League of Spies

by Robert Merle

  “Well, Pierre,” said he, after enquiring about Catherine, Samson and me, “I’m so unhappy being around that pompous ass of a brother of yours! He’s become so stuck-up and self-important now that he’s got an heir and can call himself Baron de Fontenac. Certainly, he manages that estate and mine diligently enough. But, by the belly of St Anthony, I so miss my brother, Sauveterre, and my poor Franchou, who died in childbirth! It feels like pissing vinegar to have him constantly at my side with his long, Lenten face! And now that he’s switched sides and become a papist, he’s become more Catholic than the Pope! He goes to Mass every day, worships the saints, mumbles his Ave Marias and, would you believe, goes on pilgrimages! Dammit! My blood boils at these hypocritical mummeries! I’ve left him in charge of Mespech for these two months, happy to be following Navarre from town to town, with no care whatsoever for the modest lodgings I’m in, and managing with but one valet and a single chambermaid—who is, by the way, a devil of a good wench.”

  “Ah,” I thought, looking at this little darling, “is she a devil of a good girl, or a good she-devil?” My father’s sixty-seven years certainly didn’t seem to weigh heavily on him, and I’d have been very worried if he ever stopped behaving this way. As for me, I’m convinced impotence is the daughter of abstinence and not the other way around!

  After we had ravenously demolished our dinner, Giacomi, sensing that my father wanted to converse with me alone, told me that he wanted to see the town of Pamiers, and took with him Mundane and Miroul, leaving us to ourselves. My father took advantage of this tête-à-tête to ask me why Henri III had asked me to accompany Épernon on this journey, and I explained that, in truth, there were three likely reasons, a sure one and two conjectures.

  “Well, tell me the one you’re certain of,” laughed Jean de Siorac.

  “Since the duc seems to complain constantly of a sore throat, the king wanted me to try to cure it as his personal physician was confined to his bed.”

  “And the duc, indeed, continues to complain of this affliction?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “So what do you prescribe?”

  “Gargling with boiled salt water each morning, at noon and at six. Between times, I recommend honey.”

  “And water. Tell him to drink lots of water.”

  “I shan’t fail to do so. And the second reason—”

  “Which is conjectural,” he interrupted with a laugh, as though the word itself tickled him.

  “…is that the king wanted to please me, knowing that you’d be here.”

  “Yes, he knew it. Duplessis-Mornay saw me with Navarre, and he’s been in Paris since April.”

  “The third reason,” I continued, “is that the king wanted to test you, using me to trick you.”

  “Careful now! Careful!” laughed my father. “My son, are you spying on my king to serve yours?”

  “I serve the one in serving the other, since I believe their fortunes are now linked.”

  “Well said! And they are. They are in principle and someday will be so in reality. Against Guise, the Pope and Felipe II, the king has no other ally than Navarre.”

  “And Elizabeth.”

  “Ah! Elizabeth!” smiled Jean de Siorac. “So that’s the reason that you brought along this Englishman, whose servant’s appearance belies what I suspect is his true condition.”

  “Indeed! He’s supposed to contact Navarre on behalf of his sovereign. Is this something you could arrange?”

  “I’ll think about it. Venerable doctor,” he continued with a smile, “are you the king’s physician or his spy?”

  “Both.”

  “Be careful!” warned my father, shaking his head. “If there’s a profit in the first, there’s danger in the second.”

  “The king warned me of this. Father, do you think Épernon’s mission will be successful?”

  “That’s up to Navarre to decide.”

  “But what do you think?”

  “My son,” queried Jean de Siorac with a twinkle in his eye, “are you sounding me out?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  At this my father burst out laughing, so hard he couldn’t stop, and his chambermaid, Mariette, raised her head in surprise—she had not understood a traitorous word we’d exchanged, since she spoke only langue d’oc, but, delighted to see her master so joyful, she began to laugh along with him. Seeing this, Jean de Siorac got up, walked over to her stool, which was set before the window, and began caressing her shoulders, arms and breasts; then he mused, “The human body is symmetrical, which is why we need two hands to caress it.”

