by Robert Merle
“Monsieur, I don’t understand you,” replied La Cavalletta.
“Madame,” I replied with a special emphasis on the word, “it’s magical that you don’t understand me, since my assertions are so clear and since I have the proof in my breeches…”
At this she threw an anguished glance at the basket of rags and paled, though she managed not lose her composure—unlike Venetianelli, who looked visibly undone by our daggers and my words. I could see that his legs were getting very shaky.
“Well, Monsieur,” she conceded, though maintaining her haughty air, “I’m listening. What do you want?”
Instead of responding, I just stood there silently looking at her, noticing that she was put together in an unusual way: her head (though quite oval, with a pointed chin) was very small, her shoulders puny and her torso oddly short; her legs, however, were very long, to the point that, since I couldn’t actually see them under her hoop skirt, I might have thought she was walking on stilts! As for her arms, which were momentarily folded, her hands over her stomach, I had the impression that if she extended them they’d reach all the way to the wall behind me. And yet, despite this disproportion, La Cavalletta was not ugly. She had bright, black eyes, a straight nose and nicely formed lips. As for her bosom, given how narrow and short her torso was, it was surprisingly luscious, firm and milky. Looking again at her face I realized that I couldn’t have seen her turn pale as I thought, because she was so heavily made up—rather, I had been given this impression by her nostrils, which had pinched up at the mention of the words “witches” and “magic”.
“Madame,” I said at length, “I want nothing more than a private interview with Signore Venetianelli, in this little cabinet here. Will you consent to this?”
“Seigneur Venetianelli is not a suckling babe! He can talk with whomever he wishes.”
“Signore,” I said, “will you agree to the conversation?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” he murmured, after having cast a desperate at La Cavalletta, who had closed her eyes and was nibbling furiously on a lace handkerchief.
“Madame,” I said, “I will ask you to be seated on the stool and not to move a muscle or say a single word during our conversation. Montseris,” I said in Provençal to my Gascon roommate, who was standing next to me, “be sure not to accept anything from this drola,†† neither a bite to eat nor any wine—and that goes for the lot of you.”
This said, I sheathed my dagger, took a candle from the bedside table and lit it from the chandelier; then, seizing Venetianelli by the arm, I pushed him into the little room and closed the door behind us.
“Signore, are you going to kill me?” stammered Venetianelli, who I could see by the candlelight was trembling from head to foot.
I laughed in response and looked him over more curiously than I’d done previously, when I’d been focused on La Cavalletta, never having seen anyone like her. And, in truth, Venetianelli had nothing strange about him, being a pretty little signore, whose very diminutive size was the most amazing thing about him: he was a head shorter than La Cavalletta, with a soft and fearful demeanour—in contrast to hers, which was so arch and commanding.
“Signore,” I began, “my job is not to go killing people, but to protect the king and his loyal subjects from assassination, which would include murders committed from afar using bewitched dolls and other damnable practices. If I were to arrest you right now, along with La Cavalletta, not even the Cardinal de Guise could protect you from being burnt at the stake.”
“But I’m not involved in her work!” he pleaded, his lips atremble and sweat pouring down his cheeks.
“Who will believe you?” I said staring him in the eye. “And who could possibly believe you’re not since you’re her husband and thus must surely have taken part in her witchcraft?”
At this, Venetianelli fell silent, and so did I, but I was careful to drop my threatening looks. His eyes gradually lost their fear and began to gleam with a certain Italian finesse, though he was still uncertain and tremulous.
“Monsieur,” he whispered, his mouth so dry that I could see by the candlelight that filaments of saliva were drying on his lips, “is there any way that I could correct this unfortunate impression?”
“Well, there is one, Signore. I hear from time to time reports from a fellow who, being a valet of the Lorraine household, serves at their table and listens to their conversations. You wouldn’t know or even suspect him. However, another story, coming from you and whispered in my ear, unconnected to the first but corroborating it, would be very precious to me.”
“Precious? How precious, Signore?” breathed Venetianelli, regaining his breath and looking infinitely relieved.
