by Robert Merle
“Completely. But, sire, may I leave the Two Pigeons Inn?”
“Only at night, but the first contact will be made by Giacomi, who has the advantage of being Italian.”
“Ha!” I gushed happily. “So the maestro is here!”
“He’ll come see you after your noon meal. Siorac, one word more. I’ve asked Revol to write to the great judge in Montfort-l’Amaury, to have the Rugged Oak inscribed in the registry there as ‘Siorac’. You will therefore be Siorac twice, whereas your father is only Mespech once.”
“Sire, I’m infinitely obliged to you!”
“Alas!” replied the king. “This is not very much. But I don’t even have enough money to pay Larchant’s guards here, so that the only thing I can give you, Siorac, is your name.”
“Sire, I can only say that the man who bears this name serves you with all his heart.”
“I know!”
This said, his two hands resting on the arms of his chair, presenting a very regal, proud appearance and looking me directly in the eye, Henri said gravely, but without any pomp or raising his voice:
“I’ll see you soon, Siorac.”
“Ah, sire!” I cried, understanding now, and throwing myself at his feet, but I couldn’t say another word. His Majesty presented me his hand, and, unable to speak after having kissed it, I attempted to express my utmost gratitude with my eyes, and withdrew from his presence on unsteady legs, Du Halde accompanying me at a sign from the king.
“Du Halde,” I asked, once we’d stepped into the old cabinet and closed the door, “what’s happening with the Estates-General? Are things as bad as the king says?”
“Ah, Baron!” replied Du Halde. “Worse! The worm is in each of the three orders—and deeply. The clergy is entirely for the League, as are more than three-quarters of the Third Estate and more than half of the nobility, for God’s sake! Do you know who each of the three orders has elected as president? The Third Estate elected La Chapelle-Marteau, the nobility Brissac, and the clergy the Cardinal de Guise! Guise is, as you know, a furious zealot. Blessed Virgin! My master will get nothing but thorns, spitting and flagellations from them.”
At this tears began to flow down his long, austere face, and, embracing him sadly, I rejoined my guardsmen colleagues in the Gallery of the Stags, my throat so constricted I could hardly speak, having no thought for the title of baron that had just been bestowed on me (something that would have overjoyed me at any other time), but on the misery and death that would ensue when the throne collapsed.
Since I couldn’t leave the chateau without them, I had to wait around for two long hours with the Forty-five, who whiled away their time smoking, playing cards and throwing dice with their usual ruckus, completely unconcerned with the future of the state as far as I could tell, and finding life very good indeed—with a roof over their heads, good wages, good food and wenches every Monday. If their simplicity wasn’t exactly saintly, it wasn’t any the less happy for all that, in these times when just thinking about the future of the kingdom threw you into the darkest of moods.
Giacomi came to see me at the Two Pigeons Inn after the noon meal. La Bastide and Montseris, however generally rough-mannered, had the decency to quit our room as soon as they saw him, to leave us alone to talk. I was so grateful for their discretion that I sent the chambermaid to bring them a pitcher of Cahors wine in the common room of the inn. With his spidery arms, which reminded me of Fogacer, my Giacomi embraced me fondly, with many kisses, and laughed to see me so dark-haired. He told me that he’d scarcely left the king’s side ever since the barricades, sharing His Majesty’s nomadic life, riding from Paris to Chartres, from Chartres to Rouen, from Rouen to Mantes, and from Mantes back to Chartres—then from there to Blois. Larissa had remained in Paris and had not been molested, nor had her lodgings, since Giacomi was protected by the Duc de Mayenne, who had been one of his fencing students. In the meantime, Paris had become a kind of bourgeois republic, under the rule of the “Sixteen”, so called because each of the sixteen quarters of Paris had elected a representative to participate in the governance of the city. These Sixteen were more fanatical than the League and more papist than the Pope, subjugating the parliament, lambasting the “politicals” and scarcely obeying Mayenne or Guise. All of this was of enormous concern to Giacomi, who feared for his Larissa in the midst of all of this fanaticism, so he wrote asking to take refuge at my estate in Montfort-l’Amaury with their children—which he was very relieved to hear that Larissa had done, having received that very morning a letter confirming her arrival there.
