by Robert Merle
“Not at all!” I replied with a smile. “And I’m am greatly distressed that they’ll be unable to return to Paris with us tomorrow. It seems they’ll have to wait here until they find new lodgings, since their former dwelling is no longer available.”
“Why don’t they come and stay with us in the rue du Champ-Fleuri?” she cried. And saying this, she took each of them by the arm and, pulling them to her, smiled sweetly since she loved them dearly, and especially Fogacer, who’d been so fond of her for so long that his affection would have troubled me had it been anyone else. But I knew very well that the love they shared was not even like that of a father for his daughter or a sister for her brother, but rather an entirely spiritual tenderness. Everyone who knew Fogacer believed him to be sceptical, derisive and diabolical, but not Angelina, who was blind to all of his vices and did not believe his atheism, his negativity or his sexual orientation—and what she saw must have been real in some way, for Fogacer responded to her view of him with perpetual and immutable adoration.
“Oh, my friend!” stammered Fogacer, his voice suddenly reaching such a clarity and pitch that it sounded infantile. “I never would have dared ask you for such a boon, no matter how much I wished it, for fear of inconveniencing you, but if this is what you want, I could not ask for better! You are so good, beneficent and forgiving that if I were more religious I’d compare you to the Blessed Virgin!”
“Silly fellow!” replied Angelina, standing up on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek, for Fogacer was a good head taller than she, though he behaved as if he were one of her children. “That’s blasphemy!”
“My friend, you dare scold me?” replied Fogacer, secretly delighted to be so chided.
“You’re blaspheming, silly fellow that you are!” Angelina insisted imperiously. “It’s a sin to compare me to the Mother of God; I’m simply the mother of six little devils—seven, if I count you!” she said, smiling sweetly at Fogacer. “No, eight!” she added, fearing in her generous nature that little Silvio might feel left out of the clutch of chicks she gathered into the warm down of her feathers. “To work, my friends,” she trumpeted loudly and joyfully. “To your rooms and pack your bags and look lively! I’ll come by later to check in on you,” she added, giving each one a squeeze on the arm and, as she let go, a little pat on the neck.
“What about me, Madame?” I asked when they’d left. “Will I have nothing from you?”
“Monsieur,” she replied, her beautiful doe’s eyes shining tenderly, “you’ll have everything, but in good time, which is not the present moment, or even the next—or even the one after that! I’ve got a thousand chores to do that you can help with. Unless…”
“Unless?”
“Unless you could ask our servants to have my bath filled with hot water at eight o’clock, since all this packing will leave me as filthy as Queen Margot, who, if I remember correctly, once boasted of not having washed her hands for a week.”
At this, she gave a joyful laugh, turned on her heels and, her petticoats swirling in time with her fine figure, ran off to do her chores.
Of Queen Margot, whom I’d seen with these very eyes on the day of her marriage to the king of Navarre, I’d scarcely heard a word since her brother had banished her from the court, given that her whole family had rejected her on account of her strange behaviour. And as for Navarre, although he had welcomed her to his chateau in Nérac, he’d caressed his “wife” with sweet words and polite smiles, but had never once touched her with his hands, mouth or member, not wishing to allow her to claim she was pregnant by him when it was a thousand times more likely that she would be carrying someone else’s baby, since the lady was so profligate.
On the morning of our departure, as I went to give the signal to mount, my foot practically in my stirrup, a horseman rode up to deliver a letter, and, recognizing both the address and the beautiful handwriting of my father, I dropped my bridle and hurriedly opened the missive.
My dear son,
I am sending a copy of this letter to your estate at the Rugged Oak and another copy to your lodgings in the rue du Champ-Fleuri, so concerned am I to ensure that it reaches you, since the news I am sending you is of the greatest consequence, not so much for you as for the king, to whom you must communicate it immediately, or, if you are still at the Rugged Oak, within a day. The king of Navarre has just escaped an attempt to poison him perpetrated by one of his secretaries, named Ferraud, whom his wife had placed in his service. This Ferraud confessed under torture that he had acted on express advice and orders from his mistress, who was distressed that her husband would not consent to approach her.
