by Robert Merle
“‘Well, my father,’ said the king to Du Ferrier, ‘what do you think?’
“‘That we must,’ replied Du Ferrier in a very measured tone, ‘try to imagine the effects of an immediate recantation of your faith. I believe they would be deplorable, both for the Catholics, who wouldn’t believe you to be sincere, and for the Huguenots. And what would the advantages be? In my view, very dubious ones, the court in Paris being what it is. I don’t think the hour has yet come for such a considerable concession, one that would confuse everything and solve nothing. The king of Navarre has already changed his religion too often. So I think it’s better that he remain what he is than put himself in danger of being reputed to be changeable and unserious, without any certainty of being able to take advantage of the conversion. So what should we do? Remain faithful to the law, to try to prevent the Catholics from attacking the Huguenots and the Huguenots from undertaking any action against the Catholics. Our entire kingdom is hungry for such a time. The two factions who seem today so incompatible will discover themselves reunited through clemency.’”
“Well, father,” I cried, “those are noble words indeed, and recall what Étienne de La Boétie once said to us while visiting Mespech, and what Montaigne says in his Essais.”
“And before him, Michel de L’Hospital,” added Jean de Siorac, “since the great minds of our times are friends of tolerance. But to continue: at the silence that followed Du Ferrier’s declaration—which didn’t absolutely rule out Henri’s abjuration but saw it rather as inopportune—you could sense that Roquelaure had lost the argument, though the king, without agreeing with either one, leant over to Du Ferrier and whispered a few words in his ear. After which, making a stiff bow to our assembly, and a friendly smile, he unlocked the door and left the room.”
The next day, which was 11th July, my father received a visit from the king of Navarre, who was accompanied only by Roquelaure, and stayed for a breakfast that was served by Mundane, who’d been hastily awakened. Afterwards, my father withdrew, while Navarre and Roquelaure remained with the Englishman, and so I’ve never learnt what was said on this occasion. I strongly suspect, however, that Elizabeth had no interest in seeing Navarre weakened in any way, since Guise was threatening to throw France into the Spanish camp, which would isolate England on its island—a suspicion that was fuelled by rumours that Felipe II was amassing an immense armada to invade England and restore Catholicism there.
On that same day, our party heard news of a disastrous event of enormous consequence for world peace, and, although I only received word of it a month later, I will report it here. My heart is as heavy now, years later, as I write these lines, as it was when I learnt this news: the Prince of Orange, known as William the Silent—because he spoke so little but always so very thoughtfully—was assassinated by a man named Balthasar Gérard, who, having just handed him a letter, pulled a pistol from beneath his coat and, while the Dutch head of state was reading it, shot him through the heart. Put to torture, Gérard confessed that he had been exhorted to act by a Jesuit in Rome, who’d assured him that this would be a deed of infinite merit and that a choir of angels would carry his soul straight to Paradise, where he would take his place at the right hand of Jesus Christ and the Blessed Virgin. Travelling from Rome to Paris, he’d been strengthened in his resolve by the Spanish ambassador, Mendoza, and in Flanders by the Duke of Parma, who promised him immense riches if he succeeded in his mission. Worse still, a Jesuit from Treves covered his body with new parchment that had been blessed, to assure his invulnerability after his deed.
Thus fortified with a promise of impunity, heaps of gold and a trip to Paradise, this poor fool, believing he was serving God in this business, in which many other interests than his own were being served, dispatched one of the most magnanimous princes on the continent, and the most solid bulwark of our Huguenot faith. As soon as he received the news of this “triumph”, the Duke of Parma set in motion the enormous machine that was to capture the port of Antwerp, reduce Flanders to ruins and menace the English.
We were in Lyons when the news reached me, and I informed Mundane of it immediately, and remember vividly that, when he heard it, he fell onto a stool, head in hands, and cried hot and bitter tears. I was astonished at this sudden display of emotion, since he was normally so calm, slow to act and inscrutable, even when he was making a joke, which was always accompanied by a little chuckle rather than a burst of laughter.