“The king,” he continued, “didn’t explain this Venetianelli business, except to say that you wanted to meet him and that we had to approach it with kid gloves since the man belongs to Guise. I’ve never laid eyes on him, only heard about him since I know his dona de cuori,¶ whom they call La Cavalletta.”
“Which means?”
“The grasshopper.”
“Because she has long legs, or because she devours wheat fields?”
“Both. La Cavalletta arrived here on the heels of the Estates-General and immediately opened a welcoming little house for all three orders where one can eat, drink, gamble and carouse.”
“Aha, maestro!” I laughed. “Even though I think it’s better to wallow in a whorehouse than to rob an innocent damsel of her honour, I’m surprised that you haunt such places!”
“I only go there to gamble,” confessed Giacomi a little shamefacedly, since he was possessed of this vice, albeit in moderation.
“And you’re hoping to use this this noble lady as a go-between with Venetianelli?”
“Not without some misgivings, since La Cavalletta is a noblewoman, or at least passes for one: she dresses like a princess, is very decorous, puts on high airs and disguises her whores as honest chambermaids. I’m scarcely of sufficient rank to be admitted to her table, desiring as she does to play host to great lords, unctuous prelates or rich bourgeois.”
“So,” I said, smiling at the portrait, “Venetianelli is the favourite of this pretentious madam?”
“That’s the rumour. But I’ve never laid eyes on him in this good house, which is exquisitely appointed with all manner of paintings, rugs, furniture, crystal, silver, chandeliers, numerous servants, costly wines and delicacies. La Cavalletta is growing very rich from this. And, it is said that she has secretly married Venetianelli.”
“Well,” I confessed, “I’m very disappointed. How can I succeed if he’s so well off thanks to his wife?”
And suddenly, without really thinking it through, I decided to take a serious risk, and said:
“Giacomi, perhaps you could tell La Cavalletta, without mentioning my name, that I’m an officer of the king, and that Venetianelli might want to take some precautions and protections on this side as well…”
Giacomi immediately threw me a concerned look and said pensively:
“We’d have to exercise extreme caution. Ah, my friend, swordplay is but child’s play in comparison with complicated manoeuvres like this!”
The day after this conversation with Giacomi, which took place on 9th October, was the opening of the Estates-General, which I attended, lost in the middle of the Forty-five (and apparently nobody noticed that there were now forty-six of us!), who were stationed in front of the platform on which Henri and the two queens were seated, forming a crescent around them, with the gentlemen of the house standing some way behind the guards. This platform was not very high and had been constructed in front of the immense fireplace that occupied the middle of the long room, and in which great pine logs were burning (it being an unusually cold October). The royal dais was therefore situated right in front of these flames, which illuminated the violet velvet hangings with gold fleurs-de-lis that surrounded the king, and heated and illuminated him from behind so that his sombre silhouette, clothed as he was in black velvet, seemed to have a halo of light around it. This was already impressive, but when the king stood to deliver his speech, the fire crackled, s
ending sparks flying from behind him as if he’d commanded the flames that illuminated his royal person. This fiery performance left the three orders of the Estates-General stupefied, since it was the complete opposite of the submissive presence his bellicose subjects were expecting from their sovereign.
This hall, which was immense, happened in fact to be the work of Henri himself, for it had only included, at the time of the comtes de Blois, a single, splendid vaulted ceiling, like an inverted ship. But, twelve years previously, in his sure instinct for the beauty of things, Henri had doubled this with a second, identical and parallel to the first. It was linked and supported by a line of columns that ran in arcades up the centre of the hall. Thus, the two ships seemed to have been anchored side by side with their keels resting on the heavens above. In this way, the king had doubled the volume and surface of the hall without in the least destroying its harmony. The only inconvenience that resulted from this addition was that the windows situated on the smallest sides of the rectangle, though they were fairly large, weren’t sufficient to light the entire room, and so had to be augmented by the light from candles, set in chandeliers hanging from the middle of the arcades. But as many candles as there were, they provided only a fraction of the light that was now generated by the enormous fireplace, whose vigorous flames illuminated the king.