  “My father,” I persisted, “you haven’t answered me.”

  “That’s because I believe you’re capable of answering yourself.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re only two years younger than Navarre. Try to imagine yourself in his place in 1572, a rustic child of the mountains of Béarn, a little kinglet who’s scarcely out of swaddling clothes, speaking langue d’oc better than French. Imagine that you arrive open-mouthed at the Louvre, and are greeted with hostility by the foppish court favourites, despised by those in power and by the people because you’re a Huguenot. What’s more, you’ve got short legs, a long torso and a nose that’s said to be ‘bigger than your kingdom’. You’re not very handsome, or clean, or perfumed, and you smell of garlic, dirty feet and sweat. And then you become an immediate cuckold by marrying the Princesse Margot, who’s known to have lost her virginity as Guise’s whore, and become the laughing stock of the entire court. You’re hooted at and spat on and lampooned. You’re hated by Catherine de’ Medici, since Nostradamus prophesied that ‘the Béarnais will inherit everything’. On St Bartholomew’s morning you see all of your gentlemen massacred before your eyes in the courtyard of the Louvre; Charles IX practically holds a dagger to your throat and declares, ‘Mass or death! You decide!’ So you go to Mass and take Communion amid the jeers of the court, while Catherine bursts out laughing as she looks at the foreign ambassadors. There follow four years of captivity—four years, Pierre!—within the walls of the Louvre where, as ‘the little kinglet of a prisoner’, you must cool your heels, your life perpetually threatened. Your chambers are searched every day. You have but one valet to serve you. When the court travels, you’re forced to ride in the carriage of Catherine, the queen mother, who keeps her round raptor’s eyes on you all the time. When the court goes hunting, you’re followed by two gentlemen, who never leave your side, even when you piss. When you fuck, it’s with women chosen by Catherine, who report everything to their mistress, even your sighs. Heavens! How many indignities you’ve had to swallow! Finally, you escape, and become king in your kingdom, the titular head of a powerful party, now ready to confront your former jailers. My son, if you were Navarre, would you go back to this sinister Louvre, where this same Catherine is waiting, along with the same ministers, the same Guise and the same populace beating on the walls of the chateau—the same St Bartholomew’s mob, who hold Navarre in more strident execration than Beelzebub?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Well, there’s your answer. You provided it yourself.”

  “But, Father, the predicament is no longer the same. Henri III is not Charles IX. He loves Navarre, and though he’s still ‘trimming his sails’ when necessary, he never strays from his will.”

  “But you’re forgetting, my son, that Henri III has no support from any side that will back him, no matter what he chooses, and that he’s presently in as much danger in the Louvre as Navarre would be if he were mad enough to return.”

  “My father,” I mused, after reflecting a moment, “will you permit me to repeat to Épernon the contents of this discussion?”

  “Absolutely not!” replied my father with a smile that belied his refusal. “Let Épernon plead his case with Navarre! There are doubtless other considerations than those we’ve discussed. And they’re of such enormous consequence for peace in the kingdom that Navarre may very well temporize.”

 
I examined Épernon’s throat that very evening before he went to bed, and found it still very raw and somewhat swollen, but devoid of any white spots or blotches, from which I concluded that, if he continued to gargle with water and consume honey, he’d be well on his way to being cured—as long as he took care to avoid the cold when in a sweat.

  When I’d finished my examination, Épernon, who lacked any of the exquisite civility of our good master and sovereign, demanded in the brusque and imperious tone he used with everyone, “What says Mespech of my mission?”

  “What I’d also say, Monseigneur.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “That to house Navarre right away in the Louvre would only discourage him.”

  “But it could be arranged to have him lodged elsewhere! For example in the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, with a strong garrison of troops.”

  He said nothing more, but the vivacity of his response convinced me that Épernon sensed the enormous difficulties of his mission and that he greatly feared failing at it.

