Fortunes of France: The Brethren

by Robert Merle

  “Ah, to be sure,” agreed Sauveterre. “Our speech is the purer!”

  “At Rochefort-en-Yvelines I had a more hopeful moment,” La Boétie continued. “The king was feeling better and mounted his horse to go hunting three days in a row. After which he ate and drank to excess as usual.”

  “He went riding with an abscess!” exclaimed Siorac. “What madness!”

  “Perhaps,” said La Boétie naively, “the king hoped the ride would drain the abscess. But after three days he was much the worse off and beset by a running fever. He ordered them to bring him to Rambouillet where, trying to deny the gravity of his illness, he said he wanted to ‘take his pleasure in hunting and birding’. On 21st March I was finally admitted to the Château de Rambouillet, only to learn that they were operating on the king. Afterwards, he sank into the slow pangs of death. On 30th March the dauphin asked for his benediction, and while the king was giving it, the dauphin fainted on his bed and the king held him as closely as though he would die if he let go of him.

  “Finally they led the dauphin Henri away into the dauphine’s room where he threw himself face down on the bed with his boots on, stricken with grief. Catherine de’ Medici, seeing her husband in this state, fell to the floor weeping and disconsolate. François de Guise, taking scarce more note of her than of his future king, paced stiffly back and forth in the room, a superb defiance on his face, his heels ringing on the floorboards. Diane de Poitiers, Henri’s mistress, sat stiffly nearby, triumphant and smiling. Guise stopped his pacing long enough to address her, and, with a gesture in the direction of the king’s room, sneered derisively, ‘He’s leaving us, the old fop!’”

  “Did you get this incredible story on good authority?” stammered Siorac. “So much insolence towards his dying master? Is it possible?”

  “I have it from an excellent source,” replied La Boétie, somewhat testily, “and I can also assure you that the king, who was entirely in possession of his wits when he confessed, declared out loud—this has been confirmed by many different people—that he ‘had no remorse on his conscience, never having done any injustice to anyone in this world’.”

  Sauveterre started violently in his chair. “Has he forgotten the massacres of the Vaudois of Luberon? Mérindol and Cabrières seemed to have slipped his mind!” he growled. “But he must be counting on Purgatory to purge him of these venial sins!” He pronounced “Purgatory” with a scornful irony that seemed to put La Boétie ill at ease.

  “Monsieur de La Boétie,” Siorac said hastily, “do you think Diane still holds sway over the new king? After all, Henri is twenty-eight, she is already forty-eight and the younger lionesses of the court might yet steal her prey.”

  “Ah, but Diane is still a beauty,” replied La Boétie, happy to find himself on more familiar ground. “I can’t guarantee the face, which shows a few cracks here and there despite all her artifices, but her body is superb, and the young king gawks at her like the day she deflowered him. Do you know that after dinner every night, he visits her to tell her of the day’s affairs of state and sits on her lap? On her lap, I tell you! He plays her songs on the guitar, interrupting himself to exclaim to the constable as he fondles her breasts: ‘Look, Montmorency, what a figure she cuts!’ In truth, the new king is a gawking child. He looks at Diane as if he were completely surprised by her friendship. She’ll do with him whatever she pleases.”

  “And whatever pleases Guise, the clergy and Montmorency,” added Sauveterre sombrely. “Well, so much for peace in the kingdom of France. We are going to witness a very Spanish Inquisition in our poor country, with endless tortures.”

  “So I fear,” agreed La Boétie, adding after a moment’s reflection, “’Tis neither my duty nor my inclination to question your religious practices, but aren’t you somewhat imprudent? The vicar general complains that he never sees you at Mass in Sarlat any more.”

  “For my part, I must complain that the 500 livres we donated to the Church expressly for the maimed veterans of this parish when we purchased Mespech have never found their way into their hands.”

  “I like you too well to echo these foolhardy words to anyone,” cautioned La Boétie. “You’d never be forgiven.”

  “But truth be told,” rejoined Siorac, whose smile lit up his eyes, “you may reassure the vicar general that we hear Mass every Sunday right here, thanks to the opening in the wall that communicates with the chapel beneath us in this very tower. We donate five sols every Sunday to the curate of Marcuays so that he will say Mass at noon every Sabbath. Madame de Siorac, the children and all our servants attend Mass in the chapel, and we are able to listen from this study where my brother is laid up, as you know, by his war wounds.”

