League of Spies

by Robert Merle

  “Mr Mundane,” I replied, “I’ve already considered this problem, and I thought we might resolve it by proposing that you play the same role as Miroul in my service, and that you wear my livery. No one will pay any heed to the speech of a valet, whereas that of a gentleman would doubtless draw unwanted attention. I hope, Mr Mundane, that my proposal in no way offends your dignity.”

  “Why, Monsieur, I find your idea outrageous!” exclaimed Mundane, who loved to say the opposite of what he thought, a joke that was habitual with him and that he accompanied with a huge guffaw, his face becoming brick red in colour, just like his beard and hair. “But I’ll have to put my security ahead of my dignity! One punctured lung is enough for me! I wouldn’t like a second…”

  “Mr Mundane,” I cautioned, placing my hand on his shoulder, “in your condition I would avoid laughing, coughing, speaking and any excessive movement. I’m afraid you’ve been overtired by Zara.”

  “Not at all! She’s the one doing all the talking, not me! I can’t get a word in edgewise! She loves talking about herself, a subject she’s excessively fond of! But though I listen only with one ear, I use both my eyes to look at her.”

  “Ah, but your eyes could cause you undue agitation all by themselves!”

  “Not at this stage of my recovery, venerable doctor,” he replied with a grateful wink, in self-mockery. “I’m being reborn and reliving my infancy in Zara’s arms.”

  “What? In her arms?” I laughed. “Already?”

  “Thank God, she’s very affectionate,” replied Mundane, his face inscrutable but for the sparkle in his eyes.

  I left my happy Englishman to his thoughts, very comforted to see with what sharp teeth he was taking a bite out of life after having nearly lost it, and hurried to my rendezvous in front of Corane’s jewellery shop, which was then situated on the Pont au Change, and still is to this day. This time, however, I had myself shadowed by Miroul and Giacomi, who, in addition to their swords, carried pistols in their leggings; I, in the Italian manner, concealed a long dagger behind my back, hidden by my cloak, which, if necessary, could be drawn more quickly than a sword up close to an assailant. Not that I feared an ambush from the ladies I’d talked to, but rather from any Guisards who might have followed them.

  I felt a sting of disappointment when I arrived at the jewellery shop only to discover that the opal from Hungary set with little diamonds that I had admired the day before was no longer displayed in Corane’s window, an absence I found quite aggravating, even though I knew I couldn’t afford the jewel. The 300 écus the king had advanced me for the trip would scarcely suffice to cover my expenses, and of these 300 écus, the king’s treasurer had taken a cut of fifty, and so the 250 remaining would scarcely pay for meals for the four of us—Giacomi, Miroul, Mundane and myself—not to mention the cost of oats and hay for our four mounts, plus a packhorse.

  I was at this point in my unhappy deliberations when suddenly the masked lady of the day before appeared at my side and, pretending to admire the jewels in the window, said, “Monsieur, if you’ll consent to follow me to the rue de la Vieille Pelleterie, you’ll find my mistress waiting in a coach there. She’d like to have a word with you. However, I should warn you, Monsieur, that there are two men over there who have been watching you.”

  “What do they look like?” I asked, since there was such a crush of people on the Pont au Change.

  “One is tall and thin, and the other quite slender.”

  “They’re with me,” I smiled. “Lead the way to the coach, Madame! I’ll navigate in the wake of your skirts.”

