League of Spies

by Robert Merle

  We managed to cross two of these barricades without firing a shot. However, as we reached the third, which, like the first two, was bristling with arquebuses, halberds and pikes, a large, fat fellow who was parading and bragging a lot, and told us haughtily that his name was Fessard, informed us that we had to have a man named La Chapelle-Marteau provide us with stamped documents, without which we’d be forbidden to continue and considered to be “politicals”; we’d also have our cart confiscated by the League, who would use it as a door for their barricade.

  We retraced our steps and began to ask various people what they knew about this man, La Chapelle-Marteau, whom I’d discovered, through reports from Mosca, to be one of the most bloodthirsty and influential of the Leaguers, and who was a counsellor to the Court of Accounts. One fellow told us that he held court in a tavern that he’d had reopened under his authority, all shops and boutiques having been closed by their owners as soon as the Swiss Guards arrived, out of fear of both the soldiers and a popular uprising, so we went looking for this place. Meanwhile, I was trying to calm my Alizon, who was spitting like an angry cat at not being able to get back to her shop. She was worried that she hadn’t been able to fortify it properly, and that it was now protected only by the weak arms of Florine, a bonnet-maker, an embroiderer and a little messenger.

  I was able to get her an audience with La Chapelle-Marteau, a large lump of a man as yellow as a quince, with a twisted nose and a jaundiced look, who was so full of self-importance that he could already imagine himself as a minister under the future king, and who, after having looked rudely at us, and noticed the medal of the Virgin on my doublet and the rosary wound around my wrist, finally softened his stance somewhat and was willing, he said through tightly closed lips, to give us a pass if we would donate two écus for the war chest of the League. Seeing my Alizon ready to take out her claws again, I secretly squeezed her wrist, and said devoutly to La Chapelle-Marteau that I was only too happy to make such a donation, since it would serve the greater glory of the Catholic Church, which had been so buffeted by those Huguenots and the political friends of the king. La Chapelle-Marteau was very pleased with this language, since it was in such words that he revelled every day, but, being of a jaundiced and sickly complexion—both outwardly and inwardly—he observed, as I reached for my purse, that if those two gentlemen (meaning Miroul and Baragran) were in our party, it would cost another écu. At this Alizon’s eyes blazed hellfire, but I quickly and unobtrusively stepped on her foot and silenced her. Presently, La Chapelle-Marteau furnished us with our passes, on which my name was listed as “Baragran, Étienne, master bonnet-maker from Boulogne”.

  I was not sorry to be done with this miser, who vividly recalled Captain Bouillargues, who did quite a brisk business in passports during the Michelade in Nîmes, for the poor Catholics who had money enough to escape those executions.

  My little fly was too furious even to buzz about this (she was as angry about the loss of my écus as she would have been had they been her own); Baragran was silent—since, as usual, he had nothing to say—and even I was too concerned about what I was seeing to speak: the windows of each of the houses along the street were full of people with guns, or, on the windowsills in front of them, piles of stones, and I could see that the Swiss Guards, forced to stop by the barricades in front of them, would be stoned and fired upon from the houses on either side of them. Miroul was the only one of us who opened his mouth between one barricade and the next, to observe jokingly that it was no wonder that La Chapelle-Marteau was the counsellor in charge of the Court of Accounts, since he was so good at settling his.

  Hardly had we returned to our lodgings when I decided to head back out again to gather more information, but Alizon didn’t see things that way: she wanted me to have some nourishment and to join me in that repast, for, despite being as thin as an eel, she was as hearty an eater at table as she was frisky in bed, her night-time activity quickly burning up the fuel of the other kind of nourishment so that she never seemed to get heavy.