In any case, it is said here that Navarre’s coldness towards and negligence of the queen dates from August 1583 (following rumours that she’d had an abortion while at the court of her brother, the king, during the fifteen months she was separated from her husband). It is possible that the assassination attempt was prompted not so much by the queen’s anger and bitterness towards Navarre as by her desire to rejoin Guise, since it is known that she was infatuated with him before her marriage—and so the attempt may well be at Guise’s instigation.
The king of Navarre would like to know what his cousin and beloved sovereign, the king of France, would like him to do with the queen, as he does not wish to offend His Majesty by treating her inhumanely, nor to keep her against her will, given her rank and dignity.
Since it is also possible that this assassination attempt was part of a more general plan aimed at various Christian princes—as we already saw in the murder of William of Orange—the king of Navarre entreats his cousin and beloved sovereign to take measures to protect his own life, and prays Heaven to keep him safe.
My son, I am in good health and hardy, and wish the same for you and for Madame your wife and for your children.
Jean
We arrived in Paris at nightfall, and though still dusty from the road and wearing my boots, I hurried to the Louvre, where Alphonse d’Ornano, who was posted at the gate, required that I hand over my sword and dagger, since the Duc d’Épernon, who’d been promoted to colonel general of the French infantry, had decided that no armed man would be allowed to enter the Louvre, a measure I found wholly appropriate given the uncertainty of the times. I ran from the gate and up the great staircase that led to the king’s chambers, where I expected to find him given the lateness of the hour, and met Du Halde in the royal antechamber, and informed him that the king had urgently required my presence. Du Halde agreed to ask His Majesty if indeed he wished to see me, and, in my impatience to convey the news of the attempt on Navarre’s life, I hurried in after him. No sooner had I passed the threshold, however, than I was suddenly overwhelmed by a pair of strong arms and thrown to the floor, while I don’t know how many menacing daggers pricked me in front and from behind, and a giant bearded fellow stepped up and shouted in stentorian tones and with a rough Gascon accent:
“How now, Monsieur? Is this any way to enter the king’s chambers? Who are you and where do you think you are?”
“Monsieur,” I countered, white with rage, “who are you yourself? And what kind of reception is this to throw an unarmed man to the ground and surround him with daggers?”
“I am Laugnac de Montpezat,” he replied, “captain of the Forty-five Guardsmen, five of whom you see here, who are going to search you, however much you claim you’re not armed.”
“This is too much, Monsieur!” I cried, but in vain, for two of these spadaccini, who stank of garlic and sweat, held my legs, two others my arms, while the fifth went through my doublet and my leggings inch by inch with his vigilant fingers.
“Monsieur,” I said indignantly, “I am the Chevalier de Siorac, the king’s physician!”
“That’s as may be,” Laugnac replied with utmost arrogance, “but I don’t know you and have never laid eyes on you in the six months I’ve been here.”
“I was away on my estate.”
“In exile then, were you?” sneered Laugnac, raisin
g an eyebrow.
“Indeed, in exile. But the king has called me back to him.”
“Have you got letters to prove it?”
“No. The Baron de Quéribus ordered me back here.”
“Who,” broke in one of the five, “hasn’t been seen in three days.”
“No, because he was at my estate in Montfort-l’Amaury.”
“The fact remains, Monsieur,” Laugnac insisted, “that none of us knows you.”
“Messieurs,” I observed, “six months ago, not one of you was here, since you were recruited in Gascony by the Duc d’Épernon.”
Visibly, this did not please them at all, and I could see in their Gascon eyes, as they glared at me from all sides, that they would very happily have dispatched me right then and there if they’d dared.
