“How DARE you bar your door to ME, your own FATHER? Open, I say, or I’ll sign the papers to have you consigned to the Bastille as a wayward son! THAT’S better! When I say open, you open—” The listeners heard a sort of indistinguishable grunt as a response. The lady of the House of Montvert placed her hand over her heart, leaning for support on the pallid, dark-haired daughter of the house, whose eyes were rolled upward in prayer.
“Have you not a thought, young man, for your life which is flowing away? When I was your age, I was up at DAWN, working at mastering my TRADE! Languages, law, finance! And here I’ve sent you to the finest universities: Bologna, Montpellier, Toulouse, and you’ve been thrown out of every one of them! And now you go out all night and sleep all day!”
Mumble, mumble, mumble.
“Don’t make excuses! You’ve sampled every den of sin in six nations! And with whom do you associate? People of substance, who can help you? Or lowlife tavern-keeper’s sons, fencing school rowdies, impoverished scandal-mongering writers and gallows-bait fiddlers, no, THOSE are the people to whom my son is drawn, like some perverse lodestone!”
Mumble, mumble, grump, mumble.
“Mother,” whispered Clarette, sensing a break in the invective, “may I take Bernardo to accompany me to mass?” Nicolas’s virtuous younger sister had a prayer book in her lily-like hands, and was wearing a large cross upon her bosom.
“WASTREL!” came the shout from upstairs. Nicolas’s mother shuddered at the sound.
“You know your father has asked Bernardo to follow your brother everywhere, to keep him out of taverns, quarrels, and public stews. And don’t you hear? He’s almost up.”
“Oh, Mother, you know it is Nicolas who should accompany me, and not a servant. If only once he would set foot in church—It is my dream that someday I will be the means by which he can enter into the presence of God’s love.”
“Oh, my darling, virtuous girl. Why did God give so much goodness to you, and no portion at all to your brother? I swear, he will be the death of me yet.”
“If only—” And here she sighed, rolling her eyes upward. “If only you could convince Father to let me enter the convent.”
“You know it is not your father’s wish. Who, who would remain of the Montverts if your brother—ah, God, how I suffer over him—”
“At your age I was a sober young man of BUSINESS! I was married to your mother! I had a FUTURE! What is there for you but a career as a mercenary or hired bravo or professional gambler? Eh? Answer me that!”
“Very well, Father, I’ll turn over a new leaf—” At this, all motion in the house below stopped. The two women, mother and daughter, strained to hear—but discreetly, as if they were in deep contemplation. “Yes—this very day. Give me permission to marry, and I’ll establish myself in some worthy profession—law—just as you’ve always wanted.” Clarette and her mother gasped.
“Not so fast, you weasel. You’ve failed to finish your legal studies in three universities, at my last count. Who’s to say you won’t enter school and do it all over again? No more, I say. An honest apprenticeship—say, in your mother’s cousin’s banking house in Genoa, and I’ll arrange a marriage with a sober, pure young woman of substantial family—”
“Actually, Father, there’s already a demoiselle—”
“A WHAT? You DARE to practice this sort of trickery on me?” Clarette and her mother crept quietly up the stairs, their eyes large.
“She’s beautiful, of high birth, she worships me, and I—I am so in love with her that I’d do anything—even be a banker—for your blessing, Father.”
“You have been PAYING COURT to a WOMAN without my PERMISSION? I WARNED you not to do that EVER again!”
“You said I should make the acquaintance of people of good blood and high connections—”
“MEN, not WOMEN, you ninny!”
“She’s from an excellent family—nobility of the sword—very old—the Artauds of La Roque-aux-Bois, and has the most important connections at court—with the queen, herself—”
“You, you, you—WHAT? A COURTESAN? I know all about that woman! Knowing what you are—a fool—I made inquiries when you first laid eyes on that hussy, and I learned more than I ever wanted to know about that dreadful woman! Sibille Artaud de La Roque, whose cousin Matheline is a wanton from birth, and has caused her good husband infinite suffering! The only one worse is her cousin, who abandoned her decent family, took up with her wicked aunt to gain an inheritance that belonged by right to her father, and now has mysterious connections at court! Sinful connections, without a doubt!”