The Duc de Guise, in his office of lieutenant general of the kingdom, was seated on a stool at the foot of the platform, half turned to face the three orders to his right, but half-turned to face the king on his left in apparent respect. This ambiguous position couldn’t have been more symbolic, since he drew some of his power from the people he represented, but simultaneously drew the weakness of his position from the king, whom he might well be plotting to overthrow, but whose legitimacy he could not undo! He was wearing—and assuredly this was not by chance (since he wanted to resemble the archangel sent by God)—the same white doublet that he’d worn on the day of the barricades, which, being too light for the season, caused our beautiful archangel to sit there shivering with the cold, something that afflicted everyone in the hall save the king. His seat, supported on four sculpted legs, was garnished with a velvet cushion, but had no back, which seemed to hinder the duc in his attempt to strike various affected noble poses.
The poor queen mother, a martyr to her gout, had been dragged from her bed to her throne on the right of the king, usurping the place that should have been reserved for the queen, Louise, but which Catherine would never have consented to vacate, so ardently did the desire to hold on to the vestiges power burn in her dried-out heart. (In fact, that power was as useless and desiccated as her heart itself: the king had refused to accept the ministers she’d chosen for the council and now locked himself in his old cabinet to read his dispatches.) When the king rose to give his speech, her pale, swollen face betrayed her anger at the fact that he’d written the address himself and refused to provide her with a copy—and indeed, within the magnificent homage he paid her at the beginning of his speech was hidden a nearly insufferable derision, when he called her “mother of the state and the kingdom”, entities that seemed quite resolved to do without her.
The queen mother was wrapped, as was her custom, in the dark, funereal robe that she had worn since the death of Henri II, and, since the king was also dressed in black, one could only be grateful that Queen Louise had chosen a pink satin gown; she looked wonderfully composed, her face fresh and her blue eyes shining with innocence, being lucky enough to have no understanding of politics and to have never been asked to play a role in the affairs of state. Her sole occupation, it would seem, since Henri had never given her a son, was to be his doll—he loved to fuss over her, to do her make-up and run a silver brush through her long, golden hair. Here, in this austere assembly, she was a balm for the eyes, as were most of the court ladies in the gallery, who were much more interested in being seen than in listening to political disputes. I couldn’t help casting my own eyes on them from time to time, enjoying not only their beauty but also the wafts of perfume that reached me. I would much rather have been seated in the midst of these beautiful, gold-embroidered dresses than standing among these rough and malodorous Gascons.
Although the king was dressed in black velvet, he had not forgone under the circumstances any of his jewellery—rings, rows of pearls and earrings—which he loved to display, or his favourite hat, believing that he shouldn’t omit any of his baubles simply because some of his subjects ridiculed him for wearing them. In the same independent spirit, he broke with the tradition whereby the king sits on his throne while speaking to the Estates-General; instead he spoke standing, thereby giving more force to his words. No one in the room had any idea of what he was going to say, since he’d written this oration alone in the privacy of his old cabinet, refusing to share it with the queen mother or with any of his ministers—and especially not with his lieutenant general, Guise; instead he had had it printed so that it could be distributed immediately to the deputies of the three orders, and sent to the governors and seneschals of each province, as well as to the members of the parliaments in Paris and in other major cities.
Standing tall and majestically, holding the printed pages of his speech in his gloved hands, looking radiant in the halo of light coming from the fireplace behind him, he began his speech quietly and somewhat haltingly, but, suddenly finding a voice that matched the tenor of his words, his voice became strong and imposing.