“Ah, Mr Mundane,” I enquired, “did you know William the Silent personally, and were you so fond of him?”
“No, no!” he replied in English, forgetting his French in his distress, “I’ve never set eyes on him.”
“So why are you taking this so grievously?”
“Oh, my queen!” gasped Mundane, still in English, overcome with sobbing. “My queen! My poor queen!”
“What has this got to do with your queen?” I asked, amazed.
“She is next on the list,” he replied, taking his head from his hands and looking at me in great distress.
Understanding the extremity of his fears for Elizabeth, since Felipe II and the Jesuits had so easily succeeded in their assassination of the Prince of Orange, I did my best to comfort him, reminding him that, as England was an island, any miscreant would easily be apprehended as he arrived in port, and that Walsingham was said to have a hundred eyes, half of which were constantly on the lookout for any enemies of the queen. At the name of Walsingham, who was the minister whom Mundane must be working for, my companion seemed somewhat heartened and dried his tears, leaving me wholly impressed with the great love he bore his sovereign. I could only wish to God that someday in France my countrymen would display such devotion to their king! And that our swords might forever protect him against the throng of knives that surrounded him!
It was in Lyons that Épernon joined Henri III, who’d come there to remove Monseigneur Mandelot from his post as governor of the city (since he’d got wind that he was a Guisard) and transfer the office to the Comte du Bouchage, Joyeuse’s brother. For the same reasons, he removed La Mante from his role as captain of the citadel and gave it to Montcassin, whom he trusted because he was the cousin of Épernon—a trust that was, alas!, misplaced, since Montcassin later betrayed him with Guise. Things had become very ticklish for the king at this juncture, since Guise’s followers were infesting the country like worms rotten wood, making it difficult for him to find supporters who had not already joined these worms.
As Épernon approached Lyons, a very stupid accident nearly cost him his life. A good number of gentlemen from the king’s retinue had come out from the city to meet him, which they did on a very narrow road that bordered a ravine. These last, after greeting their ally, turned their horses round to return to the city, preceding the king’s favourite, but, unfortunately, as they did so one fellow caught his sword in the duc’s bridle and the terrified horse reared and rolled into the precipice with its rider.
We thought both rider and mount had been killed, as indeed the horse had been, but no—Épernon had merely fainted away, and suffered a dislocated shoulder, but no break. I had it back in place within an hour, and, when we got to Lyons, I bandaged the cuts he’d received. I went immediately to reassure the king, who was extremely uneasy, since rumours had reached him of Épernon’s demise; he was very relieved to hear that the wounds were of little consequence.
“Épernon, my little man!” laughed Chicot. “If you’d seen the great joy on all the faces of the workers and inhabitants of Lyons, you’d have been impressed by how much they love you!”
“I don’t give a fig about being loved,” replied Épernon without so much as a smile at this joke. “I serve the king.”
“And faithfully,” added the king.
“Nay nay, my little friend!” countered Chicot. “Was it to serve the king that you stripped Monsieur de La Châtre of the captaincy of Loches, or was it to acquire the post yourself?”
“To serve the king, of course!” responded Épern
on without missing a beat. “La Châtre is a Guisard, no matter how much he tried to ingratiate himself with me. He was intending to betray us.”
And in this the king’s favourite was not mistaken, for La Châtre did indeed go over to Guise’s side after that, handing him the city of Bourges as a gauge of his fidelity. I’m writing this in my chronicle in order to be completely fair to Épernon. And, as for his reputation of forever grasping for money, I’d like to add that, although the king bestowed innumerable heaps of gold on him, they did not all end up in his purse, but were often spent in the service of his master—as were, for example, the monies he used to recruit and pay the famous “Forty-five Guardsmen” with whom he surrounded the king day and night to protect him from assassination.
On the evening of Épernon’s terrible accident, I saw Henri III at his bedtime in his alcove, on the pretext of taking his pulse, and told him in detail what I’d learnt from my father regarding the secret council of the king of Navarre.