  Our meal finished, the bonnet-maker, the embroiderer and the little messenger were sent home, and both doors and shutters of the house were locked and bolted closed. Once this was done, Alizon asked Baragran and Miroul to collect any stones they found in front of the house and in the courtyard behind, and to make piles in the windows to throw at any Swiss Guards who tried to force their way into the house. This done, and since her house and workshop—which had been transformed into a fortress, like each of the others in the street—were now unoccupied, her workers having been sent home, she would have liked to be comforted more completely in her anguish, being accustomed to having recourse to a remedy that never failed her. I, however, refused to consent, knowing full well that, once she had me captive in her arms, I wouldn’t be able to get away until after dark, and would be too tired to do anything but fall asleep. So I tore myself away from her tender wiles, very sorry to see her sobbing at the perils I would be exposed to, but in a great hurry to extricate myself, since her rages always seemed to follow her tears.

  Miroul and I headed first towards the Saints-Innocents cemetery, passing the barricades without firing a shot, thanks to the passes that La Chapelle-Marteau had provided us with, the barricaders assuming that I was an envoy of the League, which seemed more likely to them since I was well armed. Once at the cemetery, I realized that it was surrounded by fortified streets of the sort I had walked through, so that the Swiss Guards wouldn’t be able to get out without being caught up in a kind of battle they were not at all used to, exposed as they would be on all sides, and trapped between the barricades on one hand and the windows and roofs of the houses on the other. Moreover, from what I’d heard they were very unhappy with the orders they’d been given not to fire on the people, who, emboldened after their initial terror by the apparent passivity of the guards—who’d made no more move to attack on them than if they’d been stone statues—began to insult them, and had dared to intercept the convoy of supplies sent by the Louvre, eating the bread and drinking the wine right in front of the hungry soldiers. The Swiss were now prey to great discomfort from hunger, thirst and the sweltering heat—and especially from the view of this city in arms, whose thousands of voices were calling for their immediate extermination.

  And indeed, this is what I was beginning to fear, for I could see people who were not necessarily sympathetic to the League, but who were determined to defend this notion of the “privilege” of the Parisians and to boot out of their city these troops that the king had dared put there. It now seemed as though, faced with this affront, what had been merely a revolt of Leaguers had now become a universal uprising. I could see that on this day, Thursday, 12th May, an entire people had rushed to bear arms—the artisan dropping his tools, the merchant his wares, the schoolboy his books, the hauler his sacks, the lawyer his liripipe and the grave counsellors their very robes—to dress in doublets and take up pikes, so enormous was their indignation at the insufferable offence that had been made to their city.

  From the Saints-Innocents, I headed to the place de Grève, where I heard that other Swiss and French Guards had been stationed and then beset on all sides by barricades, and were perhaps in a worse predicament than their colleagues whom I’ve just described. Here the inhabitants and workers of the Saint-Antoine quarter that surrounded them had seized a convoy bringing gunpowder to the troops, and had distributed its contents to those on the barricades who had firearms. Now, it seemed the people would be better armed than the soldiers themselves if it came to a battle.

  But of all of the spectacles I encountered, the most upsetting for me, as a faithful servant of my king—though, of course, it would be thrilling for a member of the League—was the scene that awaited me on the Île de la Cité, when I crossed the Pont Notre-Dame: here the Swiss Guards, according to what I heard, had been pressed so hard by the mass of the people that they’d taken refuge at the back of the Marché-Neuf, and the companies that had advanced across the Pont Saint-Michel
had fallen back under a hail of stones thrown by the clerics and students of l’Université under the leadership of the Comte de Brissac. Colonel Crillon, the same man who’d pushed his hat farther down on his head rather than bow to Guise, now having had to retreat, was nearly consumed by his rage at the order not to fire.

  The strangest part was that those on the barricades and those in Swiss uniforms could see each other clearly. And since they hadn’t begun firing, the League leaders and the royal officers began trading comic insults very much in the Parisian manner. It’s a pity and ironic to consider that those men preparing to kill each other over the issue of the reformed religion all belonged to the same papist faith. Indeed, it has been confirmed that, on that 12th May, everywhere in France Catholics were split between the royalist and Guisard causes—in Paris, at the court, in the great body of the Estates-General, in the provinces, in the entire nation; every city, every neighbourhood, every street, every family and even the brains of individual men were divided.