  Sauveterre was only half mistaken. Henri II (or rather those who controlled his life, for he was only a plaything in their hands) did not succeed in creating a Spanish-style Inquisition in France, despite the Pope’s pleas for one: the resistance of the great bodies of state was too fierce. But he multiplied the edicts and created within the Paris parliament the sinister chambre ardente, which imprisoned a great number of the reformed in the Conciergerie fortress before dragging them to their execution at the place Maubert. There they were tied to hastily erected stakes and burnt alive in great fires, their bodies consumed and reduced to ashes. I find in one of my father’s entries in the Book of Reason of about this date an echo of the ongoing discussion between the two brothers as to whether they should openly declare their support for the Reformation. Sauveterre felt that the times required that they sign their faith in blood. Siorac held, on the contrary, that in making such a declaration during a period of persecution they would merely add to the list of martyrs without contributing in any way to the cause. It was much better, in his view, to wait until the party of the Huguenots had gained enough strength in the region and in the kingdom to allow some hope of vanquishing their enemies.

  If Sauveterre had been left to his own devices, he would have taken up his cross without further ado, and run headlong to his own death, so great was his dislike of dissimulation, and so violent was his agitation at seeing the errors of the papists (as he called them) gain credence throughout the land. If he restrained himself, it was not out of any fear of the stake—his austere management of the wealth of Mespech was ample proof of his disdain for this world—but rather out of fear of making his way alone, and without his beloved brother, to the felicities of eternal life. I read in a touching marginal note added by Sauveterre to my father’s entry of 12th June 1552, “I arose today at five o’clock and looked out of my window at the pure sky and the sun shining on the foliage, the birds singing by the thousands. And yet, what is all of this compared to the happiness and the glory we will know in Our Lord when we have left our mortal remains here below? Oh, Jean, how you do delay! Of course I know that you would feel a deep sadness in leaving behind Mespech and your family, but think only what measure of thing you leave behind in comparison to what you will receive in the life hereafter.”

  To which my father wrote in reply on the following day: “We did not take Mespech from the mouth of the wolf only to abandon it to the wolf cubs. The same goes for my wife and beloved children, François and Pierre.” This is the first time that I am mentioned by name in the Book of Reason, along with my elder brother.

  Continuing their dialogue on paper, my father later entered an argument which must have touched Sauveterre even more deeply: “It is written in the Holy Book: ‘If thou obeyst the voice of the Lord, blessed will be the offspring of thy cattle, blessed thy fruits and thy honey.’ Certainly, in this respect, we have no reason to complain of Mespech. Is this not the proof that our house is seen as the house of God, since He makes us to prosper in this world, as is promised in the Scriptures? Must we think of destroying everything He has built and ourselves destroy the roof over our heads, our descendants, our servants and our flocks, giving ourselves to the stake and Mespech to the papists? No, my brother, we owe the truth in our hearts only to God, whereas to the ene
mies of God that we have encountered thus far we owe only ruses and lies: to the Devil go the fruits of the Devil…”

  And so, every Sunday, while the curate of Marcuays said Mass to Isabelle de Siorac and to our servants in the chapel on the ground floor of the east tower, the two brothers, deaf to the Latin intonations of the Mass filtering through the grate from below, softly chanted the Psalms of David in their first-floor library.

  In the midst of the many benedictions which the Lord rained down on Mespech, there were nevertheless a few afflictions, and among these were the premature deaths of three children, whose names are entered in the Book of Reason. But I must guard against any implication that these were punishments from on high. For there was no family in France of this century exempt from such grief, and some mourned more than half of the children they brought into this world.

  In entries in the Book of Reason dated a few months before my birth, I read repeated notes from Sauveterre, “I pray for you, Jean,” which of course excited my curiosity, especially since my father never answered them. What sickness did Jean de Siorac have that should provoke his brother’s repeated prayers, and what sudden attack of ingratitude kept my father from ever thanking his brother for these orisons?

  I must confess here what I but guessed during my childhood, and only fully understood much later. Between my father and my mother, almost from the first day of their marriage, there raged a small war of religion, which, whether latent or openly engaged, knew no respite. For Isabelle not only never consented to renounce the cult of her fathers, but also, on the strength of a thoughtless agreement concluded with Jean de Siorac before their marriage, declared her intention to raise her children according to the Catholic rites. When it was my turn to be born, my father wanted to give me a biblical name. Isabelle adamantly refused. Hardly had I uttered my first cry in this vale of tears when Barberine was sent to fetch the curate and she maliciously had me baptized Pierre, since upon this rock His Church had been built.

  Doubtless she had other reasons for her scornful fury, since, but a short week after my own arrival, a girl in Taniès gave birth to a son whom Jean de Siorac named Samson, signifying that, by the grace of God, this lad would be bigger and stronger than any of his sons baptized in the Catholic faith. Which turned out to be true for my brother François, but not for me.