Luckily for me, the door to the king’s chambers opened and Chicot appeared, his nose running as usual; seeing me pointedly surrounded by these Gascons’ knives, he burst out laughing:
“Rapier,” he observed to Laugnac, “if you kill Henri’s physicians you’ll very likely lose your 1,200 écus in wages and your meals at court, which would be an extreme punishment for someone like you, who eats as much as four.”
Just then, Du Halde appeared and, seeing me in this predicament, instead of laughing, frowned mightily and said in a tone dripping with scorn:
“Messieurs, I find you excessively hasty and your actions precipitous. This gentleman is expected by His Majesty.”
Whereupon the five released me, looking very sheepish and abashed, yet still snarling and their fur still bristling, like dogs that have been deprived of their quarry.
* In order: the Duchesse de Montpensier, the Cardinal de Guise, the Duc de Mayenne and the Duc de Guise.
† “Go, the dismissal is made” (the concluding words of the Catholic Mass).
‡ “Everyone wants to know, but no one wants to pay the price for the information” (Juvenal).
§ “Winning of goodwill.”
7
THE KING HAD NOT gone to bed, but was, instead, in his chapel, engrossed in a piece of work that struck me as passing strange, though I’d heard tell of it already from Quéribus. But there were so many fables concerning Henri that I never would have believed this one had I not seen it with my very eyes: His Majesty was cutting out miniature images from one of the prayer books that were written by hand before the use of the printing press became widespread; and since such miniatures were drawn by the most gifted artists, the king, after cutting them out, directed his page to glue them onto the woodwork of his chapel, at places he would indicate only after a great deal of hesitation and consideration. The page was standing there waiting, his brush in hand, while the king meditated on his choice, and I stood there as well on the threshold of the chapel—or rather the oratory, which was furnished with a tiny but very ornate altar, a single kneeler, covered in red velvet, and a bookstand, on which the illuminated manuscript had been placed, from which, as far as I could tell, the king had cut about one quarter of the miniatures.
Now, I won’t deny that the effect of these paintings on the walls of the chapel was a very pleasant one, since the miniatures were not distributed randomly, but according to their subjects and colours. Nor did it bother me that this activity was an affront to logic or even to art. No—what surprised me was that its very principle was one that only a child would have conceived of: the destruction of an infinitely precious book of hours in order to decorate an oratory, when he could have had a much more complete and harmonious decoration painted for him by a great artist. Nor should we forget that each of the miniatures was meant to illustrate a particular prayer, and so his display would no doubt have seemed almost sacrilegious to a papist, since it separated the images from the orisons.
The king was facing away from me, entirely absorbed by his work, and hadn’t heard me come in. I didn’t feel I could budge until he had seen me and offered his hand in greeting, so I stood quietly in his presence for several minutes, feeling quite ill at ease lest he feel I had surprised him at this bizarre pastime. I was astonished that he could focus so completely on this childishness while his entire kingdom was in such turmoil, his own capital a hive of Guisard sedition, his finances in such a shambles and his life in such imminent danger.
“Sire,” said Du Halde finally, who, as he stood behind me, sensed my embarrassing predicament, “Monsieur de Siorac is here.”
“Ah, Siorac!” said the king as casually as if we were continuing a conversation begun the night before; and, transferring his scissors from his right hand to his left, he distractedly offered me his hand, which I kissed on bended knee.
This done, the king returned to his work as though he’d forgotten the reason he’d asked me to return post-haste from my estate. So, as I stood there silently awaiting his pleasure, I observed that his face seemed horribly altered, his skin a pasty olive colour, his eyes circled with deep, dark rings—nor could I help noticing that that the fingers that held the scissors were shaking so hard that he had trouble cutting a straight line. He had to struggle so hard with this task that his forehead was bathed in drops of perspiration despite the frosty February temperatures in the room.
“Well, Siorac!” he said with a sigh as he handed the cut-out miniature to his page and pointed to the place where he wanted it to be glued. “How fare you?”
“Sire,” I replied, “I received a letter this morning from my father, who writes on behalf of Navarre that there is news of great consequence concerning his wife.”