  Thus it was that I recognized, among the royalists, François d’O, and, among the Leaguers, his brother the Marquis d’O; or again, among the officers was Colonel Cossein, and within the barricades one of his best friends, a counsellor of parliament, who, raising his voice and calling him by his name, asked him jocularly if he was happy where he was. Cossein, who was never slow to respond to a joke, answered:

  “It’s not so comfortable here, but it’s the fault of the provost of the merchants!”

  “And how so?”

  “He promised the king 30,000 labourers and inhabitants of Paris. And I see that he didn’t keep his promise, for I see thirty of the king’s men here and 1,000 for Monsieur de Guise.”

  Whether candour or cleverness inspired this banter, it was very flattering to the men on the barricades, and, having made them laugh, made them feel a bit better about the soldiers, who still hadn’t killed anyone, however badly wounded some of them had been by the stones.

  “Why don’t you withdraw?” shouted one the heads of the Leaguers, who, perhaps a bit less zealous than the others, found it enormously absurd, as I did, that Catholics of various stripes should be exterminating each other over the question of whether the Huguenots should be exterminated—who, by the greatest irony of all, were not even included in this fight at all, since the few who were still in Paris had disappeared when these troubles had begun.

  “I’d like to, but I can’t!” cried a captain, a man named Marivaux.

  “Marivaux,” shouted a Leaguer friend of his who had recognized him, “where are you supposed to go?”

  “To the Louvre! With my Swiss Guards!”

  “But that’s what we want too! We just don’t want you in Paris!”

  This reply was so well received within and without the barricades, and ultimately welcomed by both sides, that in the end each side sent negotiators, who, according to what I heard, decided after a lengthy discussion that the Swiss Guards should withdraw along the rue Neuve and the Pont Notre-Dame. Once they’d crossed the river they were to follow the quai de Seine to the Louvre.

  And, when reason had finally prevailed, the Swiss Guards began their retreat, with Monsieur de Marivaux leading them, accompanied by a League negotiator, who had the barricades opened so that they could pass. And, curious to see how this strange retreat would be managed in this insurgent city, I followed them, along with many of the barricaders, with whom I mingled and who, deliriously happy with their victory over the king’s troops, forgot that they owed this peace to the king himself, who had given the order that under no circumstances should his men fire on the people.

  However, scarcely had the first column entered the rue Neuve when the people in that street—who were leaning out of their windows, armed with pistols and arquebuses or piles of stones—began shouting at them to extinguish their fuses, fearing that an inadvertent shot might wound someone on the barricades or at a window. This cry was taken up by all the onlookers, who thoroughly understood its urgency, and suddenly the air was filled with a hubbub of vociferation that left the poor Swiss all the more stupefied since they took them for cries of hatred, and simply couldn’t distinguish the words “Extinguish your fuses!” Tragically, since the soldiers couldn’t comply with these shouted demands without an order from their officers, and since all the officers were at the head of the column, and couldn’t make out this request among the general pandemonium, nothing was done. To add to this concatenation of confusion, on that 12th May Paris was afflicted with a nearly insufferable heatwave; none of the Swiss Guards had had anything to eat or drink since daybreak; and, though they were fearsome soldiers in the open field against declared enemies, they were unhappy to be opposing these civilians whom the king had brought them here “to control”. And to top it all they were under strict orders not to fire, but no one had told them to extinguish their fuses.

  As one might have predicted, from the midst of this hungry, thirsty, overheated troop a shot was unfortunately fired that killed a bourgeois in a window. Shouts of vengeance followed immediately, and all the arquebuses in the other windows spat out their deadly charges at the poor Swiss, while, worse still, a hail of rocks, stones and window glass descended on them, cutting them down on all sides. Those who attempted to find refuge under the corbels of the houses were taken out by the marksmen on the other side of the street. The more reasonable among them simply fell to their knees and, pulling out and brandishing their rosaries, cried lamentably (since they thought the Parisians believed them to be Swiss Huguenots): “Good Swiss! Good Catholics!”

