Judith Merkle Riley

by The Master of All Desires

  I picked up my writing and looked it over. Admiring my poetry will repair me, I thought. After all these horrors, Art…But instead of the usual warm feeling of satisfaction filling me from top to toe, I felt as if I were reading my work through some sort of uglifying spectacles. How formal, how frilly, how devoid of true feeling these poems were! They were mechanical creations, designed to flatter the tasteless, designed to flatter myself…Oh, God, look at this one on Death: “Robe of sable sorrow, cover me—” It had about as much feeling as a society lady might muster over the death of a pet squirrel. And here was one on the seasons, all full of mixed metaphors and shepherdesses named Phyllis. How awful! How could I have been so empty-headed and vain? How could I have understood so little of life? Miserable with failure and lost love, I put my head down on the blank paper I had laid out on the writing table and wept, making the sheet damp and unusable.

  My letter. My letter to Nicolas. I had to make myself write. I took a dry sheet of paper, and dipped my quill in the ink bottle. But my head felt oddly throbbing, and I could hear the running of the blood in my ears as I set the first words at the top of the page. Nicolas’s image rose in my mind. Everything in me, everything of me, was his and his only. “Beloved, the adored jailer of my heart,” I wrote, but after that, I find it very hard to describe what happened. Words came up, blazoned in silver, from the depths of my shattered heart. They fell into place of their own will. Rhyme and meter flowed onto the paper as naturally as the pulsation of blood. I felt hot, a fever, then shook all over. The pen, the pen kept writing as if it were possessed. And from it flowed a poem—a poem such as I had never written before and may never write again. Agony and flame, on paper. The pain was like being disemboweled, the exhaustion that followed like death. I looked at what was written on the paper, unbelieving.

  “I’m rather unbelieving, too. I didn’t think you had it in you,” said a disembodied voice. I saw, in the high corner near the ceiling, a pair of yellow eyes glowing. Around it, almost invisible, the dim shadow of raven wings, and here and there, little glittery things like sparks.

  “I don’t, Monsieur Anael,” I replied, for I had recognized Nostradamus’s familiar. “This was—too painful to repeat.”

  “It generally is. And you’ll notice it can’t be done to order. That’s why court poetry is so shallow.”

  “Well, since my work is popular at court, why not continue being shallow?”

  “Because you know the difference, now. And you are capable of far better things. It’s too easy to please courtiers with shallow things—they don’t frighten them.”

  “I—I can’t—be what I was.”

  “And why should you? Myself, I like your dialogues. The last one you did was excellent—”

  “But I can’t—that was only—oh, I just had a thought.” An idea was springing up in me like new, green life. “I could do another—what do you think of a dialogue set in Purgatory, between several lesser demons and the great sinners and courtesans of history? I’d model it on Cousin Matheline’s dinner parties—they’re Purgatory enough—”

  “Oh, I like that!” said the Angel of History. “If there’s any little historical details you’d like, I’d be delighted to furnish them—”

  “Agreed!” I cried, newly encouraged, as I took out another sheet of paper. And that is how I not only wrote the only poem I have ever counted as good, and a very long letter to Nicolas, but also that very night began the first section of my Cena, or “The Dinner Party,” which went through ten printings in the first six months. It is hard to say whether it or its successors were more popular, and they made my name, or rather, my pen name of “Chevalier de l’Aiguille,” very famous, and not on a lie, either. But in a way, it was the last curse of Menander, because that night I had been given the gift of discernment of true art from false, which is the crudest gift of all, especially for a poet.

  ***

  It was late on a January afternoon when a heavily bundled messenger appeared at the Porte du Temple, one of the fortified gates in the city walls of Paris. His sweating horse steamed in the cold air as he showed the seals on the letter he carried. After a moment’s pause he rode off through the narrow streets in the direction of the Louvre, and the passersby clustered around the soldiers at the gate.

  “What is it, what is it?” they cried, seeing the expression on their faces, hearing the shouts and exclamations.

  “By God, the Duc de Guise has taken Calais! The English are driven into the sea!”