“Precious enough for me to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Ah, Monsieur! That wouldn’t be enough to satisfy La Cavalletta,” he countered. “She’ll require you to return what belongs to her so that she can destroy it.”
“Signore,” I smiled, “I’m not a man to make your signora unhappy, who can giocare con sua bambola‡‡ as soon as my master has left Blois and your stories have, as I believe they will, satisfied me. Signore, do we have an agreement?”
“Chi tace acconsente,”§§ said Venetianelli. “Tell me where to meet you and my mouth will be there, unbeknownst to my conscience, not wanting to bite the hand that feeds me.”
“Signore,” I laughed, “the scruples of conscience are much less sharp than a needle in the heart of a doll. I can be found at the Two Pigeons Inn every night. You’ll find my ears wide open if you’ll just ask Monsieur de La Bastide. Signore, I wish you goodnight and advise you not to leave Blois—your departure might be interpreted as a flight by the suspicious.”
*
This all took place on the night of 15th December, and I didn’t have long to wait, for, on the evening of the 18th, La Bastide, who was rolling dice with Montseris in the common room, brought Signore Venetianelli up to see me. Whereupon La Bastide left and I hid Miroul with an escritoire behind the bed curtains so that he could take careful notes of this conversation. I myself put on a mask, having little confidence in the man, who, when he entered the room, looked with such suspicion at the drawn curtains that I laughed:
“Signore, I didn’t hide any spadaccini there to kill you! Sit down here on this stool, next to me, and tell me your story, which I’m most curious to hear and to compare to the one I’ve already heard.” (Of course, I hadn’t heard any other story, but had made up the bit about the other spy so that he wouldn’t embroider his own version too much.)
“Monsieur,” Venetianelli began, “you therefore already know that there was a dinner given by Monsieur de Guise, last night, to which he invited the Cardinal de Guise, the archbishop of Lyons, the aged president of Neuilly, La Chapelle-Marteau, Maineville and Madame de Montpensier.”
“Yes, I know who was there,” I confirmed, though feeling quite uneasy since the only guests at this dinner were Guise’s council of rabid zealots, all of whom hated the king—not least the archbishop of Lyons, whom Henri had accused of simony and incest with his sister, and who, in retaliation, had written a libellous accusation against Henri and Épernon. Neuilly, who couldn’t say two words without whining, had such a tender heart that, sixteen years previously, he had taken advantage of the St Bartholomew’s day massacre to have the president of La Place assassinated so he could take his place. La Chapelle-Marteau, the lanky, bent-nosed thief who’d taken three écus from Alizon and me on the day of the barricades, was a counsellor at the Court of Accounts who “knew how to feather his own nest”. The Seigneur de Maineville turned up frequently in Mosca’s reports as having served as a go-between for Guise and the League at its beginnings, and I knew him, without having met him, as a cold, cunning fellow, who cared no more for the life of a man than for that of a chicken. As for la Montpensier, she has lit up so many pages of this account with her sulphurous flames that I can leave it to my reader to judge her.
“Monsieur de Guise,” Venetianelli recounted,
“seemed somewhat disquieted, and when his brother, the cardinal, asked him the reason, he said that he’d heard so many accounts from so many different people that the king wanted to dispatch him, that he wondered if it wouldn’t be better for his personal safety to leave Blois.
“‘No, no!’ cried the archbishop. ‘Monseigneur, you must not think of it! He who leaves the game loses it! Will we ever have a better chance than this given that the Estates are ours? The king is not a madman, he wouldn’t want to destroy himself trying to destroy you. Moreover, he’s more woman than man and will never have enough resolve to arrange an assassination, even if he’s thought about it!’
“Monsieur,” Venetianelli continued, “you doubtless know that the archbishop is expecting to be named a cardinal, and that he fears his chance will founder if Guise flounders.”
“Yes, I know,” I answered gravely, “but go on, Signore: your ‘founders’ and ‘flounders’ are very gallant. One can see, thanks to your native Italy, that your talent for these concetti¶¶ has enhanced the elegance of your French.”
