by Robert Merle
This was doubtless a strong and beautiful speech, but its very reasonableness flew too high for the base group of souls who were listening, and who, when they failed to see in it any threat of a well-deserved rope around their fat necks, discovered in this impunity a redoubling of their audacity and of the hatred they bore their monarch.
De Thou once told me that the king’s laziness and slowness to make decisions and act on them were due to the fact that he was a man more devoted to quiet meditation than to leadership, preferring the study of the habits, customs and laws of the kingdom in order to right the wrongs he discerned, and that Henri was never happier than when he could, during the more peaceful years of his reign, devote himself entirely to the writing of the immense body of laws that were later called, in legitimate homage to this work of immense consequence, the Code of Henri III.
I don’t know that I can contribute very much grist to this mill, since I witnessed this king, so beloved of his private study though he was, make so many decisions that seemed excellent at the moment—such as to send Épernon on a mission to Navarre—but that ended in failure. It wasn’t so much that the king’s meditations led to the wrong course of action, but rather that the action, once engaged, seemed somehow divorced from all the planning that went into it, since our times were so unsettled and unpredictable. Indeed, if one were to compare the actions of the Duc de Guise during this same period, from 1584 to 1588, one would observe that he seemed no less paralysed, hesitant or inconsistent than the king. Which is to say that he had to confront as many predicaments as Henri did. Despite receiving heaps of Spanish gold and enjoying the support of the people, Guise lacked Henri’s legitimacy as sovereign. Also, having adopted religion as his armour and shield, this armour ended up weighing him down, forcing him to march crab-like towards the throne.
My poor master, for his part, found himself nearly crushed by the enormous weight of his conscience, which was unable to condone his particular pleasures, which were roundly despised and condemned by both the Huguenot and Catholic Churches, the clergy, the ministers and the people. Indeed, it was to purge himself of this unbearable burden that Henri so often went on retreats to monasteries, locking himself in a tiny cell to pray and mortify his flesh, or else walked barefoot through the mud and muck of the Parisian streets in interminable processions in his hair shirt, chanting, praying and flagellating himself. Indeed, however much spittle (in the form of calumnies, lies and slander) fell on this poor soul from the sacred pulpits, whatever the affronts to and incursions into his power that Guise subjected him to, his inner spirit was already much darker than any of their attacks could make it. So, however much the king in him might have sought revenge, the sinner in him was resigned to drinking down, without flinching, the gall and vinegar of these humiliations.
I do not claim that all of these ideas occurred to me between the moment when Du Halde unlocked the door and the moment when I knelt before the king and he offered me his beautiful hand to kiss, which I took as delicately as I could in my rough paw, knowing how much care he took to keep his hands soft and smooth. But all of these aspects of Henri now invade my thoughts as I recollect this conversation in particular, not because it differed so much in content from all the others, but because I was struck by the king’s bearing, for he seemed in his absolute immobility to be posing for his own statue. Alas! the vile enemies who so besmirched him while he was alive still bedevil him after his death, since, in their engravings of him, they represent him standing, holding a miniature greyhound in a basket (a fancy he had on one particular day) or playing bilboquet with a cup and ball, something he once enjoyed for an hour or so. It is through such puerile and grotesque images that they have detracted from the dignity of a prince who struggled valiantly for fifteen years to maintain the unity of his kingdom and the legitimacy of the succession of the monarchy.
Boquet, who made the little ball that is named after him, spent years in a miserable workshop making these toys until the day that he was recognized by one of the king’s servants for having been the man who led Henri through the Polish forests when he was fleeing from Warsaw twelve years previously—a service that had never been required of him, nor rewarded. And when the king learnt of his whereabouts, he immediately went to his shop, followed by the entire court, bought all of Boquet’s balls—ordering more—and was immediately imitated by all the courtiers and then by pages, horsemen, lackeys, university students, artisans, bourgeois, thieves and even farmhands from the villages around Paris. As for the king, having enjoyed launching the game that was all the rage throughout his kingdom and that enriched the modest little inventor, he gave his ball to Chicot, who made little use of it, preferring to string words together than to catch a little ball on a string. And yet that’s how the fidelity, gratitude and graciousness of the king were eternally ridiculed by the hatred of the Guisards, despite the fact that Henri’s enrichment of Boquet hadn’t cost the royal treasury a penny!
“Siorac,” said the king, when I’d risen after kissing his hand, “I heard about your difficulties in Mâcon from a lieutenant in my guards who took the shorter route here while you were taking the longer, slower one. However, since his report was quite succinct, I’d like to hear a more complete version from you.”
I satisfied His Majesty as best I could, remembering how much he liked to hear everything in the greatest detail and enjoyed a well-told, lively and colourful account that would appeal both to the intellect and to the imagination.
This account given, the king appeared lost in thought for a few moments, but then explained:
“On the one hand, it would have been better to assign Mundane to Quéribus’s retinue. You were too carefully watched by Guise’s spies, firstly because you’re my physician (and they know I use Marc Miron on my missions), secondly because you’re a Huguenot ‘trimming your sails’ at court, and thirdly because you’re the son of a famous father who’s in the service of Navarre. On the other hand, Quéribus wouldn’t have conducted the inquest in Mâcon as well as you did, or so quickly, my child, discovered the letter.”