  But the messenger did not hear the cheering; he was already halfway to Les Tournelles. Hundreds of candles were shining through the narrow windows of the Salle Pavé, and the faint sounds of music froze in the early winter dark as the messenger mounted the wide steps from the courtyard. There was a ball in progress, in celebration of the wedding of the Duc de Nevers’s second son. The king was dancing, and as the long line of couples advanced in the pavane, he happened to turn his head toward the commotion at the door, and saw a dark-clad man coming toward him.

  “What is it, Robertet?” he asked, stepping from the line. The music stopped.

  “Your Majesty, the Duc de Guise has taken Calais,” said the king’s secretary. The words were no sooner spoken than they traveled through the room, setting off shouts of joy.

  “Calais taken? How, when?”

  “The English were completely unprepared. When the marshes froze, our forces moved the cannon across them into place and took the outlying forts. After two days of bombardment, we breached the walls, and yesterday the English commander surrendered the fortress—” The rest could hardly be heard for the babble, the shouts, the calls for toasts.

  “Calais, the unconquerable—”

  “Ha! Revenge for Saint-Quentin!”

  “King Philip’s English queen is a fool—they say the commander begged for reinforcements, and she wrote that there was no danger—”

  “Women should not play at war—”

  “Drive the goddams into the sea—”

  The king waved his hand at the gallery, and the music began again—a trumpet fanfare, and with it came the cheers. Who could not rejoice that the last English stronghold in France had been taken? But the fiercest, the most immeasurable joy in the room was that of the Cardinal of Lorraine. His brother, Guise, had conquered. No longer could Montmorency delay the wedding of the Guise niece, Mary Queen of Scots, to the Dauphin. In conquering Calais, the Guises at last had conquered France. Mary would wed the Dauphin, the Dauphin would come to rule, and then Mary would rule the Dauphin, and her uncles would rule Mary. And after they controlled France and Scotland, they would reintroduce the Inquisition into England…

  ***

  Under a gray sky, heavy with unborn snow, the King and the Dauphin, accompanied by high officials, priests, ranking officers, and a lengthy baggage train, rode out of the city gates and into the winter-bleak northern landscape toward Calais. There they would unfurl bright banners and make triumphal entry, reward the virtuous with lands and the right of ransom to the greater of the English prisoners, and cleanse the tainted cathedral, re-establishing the Catholic rite.

  Back within the walls of Paris, inside Les Tournelles, Catherine de Medici had just finished dictating answers to a voluminous official correspondence.

  “These petitions can wait until the king my husband’s return,” she said, as she finished reading several sealed documents, and handed them to Robertet. “But these others must be sent immediately.” Her decisions were rapid, orderly, and her manner efficient. But there was no concealing the note of triumph in her voice. The king had left the management of the government in her hands until his return. Indeed, since her dramatic appearance in full mourning before the Parlement, and her successful and statesmanly appeal for funds, the king had granted her newfound respect, and consulted her on many matters of politics and diplomacy. As Robertet bowed backward out of her presence, she sent for her lady attendants to accompany her to the daily mass held in the chapel. After that would come din
ner, served in a manner like clockwork, the huissier de salle, marching before écuyer bearing the nef, followed by the orderly parade of the maître d’hôtel, the officers of the pantry, the royal repast borne by retinues of officer-servers and pages of honor.

  Formality, thought Catherine, as she knelt at mass, the women and lesser courtiers surrounding her. It is order and ritual that keep mankind under God, and under their king as well. This is the secret of continued rule—let no flaw be in the ritual, no disorder in the ceremony. Then all is well. Somehow her mind moved from the holy ritual in front of her, in which God was summoned to be present in the form of bread, to the unholy rituals of her little cabinet, where demonic forces were brought under her heel. There, too, order was necessary. The correct ritual had moved that malicious, useless Menander to act at last, and just look at the result: power, influence, all in the most natural way, and the Duchess of Valentinois steaming with annoyance as the petitioners streamed toward the queen, rather than herself.