  I recognized the coach I’d seen the day before waiting in the middle of the rue de la Vieille Pelleterie. Instead of climbing in herself, my mysterious guide motioned for me to step inside. The coachman leapt from his seat, pulled open the curtains, lowered the steps and silently signalled for me enter. Which I did warily, my left hand reaching for the dagger in my cape. At first glance, however, I determined that the only weapon in the coach was the beauty of the women who were awaiting me. Inside I found not one but three sets of petticoats, but I was unable to identify any of my fellow passengers, for the coachman immediately lowered the curtains, leaving us in a perfumed penumbra in which I could scarcely make out the lady I was seated next to, clearly the most richly attired of the three. However, as my eyes grew accustomed to this obscurity, I decided that I was comfortably enough lodged here to patiently accept whatever awaited me. Finally, my neighbour removed her mask, threw me an enchanting smile and, placing her gloved left hand on my right arm, asked in her sweetly musical voice whether my master had agreed to her proposal regarding Mr Mundane. Even in this gloom I was able to recognize—both from the timbre of her voice and from the colour of her Venetian-red hair—that I was in the presence of a lady of high birth and great beauty. We were sitting so close that our faces were practically touching, and I told her in a voice much less calm than I would have liked where things stood with the king, and noticed that she was pressing my arm with increasing fervour as I explained the situation. When I’d finished my report, she exhibited a degree of joy and gaiety that surprised me, given the haughty and cold demeanour she’d displayed in our first conversation:

  “Monsieur chevalier, I hope that your pockets are sufficiently deep, for I have much to give you on behalf of Lord Stafford. First, a letter for Mr Mundane. Second, this purse containing 200 écus, which should cover all of Mr Mundane’s expenses during your trip to Guyenne. And third, a ring that I would like to offer to Madame de Siorac, to express my gratitude for the trouble she’s gone to in receiving Mr Mundane in her household.”

  One can easily imagine my difficulty in adequately expressing my thanks, which included a vain effort to dissuade her from such an extravagant gift (since I could easily guess which ring she had chosen, without even having opened the case), and how thrilled Angelina would be, given her love of jewellery. Lady Stafford would not, of course, be dissuaded, because she was of a generous yet obstinate disposition, and argued that the compensation was twofold: firstly to thank us for our care of the wounded man and secondly to take care of his travel expenses. But, she added, this reasoning was irrelevant given that she was only obeying her husband’s orders, and she expected the same obedience from me. She said this in French, with a charming accent and an imperious little pout that would have routed my most steadfast legions even if she, Lady Stafford, hadn’t added, this time in English, “Chevalier, we have argued enough. I shall kiss you if you do not accept it.”

  “Well, Madame!” I replied. “You’re too condescending…”

  But I never finished my sentence. She closed my mouth with a kiss that was, though suave enough, exceedingly brief, as though to let me know that nothing would follow it—although I never would have flattered myself by thinking otherwise, knowing full well how much this noble lady treasured her birth and her virtue, the first fortifying the second, as sometimes happens. After which, having accepted this light kiss and the heavy purse, nothing remained but to shower her with professions of gratitude and praise and assurances of my infinite respect. Which I did profusely as was my wont. I had no doubt that she was very happy with me—and with herself, for having served her husband and her queen so well.

  This mission of the Duc d’Épernon to Henri de Navarre was no paltry affair, and no expense was spared: Épernon was escorted by a train of some 500 gentlemen, each of whom had received a gift from the king equal to mine, on condition that each be splendidly attired and accompanied by at least five servants. I would have been very ashamed in the midst of such grandiose company, given that I was accompanied by only two valets bearing my livery, and a master-at-arms, had Quéribus, who had taken the trouble, as one would have expected, to surround himself with a large number of servants (including a fool, a masseur and an astrologist), not instantly invited me to join his party—as much because he would enjoy my company as because he didn’t want to have to blush at his brother-in-law’s very Huguenot economy.

>   So, if you add to the 500 gentlemen their retinues, not to mention the Duc d’Épernon’s guards (and the wenches who followed them, since the duc did not want any defilement along the way), as well as the valets, cooks, baggage carts and mules, you can imagine the interminable ribbon of humanity, moving at a heavy, snail-like pace, under a leaden sun, to the din of thousands of hooves beating the dusty road.

  On my advice, Quéribus had requested and obtained from the Duc d’Épernon a position in the avant-garde, whose responsibility it was to prepare the accommodation at each of the staging post, a difficult task to be sure, but one that allowed us to escape from the unbelievable din, halts, falls, disputes, turbulence and, worst of all, clouds of dust that pitilessly whitened the ruddiest of faces and most colourful clothing of the travellers.