  I never heard one iota of what was said between Épernon and Navarre that day in Pamiers, nor at Encausse on 29th June, where they met again. On the other hand, I gleaned a few echoes of the long discussions they’d had at Pau from the 3rd to the 11th July from my father, who, though he’d not attended those meetings, was present when Navarre conferred with his principal advisors: Marmet, a minister of the reformed religion, Du Ferrier, his chancellor, and Monsieur de Roquelaure, who, though Catholic, had faithfully attached himself to the person of Navarre and to his fortunes, whatever they might be.

  To tell the truth, my father never opened his mouth in this discussion. Navarre never once asked for his advice, and my own view is that if he invited Siorac to attend it was so that the king could learn the terms of the discussion from another source than the Duc d’Épernon. At least, that’s the way my father understood it, otherwise he wouldn’t have shared a word of it with me. The strangest thing of all was that Navarre never once, in all those days, gave any sign that he remembered me, neither addressing a word to me nor looking at me directly, he who was so familiar with everyone down to the last slip of a page or saddle boy, despite the fact that he’d specifically asked Fröhlich at Pamiers how my fortunes were advancing at Henri’s court.

  What gave this secret council such weight was that, at the very time it was meeting, all the participants knew that Henri’s brother, whose health had been deteriorating since May, had died on 11th June—news that we received on 8th July from a messenger sent from Paris by the king. Thus, it had become imperative, Henri now having no successor, that he urgently come to an understanding with Navarre, if he didn’t want the Cardinal de Bourbon (Guise’s brother) to make his hair curl by pushing his advantage.

  Later on I had access to the letters that His Majesty sent to Navarre, admonishing, begging, exhorting him to join him in Paris and go to Mass with him so that he could recognize the Béarnais as his legitimate successor to the crown of France, and thereby receive all the rights, honours and advantages that would accrue to him in that role. It is never formally stated in these letters, but it is nevertheless strongly suggested that Navarre would be named lieutenant general as soon as his conversion was consummated, a position that would make him second only to the king of France, without his having to renounce the throne of Navarre.

  On the seventh day of the discussions between Épernon and Navarre at Pau, Navarre, departing from his usual habit, withdrew into his cabinet after the repast, with Roquelaure, Marmet, Du Ferrier and the Baron de Mespech, whose presence he requested with a nod of the head as he passed him. Dismissing all his valets and guards, he closed the door and, without saying a word, began pacing up and down, hands behind his back, lost in thought. According to the participants in the room, his demeanour wasn’t much different from that he’d adopted during the entire round of discussions: silent, occasionally shaking his head, posing a question or two, but never revealing his own position—until this moment with his counsellors, when he would no longer have to disguise the worries and confusion that had plagued him. My father reported the discussion as follows:

  “‘Well, sire,’ said Roquelaure, who is a tall, portly gentleman, whose scarlet complexion suggested that he is little apt at dissimulation, ‘whence this new sadness? Haven’t you every reason to be happy? The king of France not only recognizes your rights to succession but is ready to receive you at court and establish you as the first and firmest support of the throne.’

  “‘Yes, but on one condition,’ countered Marmet.”

  “Father,” I said, interrupting him, “what does this Marmet look like?”

  “I’m not surprised that you haven’t noticed him,” my father laughed. “He looks like a shadow. It’s as though he has no body, being so tall and skinny and all dressed in black, his eyes deep in their sockets, lips thin as blades of dead grass. But he’s surer in his faith than the firmest of rocks and has escaped from countless gibbets. My son, if you’ll promise not to interrupt me, I’ll continue:

  “‘On one condition, however,’ warned Marmet.

  “‘Well, I know what you’re going to say!’ said Navarre over his shoulder, not without some bitterness, since this condition was a thorn in his conscience. And he continued to pace back and forth on his short but energetic legs. The country of Béarn is all hills and valleys, as everyone knows, and its inhabitants have a mountaineer’s stride—lengthy and indefatigable. I think of Navarre as one of our local barns set on a hill: not very well proportioned, but built to withstand all weathers.”

  “And what about the chancellor, Du Ferrier?”