  A warm glow filled the homely queen’s breast; the little bell was ringing at the altar. Thanks be to God for my victory, she thought, in a manner completely illogical, as the host was elevated. Indeed, now that she thought about it, it was probably God who had brought her this glorious personal triumph. Surely, good things were always from God, so therefore having a person as wise and sensible as herself gain the proper influence in matters of state was doubtless divine work. Now that God had shown himself to be on her side, perhaps she should abandon her consultations with that malignant little object, and devote herself to good works in her spare time, thus repurchasing her soul after this little detour…

  The glorious day poured on, through dinner, through audiences in the Galerie des Courges, and finally to the time of quiet conversation and reading among her ladies, who variously stitched at embroidery tambours, played at the jeu de dames or tric-trac, or devoted themselves to the perusal of worthy works. At last, outside, the dark clouds above the ornate rows of turrets opened, and began to let the first white flakes fall. But in the tapestry-hung room, a bright fire burned on the immense, ornate hearth. And in Catherine’s heart, too, the glow continued. Seated on a cushioned bench, feet on a little stool, she looked up from her book to survey the room.

  “What are you reading there?” asked the Duchess of Valentinois, her narrow white face peering over the queen’s shoulder.

  “A history of France,” she answered, “and in it I see how often concubines have meddled in the affairs of kings.” The duchess, silent and pale, withdrew to inspect the snowflakes flying against the windows in ever-increasing numbers. Her thin, ring-covered fingers tensed like claws. I was a fool, she thought. I urged this war on the king, on behalf of the Guises, and now look how I stand. They ride high, thanks to me, but already they are ungrateful. Why care for the mistress when the legitimate heir is theirs? What will happen when they at last control the affairs of state? How soon favors are forgotten, she thought, as she saw the queen look up from her book to converse a moment with the Duchesse de Guise. Such a delightful little moment, such smiles. “Concubine” the queen said. Look at them swarm after her. But when the king returns, they will see that I still rule.

  ***

  Such was the state of the winter roads that the Dauphin’s wedding with the Queen of Scots had to be delayed until spring, when the King and Queen of Navarre could leave their little mountain kingdom to attend. And only when the winter seas had calmed could the commissioners appointed by the Scottish Parliament risk the dangerous ocean crossing. Alone, the crown of Scotland itself would not make the trip, for in spite of the King of France’s request, the Scottish Parliament had refused to risk the precious object.

  By mid-April, with the arrival of the commissioners, the long and complex arrangements to unite the two kingdoms had begun. First came the treaties brought by the Scottish Parliamentary commissioners: the sixteen-year-old Queen of Scots signed guarantees that Scotland would keep her ancient liberties, and that though she might be married to a French king, should she die without issue, the crown would revert to its Scottish heirs. Then came the secret contracts presented by her future father-in-law and her Guise uncles, and her pen scratched away just as happily, pledging the exact opposite: that the throne of Scotland would go to King Henri and his heirs forever, even if she should die without issue, pledging the entire revenue of Scotland to France, pledging that anything that she might grant to the Estates of Scotland that was prejudicial to the interests of the King of France would be invalid.

  Scotland having been signed away in secret, the ceremonies continued with the formal betrothal of the plain-faced little simpleton with the vain redheaded girl whose very footsteps he adored. Those who watched them sign the betrothal contract in the great hall of the Louvre, in the presence of the king and queen, the Papal Legate, and uncounted dignitaries of the church, saw in the two teenagers a pair of delightfully blank slates, just waiting to be written on by the ambitions of others. Such deliciously arrogant little fools they seemed, so easily misled by flattery, by professed friendship, and by backstairs malice. The courtier-wolves licked their lips in anticipation.

  ***

  It was early in the morning on the twenty-first of April. The first crowds and curiosity-seekers were beginning to swarm into the cobblestone square before the Cathedral of Notre Dame. There at the edge of the square, a prosperous-looking man with a gray-streaked brown beard leaned down from a handsome black hackney to address two ladies in an open horse-litter.