“Ah!” sighed the king with an expression of great disdain and bitterness. “Margot! Margot again! What is it now? Read it, Siorac!”
I read the letter, though Henri seemed scarcely to listen, continuing all the while his scissor work, his eyes lowered, his lips pursed and a frown furrowing his brow, with so great an attention to his task that one might have thought the fortunes of his throne depended on it.
When I’d finished, he remained silent until he’d managed, despite the trembling of his fingers, to detach the image he’d been extracting from the book of hours; then he looked around, his head cocked to one side, to decide where he’d like it pasted in the strange mosaic that papered his oratory, pointed with his index finger (whose long nail was painted bright red), indicating where the page was to hang it, and handed it to him.
“If Margot hadn’t failed,” he remarked in the most casual tone, despite the trembling of his lower lip, “I’m sure Guise would have been very happy.”
“Sire,” broke in Chicot—who, until that moment, had been standing behind Du Halde and who, I now noticed, looked pale and crestfallen, entirely devoid of the happy, joking expression it usually displayed—and forgetting his role as fool, “do you believe Guise had her do it?”
“I don’t know,” answered the king. “Margot has as little respect for the life of a man as she does for that of a chicken. She’s a thoroughly unforgiving woman and seems entirely embittered towards Navarre, whom she cannot forgive for his disdain of her body these last two years… Siorac, reread the letter, I beg you.”
I obeyed, and when I reached the sentence where it was written, “The king of Navarre would like to know what his cousin and beloved sovereign, the king of France, would like him to do with the queen, as he does not wish to offend His Majesty by treating her inhumanely, nor to keep her against her will, given her rank and dignity,” Henri interrupted me.
“Navarre,” he said, shaking his head and putting down his scissors on the book of hours, “always writes exactly what he should. He is sensitive to the fact that it would offend me if Margot were treated inhumanely, no matter what she has done. I would like,” he continued after a moment’s reflection, “to have her placed under guard in some city where Navarre might see her from time to time to father some children… But,” he added suddenly, “Navarre will never do this. And how could I blame him, since I’m quite aware of the lady’s infidelities? So I’m not sure I’m right to ask this of him.”
I
was astonished to hear Henri debate such private family matters in my presence, but, on the other hand, it’s true that a king belongs so thoroughly to his kingdom that he has no private concerns, not even his heart or his life, or his most personal setbacks, all of which influence our own. However, I consider that had Henri been in his usual frame of mind, he would never have repeated in the same distracted tones, as if speaking to himself, this next sentence, which I would have preferred not to hear:
“Other than Marie de Clèves, I’ve never loved any woman but Margot, and I would have wanted to keep her virtuous, except perhaps with me. Had she been so, I might be a different man today.”
Having said these words that, on the one hand were not very clear but, on the other, were all too clear, the king took up his iconoclastic labours again, until finally Du Halde, who had established a rare degree of familiarity with the king, authorized by his unlimited devotion, presumed to speak:
“Sire, you called Monsieur de Siorac here to speak of a matter that would brook no delay.”
“Well, Siorac,” said the king suddenly, in such a clear, resolute voice that one would have thought Du Halde had awoken him from a long sleep. He put down his scissors and continued, “Siorac, my son, the rumours about you have quieted, perhaps because of your letter to La Vasselière. Or perhaps because of your feigned exile. But I believe that your life is no longer in danger and that you can remain in Paris and begin serving me again, but secretly. I’m going to spread the rumour that you returned in order to treat Épernon’s raging sore throat, which has made his life miserable since January, and that you’re going to oversee his diet and the necessary medications. But in reality, my son, your job is to contact Mosca and find out what Guise is doing to cause the Parisians to turn against me. You will offer this fellow as much money as Guise has given him to do their work.”
“But, sire,” I replied, “didn’t you tell Quéribus that you yourself were suffering from a terrible sore throat?”