“It’s just as I thought,” he mused when I’d finished, with a distracted and dreamy look. “He and I were bound to end up as allies someday. Separated, we’d be destroyed, one after the other. Together, we will destroy them!”
Mundane was very anxious to return to Paris, to deliver a note to Lord Stafford that Navarre had written to his queen, and I too was anxious to return, having sorely missed Angelina and my beautiful children these past three months. Therefore, I asked leave of my king, not wishing to remain in Lyons with him and Épernon while they attended a festival that was being held there in their honour—the king loved such amusements, especially theatrical productions, ballet and poetry.
Henri granted my request quite reluctantly, especially since, as he said, he feared for my safety—since I’d be travelling through the countryside, where, ever since the troubles had begun, there were thousands of brigands, who attacked travellers and left them only their bodies and souls. I explained to His Majesty that there were four of us, all well armed with pistols and all four able swordsmen—not to mention that Miroul could throw a knife better than any mother’s son in France. But the king, who was like a father to all of his servants (though he was my age), would hear nothing of it, and insisted on providing me with a sergeant and three guards as reinforcements, and on adding 100 écus for their expenses (which was reduced to sixty-five by his treasurer). The astonishing thing about this transaction was that the royal treasurers, who amassed such great fortunes, often ended up lending money to His Majesty (with interest), even though the monies were his own!
This sergeant was named Delpech, and he was from the Sarlat region, which immediately endeared him to me—no surprise, especially since he was, in the Périgordian manner, amiable and very helpful, with no other vices than a penchant for the bottle. I would have preferred to do without him and his three men, since, dressed as they were in the king’s livery, they identified us as allies of His Majesty, which naturally provoked many hostile looks from all the Guisards along our way. My unease was also provoked by the feeling, once or twice, that we were being followed on the road from Lyons to Paris, a feeling that was confirmed when, at one point, we suddenly turned our horses to confront our followers, only to see them turn round and scurry away. This led me to consider the fact that brigands always set up their ambushes ahead of you—in some woods or behind a bridge—but never attack from behind, since, coming from the rear, they couldn’t hope to catch you, gentlemen’s horses being always stronger and faster than theirs. So our followers must have been of another species than highwaymen, and must have had other reasons to be spying on us than a taste for our money, rings or horses. I became so alarmed that I discussed with Giacomi whether we shouldn’t leave the main road, where our followers could always catch up with us at an inn, and throw them off the trail by taking a longer route to Paris. But Giacomi disagreed, arguing that the main road was so full of carts and horsemen that it would be difficult for these rascals to attack us without others coming to our rescue, not to mention the fact that a group as well armed as ours would be able to inflict heavy losses on our attackers given that they didn’t appear to outnumber us.
At this, Mr Mundane, who’d been listening to our conversation, vehemently intervened and begged me to continue on the shortest possible road, since the message he had to transmit could tolerate no delay. At first I resisted his request, but poor Mundane renewed it with such desperation that you would have believed the life of his queen depended on it. So, in the end, I accepted Giacomi’s and Mundane’s advice, very much against my own better judgement, and abandoned my plan.
In the end, this turned out to be a grave error, as the irreparable damage that followed proved only too well. I still feel terrible pain and regret to this day, and have, ever since, been convinced that the natural leader of a band—though he should certainly consult his companions when in danger—should nevertheless make his own decisions, no matter how unpopular, if he is sure of them, since he alone is responsible for the success of the enterprise and the welfare of all. I failed to accept this responsibility that day for the first time in my life—and I pray to God that it will be the last.
We found lodgings at the Black Horse, situated at the north end of Mâcon, at a crossroads called “the dead horse”, which inspired Miroul to comment that the horse must have died of the plague since, on the inn’s sign, it was entirely black—apparently also the colour of the heart of the landlord, who scorched us properly, extorting five écus for a room that was worth two at the most. He justified this fleecing by pointing out that traffic on the main road was so heavy that he didn’t lack for customers—a claim that was quickly verified, for, less than an hour after us, four fellows arrived, who asked for lodgings and were placed at the lower end of our table, where they threw themselves at their food like pigs after slops. They were all scruffy-looking, bearded and unwashed, and took their meal with their hats drawn over their eyes, making only grunts instead of words, their leader ending the ceremony by cleaning his teeth with his knife. I called him “their leader”, for he appeared to have some authority over the other three, though he was the smallest of the lot, as thin as a weasel, with a snout like a fox.