  “Well, my dears, feast your eyes; you will doubtless never see another such expensive wedding in your lifetimes.” One of the ladies was an immense person in a headdress of strange design surmounted by a veil that was clearly intended to prevent any stray dangerous ray from the glowing orb above to touch her complexion. The other was tall and thin, her nose aquiline, her expression intelligent, but marked with some hidden sorry. Beside the litter, riding double behind a liveried valet, was a pale, dark-haired girl whose eyes were glowing with the romance of the whole thing. A wedding; what could be more beautiful? Before them, in the cathedral square, carpenters had built an arched platform and gallery, which was now being festooned with vine leaves. In front of the great door of the cathedral, workmen were setting up a canopy of blue velvet, spangled with gold fleur-de-lis and stamped with the arms of the new King of Scotland and his Queen.

  “Father, must you speak always of expense?” said the dark-haired girl. “I’m sure the king does not even consider such things when it comes to a royal wedding.”

  “More puff and show; the king has been collecting money for this ever since he had to call the Estates General last January. Why, the bankers of Lyons have refused to advance him another sou; he had to force it out of the townsmen.”

  “A cheap wedding would mean he couldn’t finance the war; then King Philip would redouble his efforts. Never economize on show, Sibille, remember that,” said the large lady to her litter companion.

  “I have rented a window right—up—there for the wedding procession,” said the square-bearded man, pointing upward. “You’ll have a perfect view.”

  “I wouldn’t want to miss a thing,” said the large lady, rearranging the folds of her veil. By the time they had reached their rented window, the crowd so filled the square that pikemen had to open a way to the canopy for the wedding parade.

  ***

  At last the watchers in the square could hear the blast of trumpets at the Bishop’s palace announcing that the wedding procession had departed for the cathedral. Closer and closer came the sound of music and the cheering of the crowd, and finally the parade itself appeared. Musicians, dozens, no, more than that, all dressed in red and yellow led the way, first the drums and trumpeters, parting the crowd in the square, and then the hautbois, flageolets, viols, guitars, and zithers. The excitement in the crowd mounted with the appearance of a hundred gentlemen of the royal household, resplendent in satin-lined capes, heavy silk gowns, brocaded doublets, and loaded with
adornments: gold chains, jeweled hat brooches and plumes, garters embroidered with precious metals, puffed and flared breeches made stiff with horsehair braid and embroidery. The growing mutter and murmur of the crowd grew: why, there’s Vieilleville! There’s Nevers! Are you sure? Just look at the size of that gold medallion! Then came the lords and princes of the church. Abbots, bishops, and archbishops walked before the cardinals: Bourbon, Lorraine, Guise, Sens, Meudon, and Lenoncourt, glorious in red silk, their red, cornered hats arousing awe. After that, Cardinal Trivulzio, Legate of the Holy See, walking slowly, grandly, preceded by two bearers carrying a great cross and heavy mace of solid gold.

  “The Dauphin, there he is. That’s the groom!” cried the watchers in the crowd. Faces crowded into the windows above the square to get a better look.

  “Who’s that with him? Look, it’s the King of Navarre!”

  Above the crowd, perched in the window, Madame Montvert got the first glimpse she had ever had of Henri II’s first son and heir. “He looks awfully short for fourteen,” she said.

  “I’m sure he’ll grow,” said her husband. “They say he’ll make a great king someday. I heard that Nostradamus himself predicted it.”

  “Oh, here is the bride! Just look at her gown!” said Clarette. “And that is the King! Just like his portrait on the coin!” Beneath the window, in the midst of the parted crowd held back by guards, Mary Queen of Scots walked to her wedding mass, between the King himself and her uncle, the hero of the hour, the Duc de Guise, conqueror of Calais, slayer of the English, savior of France. At the sight of them, the cheers, somewhat lackluster for the Dauphin, increased and grew to the strength of thunder. “Long live the king!” “Long live the Duke!” “Long live—long live—” And the bride, just sixteen, tall, rosy-white, what a beauty! “Long live—long live—” exclaimed the crowd. Her gown itself, a marvel to be told and retold by the fireside: made of cloth of silver, adorned with precious stones, and covered with a cape of violet velvet embroidered in gold. On her red-gold hair, a crown of gold, covered with pearls, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, and at its center a great carbuncle valued at five hundred thousand crowns. “Long live long live—” Behind her, the Queen of France, the Queen of Navarre. “Long live the three queens! Long live—long live—”