By this “my child”—the king being the same age as myself—Henri was expressing both his gratitude and his affection. With him everything was conveyed in such nuances: he knew the art of expressing a great deal in few words.
“Tell me about this Marianne.”
“She was lively and trim, with a dark complexion, black eyes, hair black as a crow’s wing and a delicious mouth.”
“Which doubtless you would have kissed if you’d had the opportunity…” the king replied, without smiling.
“No, sire. I wouldn’t have trusted her, since we had a letter to deliver. In such circumstances a rat must be clever to escape a clever cat.”
“Bloodletter,” Chicot interrupted, “since the wench was so enticing, you should say rather that ‘a rat must be clever to escape a beautiful cat’.”
“Chicot,” said the king, “do you know a wench of this description?”
“Indeed I do,” replied the fool. “She’s of good birth and serves two thighs.”
“Two thighs?” Henri said quizzically.
“One too short, the other too light.”
“Well, Siorac!” warned the king. “You and your friends are going to have to be on your guard. Madame Limp’s nest of vipers are extremely bloodthirsty. They’ve already accused you of taking 200,000 écus, and the knife will follow. You must leave Paris, my child—get away today, within the hour. Go to your estate, the Rugged Oak, fortify it and don’t leave until I call you back here. My treasurer will give you 2,000 écus, which should be enough for you to arm yourselves and fortify the place. And while you’re gone, my fool here, who’s got the nastiest tongue in the court, will spread the rumour that you’ve had a falling out with the king and that he’s exiled you to your estate.”
“Ah, sire!” I moaned. “Leaving you is already an unhappy and painful enough task! Must you add this nasty rumour of my disgrace?”
“Bah! It’s nothin
g but wind! But a wind that will protect you better than two squadrons of arquebusiers! In fact, who knows whether, instead of seeking to kill you, some Marianne might not come and tend to you in your solitude, hoping to win your sword to Guise’s cause?”
“By heaven, I’d sink it two inches in her heart!”
“What an original form of fornication!” mused the fool. “But one which has the weakness of not allowing any repeat performances.”
The king did not smile at this witticism, as he was in one of those melancholic moods that no one in the world, not even Chicot, seemed to be able to lighten, explain or cure.
I was no less sober as I left my good master, in that I had no idea when I’d see him again, and was sorely distressed by the idea that I could render him no service until all the dust of the 200,000 écus had settled. I could look forward to who knew how many long, morose months spent waiting at the Rugged Oak, with no other pleasure than fortifying its walls, for the expense of which the royal treasurer very disobligingly paid out but 1,500 of the 2,000 écus promised by the king. He pretended to be surprised that I was not overjoyed to see them pour into my wallet, but, in truth, I was so overcome with grief, and my cheeks so tear-stained, that I doubtless gave credence to the rumour that Chicot must have already spread by the time I reached the Louvre gates in the rue de l’Autruche, since Fogacer, Quéribus, Giacomi and Miroul had already heard it, and Captain Rambouillet, the portly guard who sat at the gate, held out his hand and said, “Farewell, my friend! The king is too fond of you to allow this exile to last very long.”
His words comforted me more than I could say (even though I knew that my disgrace was counterfeit), and so I leant over, teardrops as big as peas bathing his shoulder, and gave a kiss to each of his large red cheeks, which looked like nothing so much as hams that had yet to be cooked.
“My Pierre,” Quéribus urged, “let’s go into the chapel in the Hôtel de Bourbon. It would be good if we were seen hearing Mass on your last Sunday in Paris, and we can talk there without fearing the knife or any other disturbance at this early hour.”
As soon as he saw us, the paunchy verger of the chapel headed over to us, no doubt expecting a handout, given our rich attire, for seating us in a “good and worthy place”, but Quéribus informed him that we wished to sit at the back, “in all humility” and in order to pursue our devotions in tranquillity. Of course, the verger understood immediately, since so many affairs, even amorous ones, were negotiated in the shadows of this chapel located so conveniently close to the Louvre—affairs to which, once his palm was appropriately greased, he happily turned a blind eye. Accordingly, he placed us behind a large pillar and departed, very happy with us, given the generosity of our contribution, praying that the Lord might keep us forever in his holy protection.
“Amen!” confirmed Fogacer.
“Monsieur,” cautioned Miroul, “perhaps I should step out onto the porch of the chapel to keep an eye on our surroundings?”
“Go ahead, Miroul!” I replied sadly. “Stroll about as much as you’d like, my son. God knows how many months it’ll be before we see the streets of Paris again! But don’t go far. We have to leave today for the countryside.”
He took his leave and, with Quéribus on my right, Giacomi on my left and Fogacer behind us, flanked by the page he called Silvio (after the youngster he’d saved in Périgueux some ten years before, but who’d died of appendicitis, leaving him disconsolate), all three pressed me with questions about my disgrace, but I was careful not to mention Mundane, or Marianne, or the theft of my horse, instead saying only that the king wanted to get me out of Paris because of the rumours about the 200,000 écus that I had supposedly given to Navarre.