  Moreover, since we were the first to arrive at each staging post, we could take our time to obtain all our provisions before meat became first dear, then scarce, and then disappeared altogether, to the despair of every town or city we passed through and left as empty as if we’d been enemy troops intent on their devastation! The labourers in their fields who watched our superb procession open-mouthed would have been wise to mix some terror in with their admiration, for we passed through their farmlands like a cloud of locusts, leaving nothing behind us.

  Moving as slowly as we did, it took ten days to reach the Loire valley, where we stopped in Loches, a large town, which the Duc d’Épernon admired for its formidable defences, the strength of its walls, towers and square dungeon, which is one of the highest I’ve ever seen.

  At the rate we were moving, it took us a month to reach Pamiers, where the king of Navarre had sent word to Épernon that he’d meet us. However, desirous of honouring Henri III’s ambassador, the king of Navarre, in a remarkable display of condescension, advanced to meet him at Saverdun. There was much discomfort and embarrassment among the troops on both sides, since Épernon’s train was so numerous and magnificent, and Navarre’s so poorly attired, as if the rich north were meeting the poor south, and Catholic splendour were confronting Huguenot parsimony.

  Henri de Navarre, having signalled to his retinue to halt, advanced alone on his white horse, as if to place himself in the hands of the king’s representative and display before this assembly the trust he placed in him. Seeing this, Épernon signalled to his people to stop, rode out to meet Henri on his beautiful Andalusian mount, and doffed his plumed hat, whereupon Henri immediately did the same. They exchanged princely pleasantries for a few minutes in the manner of noblemen who wish not only to express their friendship for each other, but to put it on display before the world.

  Their conversation ended, Navarre turned his mount and rejoined his men, who led the way to Pamiers, arriving there well before we did, being as unencumbered as we were heavy-laden. (Quéribus and I had not had to make our usual avant-garde preparations, since we were Navarre’s guests here.)

  I imagine that Navarre was forced to reflect on the relative impoverishment of his escort, for, instead of awaiting us on horseback, he dismounted and welcomed us on foot, surrounded by no more than a dozen gentlemen and guards with little display or fanfare. In his welcome to the Duc d’Épernon, he behaved less like the king of Navarre and more as though he were merely the first citizen of his city, with his open and healthy demeanour.

  Épernon, who was, like his host, a Gascon, well understood the subtlety of Henri de Navarre, who, unable to match his guest’s splendour, wished to outdo him in simplicity; so, bending to the finesse of Navarre, he dismounted, threw his bridle to his servant, removed his plumed hat (though the noon sun was hot enough to boil an egg) and stepped forward, bareheaded, to pay homage to the presumptive king. The latter, charmed that he’d understood so well, stepped forward, embraced him heartily and, taking him familiarly by the arm, led him into the city, where, happily for the duc, who always went bareheaded, the houses offered some shade, while the joyful crowds loudly acclaimed the king of Navarre, and through him, the king of France.

  Henri did not seem to have changed much over the twelve long years that had elapsed since that fateful night when we’d ridden side by side from the Louvre to the lodgings of Coligny, though he seemed smaller, perhaps because Épernon was walking beside him now. But he still had the same long nose in his angular face, the same sparkle in his eyes and the same open and jocular expression. And though he’d gone to some expense to dress appropriately for this occasion, his unpolished and brusque manners were more those of a soldier than those of a prince. And yet one could easily see that he wasn’t a man who would allow himself to be slighted: he had about him that air of self-confidence that comes from a long habit of leadership and an aptitude for action.

  Pushing my way to the front, I bumped into a mountain of a man who was positioned right behind the king, and who was wearing the red and yellow livery of his guards; feeling the push from behind, he turned his head only slightly and growled:

  “Herrgott! Watch where you’re going, Mensch!”

