she desired. Beyond the fact that it hardly seemed very gallant to discourage a lady of such noble birth, who seemed so ardently to desire to be satisfied, could I push this Fury away without mortally offending her, and especially without reawakening her suspicions reg
arding the role I’d played in the escapade in Boulogne? So I let my body do what it wanted—this vile creature (my body, that is) who, in defiance of every law of human decency, never asks for anything (in terms of payment) as its reward for walking into cannon fire and doing whatever I required it to do.

  “My good friend,” commanded Madame de Montpensier, sighing with pleasure as soon as I was in place, “that’s just right, but don’t move a muscle! I will do all the moving. Just remain stiff, that’s all I require of you.”

  This was an order I didn’t like, but understanding that she was one of those imperious women who only derive their pleasure from themselves, and take all the time in the world achieving it, I resolved to “present arms” as long as it took, only breaking her rules when I needed to do so to keep myself from weakening—which happened from time to time but was not even noticed in the furious activity she was engaged in, which was so stormy and tormented that I could never represent it fairly, my ears buzzing with the sighs and moans that accompanied her passion.

  She took no account, of course, of my own enjoyment, which was greatly impeded by my being clothed uncomfortably in my starch collar, squeezed into my doublet and, as the tempest of her pleasure raged about me, too conscious of the Italian dagger that I had strapped on my back and that was sticking into my shoulder blade. And indeed, how I would have loved to penetrate the body of this enemy of the state with that other blade! And so I let my attention wander to the prodigious disorder that covered her bed and chanced to see, emerging from under her pillow, a small written note (which must have sought refuge there, no doubt, to escape the general devastation around it), which I now surreptitiously pulled from its hiding place; giving it a quick glance, I realized that it was in Guise’s hand, and that it was precisely the note that the duchesse believed to have been burnt. The idea of taking it, and of the unspeakable peril that would be involved, struck me simultaneously, so much so that I nearly left off my ministrations, but caught myself just in time, yet began sweating profusely at the thought of what I was doing.