“Monsieur, I thank you,” gushed Venetianelli, who seemed delighted with my compliment, since he was, in general, so full of himself. I noticed that, as he spoke, he kept admiring his hands, or else his image in the mirror opposite. “The president of Neuilly,” he continued, “spoke next after the duc, with tears in his eyes, as usual, pleading both sides of the argument without being aware of the contradiction.
“‘Well, Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘you must certainly look out for your safety, since your loss would mean our collective loss. And yet, I believe that you must ignore the warnings you’ve received, and remain here, unless you’d like to leave in order to better preserve your life, which is so precious to us, since ours so depend on yours.’”
“Well, that’s as clear as mud!” I laughed.
“The next speaker was worse!” smiled Venetianelli. “It was La Chapelle-Marteau, and he drove home the point.
“‘We shouldn’t be afraid,’ he said in his raucous voice, ‘since we’re the stronger party. And yet I don’t trust the king. We must not flee but strike first.’”
“Did he say ‘strike’?” I said, frowning.
“In truth, I’m not sure whether he said ‘strike’ or ‘act’. You know, the fellow hardly opens his mouth when he speaks, he’s so miserly and doesn’t want to share his breath.”
I encouraged my Italian spy with another smile at this little joke, sensing that the more Venetianelli let himself go with his natural verve, the more he’d reveal about the dinner.
“As for Maineville (whom the king calls ‘Maine-League’, as you know), he spoke furiously, horns lowered, with that bull’s face of his.
“‘The archbishop of Lyons,’ he noted, ‘is completely wrong to say that the king isn’t a madman. And as for saying that, being more female than male, he doesn’t have what it takes to strike—that is a huge mistake, Monsieur! The king is mad: he’ll strike without regard for the consequences. And as for having ‘enough resolve’, did Catherine de’ Medici have ‘enough resolve’ to kill Coligny? So if the mother didn’t lack what it takes, then the son may not lack it either, since he’s of the Florentine race and therefore capable of poisoning and assassination! Be very afraid of the Medici family! My advice is that we shouldn’t dawdle here. If we don’t flee, then we must act and do so before the king does.’”
“Signore,” I said, “I’m not surprised you’re an actor! You are an entire theatre all by yourself! Your scene is well presented and your actors so lively! I can’t wait to hear what the duc will say!”
“Well, Monsieur, you’re going to be very disappointed!” replied Venetianelli, who stole a look in the mirror and appeared to be quite satisfied with his corporeal form. “The duc didn’t play his role very well. I expected him to be more trenchant, but he seemed vague, evasive, yet very full of swagger:
“‘If I were to see death coming through the window, I wouldn’t rush out the door!’ he cried. But as for a decision, there was nothing in the slightest, which made his brother so impatient that he shouted furiously, his black eyes shooting sparks:
“‘Monsieur my brother! You always do things by halves! If you’d listened to me, we wouldn’t be in such difficulty with the king as we are today!’
“‘That’s the way to talk!’ applauded la Montpensier, who, rising from her chair, limped over to her brother-in-law the cardinal and kissed him on the mouth. ‘’Sblood!’ she continued. ‘Let’s bury this king–queen in a convent and be done with it! Monsieur my brother, you can hold his head between your knees and, with my scissors, I’ll tonsure him and make his third crown in the centre of his head… Messieurs, I think this Valois gentleman will make an excellent monk, since he’s already so practised at self-mortification and fasting that the Lord will not wait long before calling him to His side…’
“This so amused and tickled the cardinal that, rising, he raised his cup majestically and shouted:
“‘I drink to the future king of France!’”
“Signore,” I reflected after a moment’s thought, “this is beautifully told! I don’t doubt that the advice of the zealots will carry the day, but the strange thing is the way the duc continues to beat about the bush!”
“But that’s because he feels so great, so strong, so supported and loved by the people and so sustained by the three orders that he believes he’s invincible—like the Armada,” said Venetianelli with a smile, “or like Goliath.”
“Signore,” I laughed, “you don’t seem very unhappy to be forced by me to bite the hand that feeds you!”
“That’s because,” Venetianelli snarled, his dander up, “he doesn’t feed me at his table, but standing, in the kitchen, with the skivvies and the scullions—which I consider a great injury to my talent. The Doge of Venice never treated me that way!”