“Ah, my brother!” whispered Giacomi in my ear. “Although I’m devastated that you’ve been exiled from Paris, this exile happens to fit perfectly with my own affairs, if you’re willing to take me with you to the Rugged Oak!”
“What, my brother?” I scolded, quite put out by his request. “My exile is a comfort to you? My disgrace is merely a good thing for you!”
“Ah, Pierre!” returned Giacomi, blushing in shame. “I expressed myself very badly! But I need to tell you that Samarcas, thinking that we were still in Guyenne, has returned to Paris and is lodged with the Montcalms, where I saw Larissa this very day. She swore her love for me and begged me to free her from the clutches of this devil. But Samarcas arrived at that moment without being aware of my presence, and announced he was leaving within twenty-four hours, since he’d heard of our return. So, if he discovers that you’ve been exiled to the Rugged Oak, he may delay his departure, which would allow me, after ostensibly having left with you, to return to Paris.”
“Well, one man’s misfortune is another’s happiness,” I replied with a weak smile. “I am happy for you, Giacomi, and want you to be happy as well. I’ll leave today, if Quéribus would be willing to lend me his coach.”
“His coach, his escort and himself!” replied Quéribus.
“And me!” Fogacer chimed in.
“But, Fogacer, what about the king’s medical needs?”
“Mi fili, even though lies may sometimes be inoffensive, among friends they may be too obscure to be understood. I would love to be able to pretend that I am coming with you for your security. But with the baron? With Giacomi? Where could you find more able swordsmen? And no one’s better at throwing a knife than Miroul… who’s just coming in with his cheeks all swollen with some bit of news he’s about to spit out for you. Mi fili, the truth is neither pure nor simple, as I’ve already said. I must flee as far as possible from my street, my lodgings and my neighbourhood, since people are beginning to suspect that I don’t like petticoats as much as I should.”
“What about Henri?” I asked.
“Henri believes I’m at the bedside of my old mother, who’s been dead these twenty years. Another lie. But what can I do? The consequences of my fellow men’s foolishness are that I must constantly prevaricate and disappear. The wandering Jew? That’s me!”
“Monsieur,” broke in Miroul, his blue eye lighting up the shadows, “may I have a word alone with you?”
I rose and went to join him behind a pillar.
“Monsieur,” he repeated, “isn’t it amazing just how much one can learn when strolling about the streets if one keeps one’s eyes and ears wide open!”
“Miroul,” I snapped, “this prologue is way too long! Get to the point!”
“Ah, but this point needs some glossing!”
“Gloss away, I pray you.”
“Monsieur, when I think about how severely you’ve scolded me these past ten months for having strolled about for an hour or so, when in fact I learnt the name of the lieutenant of the provostry.”
“Are my errors and repentance a necessary part of your gloss?”
“Not at all—my gloss is all about the power of coincidence.”
“Well, explain yourself!”
“A lady leaves her lodgings and goes to post herself at the gates of the Louvre to bring you a warning. At this very moment, in order to go for a stroll I emerge from the chapel. From which it emerges,” he said, very happy with his play on words, “that if I hadn’t been strolling along, I wouldn’t have met the lady.”
“Well, I suppose I must be convinced of the power of the coincidence.”
“What’s wrong, Monsieur? You’re not yourself! You’re not scolding me! You’re sad and patient!”
“That’s what exile does to you.”
“Monsieur, don’t you want to know who the lady is?”
“Do I know her?”
“Very well, once upon a time. As a friend now.”
“Her name?”
“In her work, she’s a seamstress and bonnet-maker.”
“My Alizon, my little fly from hell!”
“Well, now, Monsieur, you’re reviving!”
“Miroul, run and fetch her!”
“Monsieur,” replied Miroul, “observe that I’m leaving without
further teasing, your chagrin makes me so sad.”
And, seeing him depart like an arrow shot from a crossbow and very relieved that he’d ceased his glossing, I made a sign to the verger; slipping him a few coins, I told him that I needed to speak to a lady about our common devotions, and that we’d need a private place to meet.
“Behind this curtain,” he offered, “you’ll be able to discuss the elevation of your souls. My good Monsieur, I’ll add my own prayers to yours.”
Even when we’d pulled the curtain in front of us and she’d removed her mask, I could scarcely recognize my Alizon, so splendidly was she decked out—in a pale-green petticoat embroidered with gold threads, and a beautifully brocaded bodice of the same colour.
“Alizon!” I exclaimed as she threw her arms around my neck and showered me with kisses, despite the distance between us enforced by her hooped petticoat. “Alizon! My pretty fly! How you’re done up! You look like a lady in all this finery!”
“Ah, Monsieur, you’re teasing me! I’m still the same bonnet-maker, though now I’m a mistress of my trade. But you can’t imagine what a perilous time I’ve had tracking you down, since you’ve now such a bad reputation on account of those 200,000 écus—”
“Lies, Alizon! Fabrications! A damnable character assassination!”
“Well, Monsieur! I’m so happy to hear it from your lips! Now, give me a kiss, my Pierre! I haven’t seen you for three months!”