  These naive appeals, cries of pain and brandished rosaries, along with the moans of the dying, ultimately produced a general feeling of compassion among their assailants, and as the Swiss fell back towards the Marché-Neuf, the people allowed them to retreat without further harm and regroup in a butcher’s shop. From what I’ve heard, while this was going on along the river, the two other garrisons of the Swiss at the Saints-Innocents cemetery and at the place de Grève were hardly better off, surrounded by barricades and lacking food or ammunition.

  There now seemed to be a wave of hesitation among the insurgents and the Leaguers, and, since they had no natural hatred of the Swiss, who had never fired a shot at them, other than the accidental one, and now seemed to be the innocent instruments of the king—neither royalists, “politicals” nor Huguenots—no one really knew what to do with them, having no further taste for attacking them and fearing in case they were forced to fire their weapons in self-defence.

  It was onto this ambiguous and embarrassing situation that the Duc de Guise descended from the heavens like a deus ex machina.

  He was magnificently clad in a doublet as white as his soul and as pure as his intentions; on his head was a great white-plumed hat, and in his hands was no other weapon than a walking stick with a silver handle. He was preceded by two pretty blond pages looking like cherubs, one carrying his sword, the other his sceptre (so that it would be eminently clear urbi et orbi that there was also some of St George in this archangel of peace). Addressing the people in the streets, he praised their valour for having turned aside the threat to their city and protected their immemorial privileges. He explained hypocritically that he’d been closeted in his lodgings all day, unaware of what was going on outside until he’d received a request from the king urging him to go out, calm the tumult and lead the troops back to the Louvre safe and sound. He asked their permission to do so in the name of divine mercy and prayed to God and to the Holy Church to keep him safe for evermore.

  At this, from every street and every quarter came a burst of acclamation, delirium and hallelujahs, with people kneeling in front of him, kissing his boots and rubbing their rosaries on his white tunic, which was a good deal less white by the day’s end—so much did the naivety of these Parisians, who are so much more gullible than in any other city in the kingdom, cause them to be besotted with Guise. They were so charmed by his voice that he began inventing all kinds of lies, including that he’d had nothing t
o do with this riot, whereas his lieutenants were known to have been plotting it since the 9th. The noise of acclamation was deafening, as the people shouted “Long live Guise!” and “No more delays! Let’s lead Guise to Reims right now!”—which of course meant that they intended to crown him king of France immediately, since the vox populi desired it. At this, Guise hypocritically pushed his large hat down over his eyes (so they wouldn’t see him laughing?), and, extending his two hands in front of him, said modestly:

  “My friends, that’s enough! Messieurs, it’s too much! Don’t shout ‘Long live Guise’—shout ‘Long live the king’!”

  At this, of course, the shouts of “Long live Guise” increased dramatically, and could not be drowned out even by the church bells, all of which began ringing joyfully to notify the Most High in heaven of the stunning victory of the Holy League over the king.

  “My friends,” repeated Guise, who, as he advanced through the streets in his immaculate doublet, simply couldn’t get enough this incredible pleasure of not being obeyed, “don’t shout ‘Long live Guise’—shout ‘Long live the king’!”

  “Ah, the poor king!” I thought. “What a dark day! An immense loss! And of peace first of all! How can they not see it? Whoever controls the capital controls more than half of the kingdom! If Guise is king of Paris, he will bring the Spanish within our borders, reduce the legitimate king to nothing and impose on him a war of extermination against the Huguenots, which will be followed by the Inquisition!”

  I was thus plunged in my dark thoughts amid the general joy of the crowds around me, when I felt a tug at my sleeve, and Miroul whispered in langue d’oc:

  “Monsieur, I beg you, put on a happy face. There’s a lady in Guise’s retinue who’s been looking at you all this time from behind her mask, and who looks as though she might be Marianne.”

  Having said this, Miroul began waving his arms wildly and shouted more loudly than any of our neighbours “Long live Guise!” This turned out to be a grave mistake, for amid all the shoving in the crowd, his eyepatch slipped from his blue eye—he put it back as quickly as he could, but the damage was done. The watchful lady had had time, I believe, to recognize his varicoloured eyes, and quickly beckoned over a pretentious-looking fellow, whom I immediately recognized as the major-domo of Madame de Montpensier.