“Signore,” I reassured him, placing my hands on his shoulders with apparent respect, “I am neither the Doge of Venice nor the Duc de Guise, but I would be very honoured to have you at my table, seeing as I’m dealing with a man of quality and who serves so honourably the Muse of comedy. Signore, please continue, I beg you, on the other hand, to serve the king, and you will thereby discover many other advantages than the destruction of an unlucky bambola.”
At that I embraced him warmly, and, having walked him to the stairs, left him as happy with me as he was with himself (which was no mean amount) and returned to my room to remove both my mask and my pretence of civility—for, by the end, I couldn’t stomach this rascal, who, I believed, was something of a blackguard and, worse, was the favourite of a well-known procuress.
Miroul emerged from behind the bed curtains, exclaiming:
“Well, Monsieur, that was very entertaining, listening to him miming the voices of these great lords on whom our happiness or unhappiness depends. And isn’t it extraordinary that this little worm, Venetianelli, is inserting in the wheels of these great intrigues an infinitely little grain of sand that risks having such a huge impact on history! His story is a powder keg! And who do you believe will be blown up?”
“Ah, you’re asking me? I’m not sure it’s right to pray to the Lord to kill a man, but, ’sblood! I’m praying for it!”
I then spent two long hours with Miroul, going over his notes and my own recollection of what was said, so that we’d have the entire conversation verbatim, and could preserve the essence and substance, as well as the eloquence, of his remarkable story.
This done, I would have run immediately to the chateau, despite the dark and rainy night—but, alas, I couldn’t without the Forty-five, in whose ranks I was, by order of the king, to conceal myself at all times. Therefore, I had to wait until morning, and, as is easily imagined, I was able to get very little sleep during that interminable night, tossing and turning on my bed while the Gascons serenaded me with their snores—and swearing, for they swore even while sleeping, La Bastide in particular, who dreamt every night that the Forty-five were being chased by G
uise and the Estates, and that he had to seek shelter.
Laugnac announced me to the usher, Nambu, early the next morning, and Nambu announced me to Du Halde, who came out to find me in the old cabinet and told me, since I’d asked after the king’s well-being:
“Winter is not his best season. Although he’s easy enough to serve at every other time of year, at times of bad weather he becomes almost insufferable. As soon as it clouds over, he grows gloomy. He complains when the wind begins to blow. When it’s raining he’s practically in tears. And when it’s freezing? He gets stiff. Don’t even think of talking to him about pleasurable distractions at such times. He lives like a hermit in his cell, stays up late, sleeps little, gets up early, works from dawn till dusk, nearly kills his four secretaries with all the work he gives them, wears out the chancellor, is unforgiving of mistakes, denounces excessive expenses (imagine!), and becomes, in short, incredibly meddlesome, fussy, worried, suspicious, quick to anger and bitter—he believes the entire world is plotting against him and that even the rain has betrayed him!”
“Well!” I thought, as Du Halde led me into the king’s chambers. “What His Majesty is going to hear from me and read from my pen is not going to cure him of his choler and dark mood!”
The king was standing on the other side of the room, warming himself in front of a meagre fire, and I could see from his wrinkled brow and the downward turn at the corners of his mouth that Du Halde was right.
“Ah, my son!” he said as he withdrew his hand almost before I’d kissed it. “I never see you any more! You’ve abandoned me! And enough, I beg you, of these grimaces and genuflections! I know from experience that the one who genuflects the most is the greatest traitor! And what a traitor and how excessively stupid was the architect employed by my grandfather who designed this room with the throne at one end and the fireplace at the other in this ridiculous alcove, as if a king, just because he’s king, wouldn’t feel the cold! I have been suffering from it ever since this pitiless sky hid the sun from me two months ago, since when I haven’t caught even a glimpse of it! Ah, my son! This world does not love us, which forces us to live interminably in the shadows, cold and rain. Du Halde, it’s midnight in here at high noon! Have more candles brought in and throw some more logs on the fire! Have we really been reduced to such misery that the king of France doesn’t have enough logs for his fire? The Estates want us to catch our deaths of cold even before we starve!”