  “You’re interrupting again! You’ve seen wise old Du Ferrier—with the Ten Commandments etched on his noble brow. His sagacious eyes were moving back and forth between Navarre and Roquelaure, and from Roquelaure to Marmet, and, having too much on his mind to trust himself to express it, he simply held his tongue. But you can guess, my son, that this silence wasn’t just anybody’s silence—Nein! Nein! Nein! as my good Fröhlich would say. Du Ferrier’s silence had a kind of strength and majesty to it: Moses standing on Mount Sinai waiting for illumination from Heaven. And yet he’s a very political man. He’s only recently converted to the Huguenot faith and is a lot less zealous than Marmet.

  “But all this silence—Navarre’s, Du Ferrier’s and Marmet’s (this last had said but five words, but they were fearsome words)—this triple silence was becoming increasingly intolerable to Roquelaure, who, being a man of action and plain speaking, suddenly burst forth in a torrent of feelings.

  “‘Well, sire!’ he cried. ‘Here you are inwardly debating whether to embrace this good fortune and accept the king’s offer, or whether to refuse it in order to please your minister here and others of his stripe, who advise you according to their own passions and concerns, with no respect for your service and the public good!’

  “At this brutal attack, Mamet didn’t blink an eye, for indeed, how could such a rock be the least bit affected by a cataract falling from the greatest heights?

  “‘I am not,’ he hissed in a voice that was barely audible, ‘indifferent to the public good. Whether or not the king of Navarre agrees to hear Mass or not is a matter of conscience. Fourteen years ago, he was forced into it, a knife at his throat. Today, they’re begging him to do it. But who is begging him? The victor of Jarnac and Moncontour and one of the architects of the St Bartholomew’s day massacre! Assuredly, the king’s predicament has changed him, but what circumstances can fashion, circumstances can also undo. Navarre might well be Henri III’s right hand at the court, just as Coligny was—alas!—for Charles IX. But the court’s favour is fickle. In Béarn and in Guyenne the reformers are the lance and shield of our king, but if he agrees to hear Mass, he will be disarmed. If he returns to the court he will fall into the hands of his enemies. He will be doubly stripped bare.’

  “At this, Navarre, as he continued to pace back and forth with his mountaineer’s step, glanced meaningfull
y at Marmet, who’d just let him know, in his gentle and veiled way, that if he chose to hear Mass, he’d lose the support of the Huguenot party from which he drew his strength.

  “‘But stay,’ cried Roquelaure passionately, ‘if he doesn’t resign himself to hear Mass, isn’t he renouncing the throne of France? On the other hand, as soon as the court learns that the king of Navarre has converted, everyone in France will run to him to offer him their support, their means, their riches…’

  “‘Must he lose his soul to win the approval of men?’ asked Marmet.

  “‘But he doesn’t have to hear Mass in his heart!’ Roquelaure replied with naive impudence. ‘Can’t he be a Catholic only on the outside?’

  “At this a silence fell over the room so heavy, so cold and so prolonged that poor Roquelaure, who was himself a Catholic, but of the most worldly variety, was quite abashed, scarcely able to understand how the Huguenots felt about this question, which he’d raised with such unexpected light-heartedness. However, anchoring himself firmly on his two powerful legs and appearing, like Antaeus, to gain strength from his very contact with the earth, he added, his black eyes shooting thunder and lightning, ‘If we rebuff and refuse the king of France, there’s every danger that he’ll make peace with Guise and the Huguenots will pay the price for this alliance. And so I ask everyone here: wouldn’t it be better to hear 500 Masses than to revive the civil war and face its accompanying horrors?’

  “To speak of massacres to Huguenots, who had so often suffered from them, was a language they understood all too well, and Roquelaure’s argument, even though it stuck in their craws, had a visible effect on everyone present: but Marmet made no response, because he’d already said his piece; Du Ferrier held his peace because he had too much to say, and the king remained silent because he couldn’t open his mouth without announcing his decision—and he wasn’t ready to decide yet.