Nicolas’s mother and sister were almost at the head of the stairs now, just out of sight of the quarrelers in the doorway. They paused, more silent than silence itself, and in that silence, you could almost hear their ears growing longer.
“My son, my son, have you lost the last of what little sense you ever had? Don’t you know why a woman of that sort would be interested in you? A woman who waits on the queen? Who shows herself in public, reads at literary gatherings, and, what’s worse, has books printed in her own name? She wants a husband of a rank that she can command—a cover for her sins, for her affairs, which I have no doubt are already as numerous as the stars in the sky. That’s how those women live, those women with high court connections. Don’t you understand? They’re not like us—”
“Father, it’s you who doesn’t understand. Her conversation is elevated, her associations virtuous—” A look of sudden, furious realization crossed his father’s face.
“You’ve been calling on her—don’t deny it, I can tell by your face—calling in secret, without my permission! How long, for God’s sake? Have you promised her anything? Is she pregnant?”
“Father, she is pure, she is constant—no woman you found could be finer, more devoted—we could be happy together—”
“My God, haven’t you learned anything? The lawyers, the expense—how much to buy this despicable harpy off?”
“Father, she’s not after anything. Look at me, can’t you see? This is true love. Our minds and hearts are one. I’ll die if I can’t have her.”
“You’ll die if you do have her. The thousand deaths of cuckold! Enough is enough. I, your father and your master, am locking you in this room until you understand that you either agree to go to your cousin’s in Genoa to learn new and sober ways, and a business that is appropriate to your station in life, or I’ll sign the papers that commit you to the Bastille for your wayward manner of living—” The sound of the slamming door reverberated through the entire house, and the two women on the stair slipped quietly away.
***
“An English herald is here?” said King Henri, his foot already in the stirrup held by a valet. Spring was busy passing into summer. The horses were gathered in the stable courtyard at Fontainebleau, the excited staghounds were barking, and half the court was already mounted for the hunt. Even Queen Catherine, who, despite her dumpy figure, rode sidesaddle with the courage of a man astride, was on her rangy gray hunter, reins gathered in her podgy fingers, breathing deep the promise of the bright morning, and anxious to ride out. “Let him wait,” said the king, swinging up into the saddle. “A man of honor does not waste his time on declarations of war made by a woman.” The French nobility who overheard laughed, and repeated the comment until everyone of gallantry and spirit had enjoyed the joke. And so it was in high good humor that the king and his court rode out to kill stags, and the English herald was left to cool his heels for the next few days, until it was convenient for the king to hear that England had declared war, and joined the troops of the Empire massing on the northern front.
***
“Have you the honey, Madame?” said the queen. Lucrèce Cavalcanti extended the little glass jar in its silver stand.
“It is right here, Your Majesty,” she said, placing it on the wide oak table within the queen’s reach. The queen did not even look up. Next to her right elbow lay an open book with handwritten notes in it.
Catherine de Medici, clad informally for the morning in a sacque of primrose-colored taffeta and a plain lace cap, was busy grinding up a grayish powder in a mortar. Entirely globular in form without her stays, her pudgy face was bright with focused intelligence, her eyes intent on the process. At last the mass in the mortar seemed to satisfy her, and she turned, with a sharp rustle of taffeta, to the waiting lady.
“There,” she said. “Powder of geranium, and a pinch—just a pinch—of powder of nutmeg. It is sovereign for these summer fevers. It quells the aching and shortens the catarrhal discharge. And now—the honey—my little girl will never taste the medicine.” Busily, she mixed up the fever potion and decanted it into a covered china dish, painted with mythical figures.
“Majesty, you are not only a great queen, but the kindest and most thoughtful of mothers,” said her dame d’honneur, gesturing to a serving maid to come and clean up after them. The queen sighed.
“I try, Lucrèce, I try. But despite all my wisdom, I lost my little twins.”
“Sorrow is the lot of every woman.”