I would like to invite my reader, at this historic moment, to bring his or her compassion to bear on the suffering of this oh-so-human man, my beloved master, whose overwhelming desire was, above all, even at the peril of his life, to preserve his people from a bloody civil war, and a significant number of his subjects from extermination. He stood before a large congregation of fanatical clergymen, powerful and ambitious princes, much of the French nobility and ignorant commoners. And in this immense hall of the Château de Blois—where the dark, inverted twin ships above seemed already to symbolize the shipwreck of the state, their keels reaching towards a pitiless heaven—fewer than 100 of the 500 deputies present shared the wise and peaceful ambitions of the king. The Third Estate, the clergy and the nobility, all in the name of a “God of love and forgiveness”, were panting for blood, already tasting murder, dreaming of massacre, despising the king and his long patience, and yearning only to submit to the double yoke of Guise and the Spanish king. But this lonely king—betrayed by so many of his followers (and by his mother before any of them), almost three-quarters defeated, clearly at bay, financially ruined, supported by unpaid soldiers, controlling but a handful of faithful cities in his kingdom—had suddenly turned to face this pack of rabid dogs and was defying them. He was standing up to their assault! He was parrying their every blow! Henri deserves, I believe, our tenderness and our unlimited admiration for the incredible bravery and fortitude he displayed, faced with this bloodthirsty mob.
And what did this king without a capital say? Nothing but what he would have said at the summit of his power, without compromising any of the principles or prerogatives of the throne. Let’s listen to him as he defies the victory of the so-called Holy League:
“All leagues that are not under my authority will not be tolerated. Neither my duty to God nor my duty to the state will allow me to legitimize them; rather, they force me to oppose them. For all leagues, associations, practices, movements, plots, drafting of troops and raising of monies by or from anyone within or outside the kingdom” (clearly a reference to Spanish gold) “must be made by the king and, in any well-ordered monarchy, will be considered crimes of lese-majesty if undertaken without the express permission of the king.”
And his speech included this statement, clearly directed at Guise and the Lorraine princes:
“I am your king by God’s decree and am the only one who can truly and legitimately make this claim!”
And he added this, under the guise of a pardon granted to the errant rebel, but in fact condemning any future such attempts:
/> “Some of the great lords of my kingdom have made leagues and associations, but, in witness to my accustomed beneficence, I am willing to put the past behind us. But as I am obliged—as we all are—to preserve the dignity of the throne, I declare that, now and henceforth, any of my subjects who engage in such activities without my express consent will be tried for the crime of lese-majesty.”
There was at these words a terrible commotion in the hall, which rippled through the 500 deputies of the three orders and agitated them like a wind of hurricane force through a field of grain. To say that Guise and his followers would be accused of the crime of lese-majesty if they did not desist was nothing less than to hint at their death sentences, since there was no likelihood that they would consent to abandon their plots, having the king at their mercy as they did. And that the king in such dire circumstances would have the incredible audacity, in the name of his legitimacy, to threaten Guise with the executioner’s block, in front of the assembled Estates-General, left the duc aghast. I saw him waver in his chair, his face drained of colour and self-assurance, hesitate between fear and anger, and then glance at his brother the cardinal, who was seated in the first row of the clergy. This last, despite his robe (which he willingly exchanged for a coat of mail or a breastplate), did not pride himself on manners or mercy as his older brother did, whom he resembled not a whit, being dark-skinned, with furious, sharp, black eyes that gave off sparks of hatred. He was quite handsome, although not very evangelical by nature: in his private life he was a great whorer and, in public, seemed interested only in murder and massacre. Nor did he hesitate very long about what to do, but rose, pale with rage and gnashing his teeth, and left the hall without bowing to the king, to be followed by the duc, the Comte de Brissac and La Chapelle-Marteau, as the king continued to read his speech in a strong and firm voice, his face inscrutable, as if it were of no consequence to him that his grand master and the three presidents of the orders had left the hall.