The sight of these swine splattering themselves with grease in their avid gluttony was, frankly, revolting—Miroul observing that you could tell from the stains on their doublets everything they’d eaten in the last week—and so I turned away to watch the chambermaid at work. She was a lively and frisky girl, whom our innkeeper from hell called Marianne, and who’d made some advances and caressed our hands as she’d served us our wine—most obviously to Giacomi, but more subtly to me. But seeing no encouragement from either of us—Giacomi being so constantly melancholic and myself consumed with thoughts of my Angelina—she’d turned her artillery on Miroul. My gentle valet, though he loved his Florine dearly, was not a man to resist a petticoat, and weakened at her first onslaught. The minx therefore redoubled her assaults and pressed her bosom up against his face as she served him his wine. At this rate I doubted Miroul would ever find the resolve necessary to block her advances in the night that was fast approaching. Seeing the affair as good as concluded, and believing, with Montaigne, that “one should always give one’s valet leave for some imprudences”—especially when that valet serves you as well as Miroul did me—I decided to feign complete blindness to the progress of the couple, and instead engaged Giacomi in a discussion of Larissa, trying to fan the dying embers of his hope.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t help watching the comings and goings of the wench, since there’s a kind of invincible attraction in the body of a woman who’s bustling about. I noticed that she was engaged in a rather lengthy conversation with the fox-faced weasel, which suddenly excited feelings of antagonism towards the girl, and these increased when I saw her, as she returned to our end of the table, give a harsh slap to Miroul’s hand as he started to caress her backside. After that she paid no more attention to him than if he’d been a mouldy biscuit, suddenly redirecting her fire o
nto Mr Mundane, who’d never taken his eyes off of her the entire time, and so she was able to breach his walls and occupy his stronghold in a trice. “Well!” I thought. “So many of the fair sex are like the moon, whose face takes on so many different expressions in one month! But in this case it’s not one a day but one a minute!”
After dinner, our skinflint of an innkeeper came to warn us to keep our windows closed and locked, since they looked out on the road, and the area was teeming with miscreants who wouldn’t hesitate to lay siege to any opening, climbing up to it by ladder or along the eaves. He also advised us to hobble our horses in the stable and have our valets keep a close watch over them, so that no one would steal them, for as well shuttered and locked as the barn door was, one must keep an eye open for thieves who’d pass through the eye of a needle to steal other people’s goods.
Giacomi and I would certainly have wanted to keep the windows open in our room, since the August night was stifling, but we preferred our safety to any breeze that might blow our way, and kept them tightly shut. I repeated the innkeeper’s instructions to Mundane, who was to share a room with Miroul, fearing that the Englishman might not have understood his particular dialect.
No sooner had I closed my door, however, than someone knocked; opening it, I saw Miroul standing there, entirely clothed, pistol and sword prominently displayed in his belt (and two other knives doubtless hidden in his boots).
“Monsieur,” he explained, “I thought it would be a good idea to sleep in the stables so as not to have to go down there two or three times to make sure no one’s trying to get at our horses.”
He said this with a mix of pride and chagrin, and, as I raised my candle to get a better look at his face, I found him looking somewhat crestfallen, which gave me to believe that, having been suddenly deprived of Marianne’s attentions, he had decided to vacate the room in order to allow Mundane to enjoy the fruits of his victory, and to make his bed in the straw of the stables—to “chew on the cud of his disappointment”, as they say in Périgord. For never did a dream replace a wench, as everyone knows, and a chambermaid in an inn is worth more than a thousand dreams of a princess in her palace…