“But now, I pray, for my daughter.” Accompanied by a page to announce her, the queen and her companion made their way through the corridors of St.-Germain to Elisabeth Valois’s sickroom. Not even trusting her close companion, the queen herself carried the remedy in her own hands, as if somehow the maternal virtue might be imparted through the china itself. But on the threshold, they paused. They were already too late. The Duchess of Valentinois stood beside the huge, draped bed where the queen’s daughter lay. Behind her, a physician held a vial of urine up to the window to inspect the color. Another physician, in a long robe, was giving orders to a surgeon, who had already opened a vein in the wrist, and set a copper bowl beneath the arm to catch the dark blood that was draining out. Beside the bed, at the duchess’s elbow, stood the tall, titian-haired girl who was Elisabeth’s closest companion. The Queen of Scots, the Guise protégée of the duchess.
At the sight of the queen, they all looked up, suddenly silent.
“I’ve brought a remedy for my daughter,” said Catherine de Medici, advancing into the silence.
“A remedy?” said Diane, one eyebrow raised, a condescending smile barely visible on her face.
“Powder of geraniums,” said the queen.
“Fernel has already advised us,” said Diane, and the bearded doctor with the vial of urine turned toward the queen and bowed deeply.
“Gracious Majesty, I have prescribed a course of purges that are infallible in these cases.”
“I see,” said the queen, looking at her pale daughter, her lifeblood flowing into the basin.
“Mother, I would like your remedy,” said Elisabeth.
“Nonsense,” said the duchess. “You’ll just disturb the treatment. Trust your physicians, my dear. I have summoned the best in the kingdom. Your mother did not need to trouble herself to come.”
“I see,” said Catherine, her voice as cold as ice. But as she turned to go, she heard the duchess, in a sharp, audible whisper, say to the Queen of Scots:
“The three Medici balls—they seem to be apothecaries’ pills.” The teenage girl snickered. Outside the door, the queen paused and took a deep breath. Her eyes were blazing, but her voice was icy.
“Lucrèce,” said the queen, her face set like iron. “Send for the Demoiselle de La Roque.”
“Majesty—” Lucrèce Cavalcanti turned pale.
“I desire that my daughter be raised higher than the Queen of Scots, that my children shall see the Duchess of Valentinois in the dust beneath their feet.”
“But that thing—it is accursed—” whispered her dame d’honneur.
“That is no concern of mine. Tonight I shall charge Menander the Deathless to grant all of my children thrones, and to raise my daughter Elisabeth to such a rank that Diane de Poitiers—that barren old hag—will not be fit to tie her shoe.”
***
“My! Just breathe that in! The most sulfurous water in all of France! All the way from here, you can just smell all that health! Soon, Sibille, you’ll shake off that bad mood, and feel quite like your old self again.” We had left our baggage with the Abbé’s, in our rooms at the spa, and the two of us had gone to inspect the baths. Beyond them, the lake, spotted with swans and the occasional pleasure boat, sparkled serenely in the sun. On a path by the shore, old ladies, leaning on the arms of their attendants, strolled, awaiting the inevitable call of nature that attends the drinking of spa waters. Before us lay the stone bulk of the bathhouse with its changing rooms, tubs, masseurs, and shady arcade all hidden behind the high wall of the enclosure of the main bath. Here one could get a cupping, a bleeding by the resident surgeon, or the inspection of one’s urine by a physician of sound medical training. Beyond the wall we could hear the inviting sounds of bathers splashing in the great outdoor pool, calling for assistance, babbling in conversation. Over all lay the stink, a cloud straight out of hell.
“Pardon, ma tante, but it smells as if ten thousand rotten eggs have been broken open all at once. Surely, one feels better only by contrast, on finally being able to remove oneself from this place.”