  Recognizing this voice, I seized the arm of this colossus with both hands, trying to whirl him around to see his face, but this had no other effect than to get him to raise his arms and me along with them. But as he did, he glanced backwards and, catching sight of me, made a great shout that would have been audible on the other side of town if the crowd hadn’t suddenly broken forth in clamorous cheers that would have penetrated the ears of the deaf.

  “Ach! My noble master!” he trumpeted as he slowly lowered his arm to restore me to firm ground. “You—here?!”

  “Fröhlich!” I exclaimed. “My good Swiss! What are you doing in Pamiers? Did you leave my father’s service?”

  “Nein! Nein! Nein!” he crescendoed, tears bathing his large, round face. “Me? Leave the baron? Schelme! Schelme!”

  “And yet you’re here!” I said in surprise. “You’re neither a dream nor a phantom, but a man, made of flesh and bone! Good Lord! It’s really you, Fröhlich! And wearing Navarre’s livery, which you last wore twelve years ago! Here! In Pamiers! Which means you must have left my father’s service!”

  “Schelme! Schelme!” he repeated. “I’d never leave the baron! You think I’d leave your father, a man so valiant and generous there’s never been his like in the kingdom?! Nein! Nein! I’m his man, now and forever.”

  “But, Fröhlich,” I laughed, “how can you serve the king of Navarre in Pamiers and my father in Périgord?”

  “But,” cried my giant, his huge, rubicund face breaking into a smile as he realized why I thought he’d abandoned my father, “it’s because Monsieur your father is here—serving, as I do, the king of Navarre!”

  “What? My father’s here?! Ah, my good Fröhlich, take me to his lodgings straightaway!”

  “My noble master,” Fröhlich replied, “wait a bit till I’ve restored some order to this crowd, who are pressing up around the king like to suffocate him! Herrgott! Is this any way to behave? I’ll be with you as soon as the princes are safely behind closed doors. Wait for me!”

  Having said this, he grabbed his staff with both hands and, holding it horizontally in front of him, ran to push away a group of labourers who were surging forward and blocking Henri’s access to the city hall. “Ah!” I thought. “Now I understand why the king assigned me to serve as Épernon’s physician on this trip to Guyenne! He knew I’d get to see my father!” Besides the joy he’d offered me, he must also have considered that I’d learn many things that were hidden from Épernon and that would be most useful to know.

  I retraced my steps to find Giacomi, Miroul and Mundane, which wasn’t easy in the press and confusion of the horses in these narrow streets, the noise of acclamation still ringing, as though the throats of these fellows were made of the same bronze as their church bells, which were also clanging to burst your eardrums, as if to prove their conversion to the new religion. I couldn’t help enjoying the sight of all the pretty wenches leaning from their windows, preferring this view of the festivities to risking their hi
des in the midst of all these hungry men. From one balcony to another, you could hear them trading jokes about the new arrivals that would have made a papist saint blush. Anyone who assumed that these people had suddenly become solemn when they joined Calvin’s ranks would have been sadly mistaken, for, from every side, we were welcomed with cries of happiness, garlands of flowers and shouts of “Long live the king!” This demonstration of the reconciliation between the kings of France and Navarre had clearly renewed their hope of a return to peace in our kingdom.

  This long and tiring journey from the north of the kingdom to its extreme southern point, where the towering Pyrenees formed a rampart against Felipe II of Spain and his morose, murderous zeal, was finally at an end, and we could all now bask in the friendship of this good city—and I more than anyone, since I was to be reunited with my father. When at length I was able to meet up with Giacomi and Miroul, they too were overjoyed at the prospect of seeing Jean de Siorac and at being reunited with their gigantic companion, Fröhlich, who’d fought tooth and nail with us on our odyssey through the terror of that bloody St Bartholomew’s eve in Paris.

  There are so many joys in our brief life, but perhaps none greater than to be reunited after so many years with one’s father, to see him still hale and hearty, still of good cheer, and to watch him coming and going in his lodgings with his customary stance, hands on hips, straight as a board, his hoary head still held proudly, blue eyes still asparkle and still enjoying life’s sensual and intellectual pleasures—and as disdainful of appearances and glory as ever.