“You see? You’re feeling better—your old wit is coming back. Soon you’ll be inspired to finish your lovely epic on the life of Queen Clotilde. You’ve drooped too long; it’s obviously your liver, as Doctor Lenoir said. You need to regulate your bowels better—”
“But you know it’s not that, Auntie. My Nicolas went to ask permission to marry, and now he’s gone. I’m sure he’s been locked up like a thief. His horrible old father is capable of anything, just to keep him from me forever. And my heart is all cracked in pieces, I haven’t any appetite, and all the sulfur baths in the world won’t fix it.” And every night, though I did not tell her, Menander sat on my chest of drawers, whispering, “Don’t you know he’s given in to his father? Why not? Out of sight, out of mind. He doesn’t love you anymore. They’ve found him a beautiful bride, just sixteen and fresh as a rose, with dainty feet and hands, and now he’s realized you are a big, ugly, scarred monster. It was just infatuation, and now he’s gone. Why don’t you wish for him back? It would be easy, if you weren’t as stubborn as you are stupid. No man will ever love you without my help. Wish! Wish! Why don’t you? It’s so simple.” But even though I tried to keep my sorrows to myself, as I began to droop and grow dark circles under my eyes, Auntie noticed anyway, and decided to apply her cure-all: the sulfurous waters of the nearest spa.
“You need to cheer up, Sibille, and you will when I tell you that his father has written to me—”
“Has he relented?” My heart gave a leap.
“Well, not quite—but reading between the lines, I think you needn’t worry that Nicolas has given in to him: his father has offered you money if you’ll relinquish your claims, and write a letter to Nicolas telling him that you do not love him anymore.”
“Auntie, how despicable! I’m mortified! What an evil, unnatural old man! I hope you told him off!”
“Hardly, my dear. You see, he has opened a dialogue. He writes, I am required to respond. With the help of my dear cousin, here, I have written a wily letter to entangle him deeper—give me credit, my dear. You may yet be seeing your Nicolas again.”
“My, my, what a lot of new rules the governor of the baths has posted here,” observed the Abbé, as if to change the subject. He squinted a little to read the tablet posted at the gate. “‘It is forbidden to all people, of whatever quality, condition, region, or province they may be, to use provocation in insulting language tending to lead to quarrels; to carry arms while at the baths aforesaid; to give the lie; to put hand to arms under pain of severe punishment as breakers of the peace, rebels, and disobedient to His Highness.
“‘Also it is forbidden to all prostitutes and immodest women to enter the baths, or to be found within five hundred paces of the same under penalty of whipping at the four corners of the town…
“‘The same penalty will fall on those
who shall use any lascivious or immodest discourse to any ladies, or damsels, or other women and girls who may be visiting the baths, or touch them in a manner unbecoming, or enter or quit the baths in ribald fashion, contrary to public decency—’”
“Oh,” I gasped. “Do men and women bathe together?” I hadn’t expected that. Here I was, sick with grief, and they expected—I couldn’t, I just couldn’t—perhaps if I pretended to be sick in my room—
The attendants at the gate opened it for an elderly gentleman twisted with rheumatism, who was being carried in on a litter. I could see them bow in greeting.
“It is really very decent, cousin,” said the Abbé. “Every man wears a linen jacket, and every woman a shift. You will find the most genteel persons here.”
“In my shift? Auntie, you didn’t say—”
“Don’t think to pretend you are sick in the rooms, Sibille; we’ll just have you brought down in a litter the way he was. You require repairs, and this will do you infinite good.”
“All of you?” asked the attendant at the gate, eyeing our procession, for we were an odder sight than any old gentleman in a litter. First came the Abbé, all shrunken up, in his broad hat and black gown, his eyes as bright and observant as a squirrel’s. On his arm was his old mother, of a truly astonishing antiquity, barely able to walk on her frail bones. Then Aunt Pauline, vast and resplendent in yellow silk, leaning on her silver-headed walking stick, and followed by a lackey holding a little sunshade of ornamented muslin over her head, then myself, as tall and mournful as a stork, followed by two lackeys bearing towels and robes, and two boys in Auntie’s green livery bearing Señor Alonzo in his big gilt cage, which was fitted out with a pair of handles at each end for easier carrying.
“All,” said the Abbé, pressing a handsome tip into his hand.
“The monkey is extra—”
“Tell him, dear cousin, that the monkey does not bathe.”
“The monkey is extra anyway—”
Judith Merkle Riley Page 27