  My half-brother Samson’s mother was a shepherdess named Jehanne Masure, a beautiful and good girl, according to our nurse Barberine, but whose parents were dreadfully poor, if I am to judge by the many loans of grain, hay, salt pork and money that were sent their way by Jean de Siorac. These gifts coincide exactly with the entry in the Book of Reason in which Jean de Sauveterre first began to pray for his brother. As I flip through the pages of the book, this largesse seems to multiply—especially in lean years—and I find Sauveterre’s pointed questions next to each notation of these loans: “To be repaid when?” To which my father invariably responded: “When it pleases me to ask.” But it never pleased him to do so, for the loans continued over the months and years and were never repaid.

  A few pages further, opposite the notation of a particularly generous sum, Sauveterre wrote: “Is this not shameful?” To which Siorac impatiently replied: “Jacob knew Leah, and then he knew Rachel and the servingwomen of his wives, and from these came forth the strongest and most beautiful tribe of the Hebrews ever to serve the Lord. Would it not be a greater shame to allow my son Samson to run barefoot, ill clad and hungry like a wolf? Rest assured that when the time is ripe for his education, Samson will live at Mespech with his brothers.”

  But Samson moved to Mespech sooner than anticipated, for in November of 1554—when we were both three years old—the plague broke out in Taniès, and, hearing this, my father had his horse saddled within the hour, galloped to Jehanne’s house, bringing her enough nourishment for a month since the village would soon be quarantined for the duration of the epidemic. Jehanne begged my father to take Samson with him, which he did, burning all of the boy’s clothes upon his return to Mespech and washing the child in hot water after rubbing him with ashes and cutting his hair.

  A great commotion among our servants ensued, doubtless fomented by my mother’s mercurial nature, against this intruder who was “bringing the contagion”. But my father put a quick end to it by isolating himself with the boy in the west tower, nourishing him by his own hand for forty days, never once stepping beyond the threshold of the tower, where eating and reading matter were left each day according to his orders.

  When Jean de Siorac finally emerged from his seclusion, it was only to learn that Jehanne Masure had died along with her entire family, the plague having carried off half the village. Among the victims was my uncle, Raymond Siorac, but his two sons were spared—the same who, on the eve of the purchase of Mespech, had helped Cabusse to exterminate the rascals from Fontenac down in les Beunes.

  Samson emerged from the tower a strong and beautiful lad, with thick, curly hair, whose reddish-blond tint recalled his great-grandfather Charles’s.

  I was his age and size and I loved him from the minute I set eyes on him. The only thing I resented, though it surely wasn’t his fault, was that Samson enjoyed from the outset the privilege of going to “hear Mass” with the Brethren upstairs in Sauveterre’s study whereas I had to remain downstairs in the chapel with François, listening to the Latin verses, hanging on to Barberine’s skirts. I had no other recourse than to make faces at little seven-year-old Hélix, who, hidden from her mother’s view, returned grimace for grimace, a practice we laughingly continued through the years, for she was a little scoundrel, as the rest of my story will bear out.

  The lovable shepherdess was no more, but the fruit of her womb lived on within the walls of Mespech, more handsome and shining with his milky complexion and red hair than any illegitimate child who ever lived. Every God-given day (doubtless the work of the Devil, as well, as a punishment for my father) Jean Siorac was assailed by a flood of marital discomforts. On one occasion he entered a melancholy quote from the Bible in his Book of Reason: “A querulous woman is like a rainy day.” And added a bit further on: “A woman’s hair is long, but longer still her tongue.” And two pages later Isabelle’s Catholicism sticks in his craw: “Oh the hard-headedness of woman! This terrible abscess in her will, which nothing has ever been able to pierce! And her fatal attachment to error!” To which Sauveterre adds in the margin, substituting for his usual ceremonial “vous” a fraternal “tu”: “Would it not have been wiser to marry a woman of your own faith? Though her breast lay underneath her medallion, it nevertheless hid her Catholic icon from your sight.” This old complaint resurfacing on such an occasion blindsided my father from the left, while he was heavily besieged on the right. It was not a very wounding comment for all that, since one can just as well imagine an equally intractable Huguenot wife.

  Good things don’t always come easily, yet despite all the groans and opposition Samson was now among us, good looks and all, bringing to three the number of sons Siorac could count at his table. As streams flow into rivers, prosperity grows fat, sometimes even at others’ expense. The plague, by carrying off half the families in Taniès, had left much property untended, which the Brethren were able to purchase at greatly advantageous prices.

  What heir would have wanted to live in a village where sickness could flare up any day out of the infected soil or the evil vapours emanating from it? For less than 3,000 livres, Mespech grew piece by piece to half its size again in the hillsides of Taniès, including a wood of beautiful chestnut trees, now fully grown and ready for cutting, suitable for heavy beams or woodworking and easily worth double the price paid for the property. But the Brethren, always on the lookout for any providential occurrence that might add to its “basket and store” conceived by chance or by inspiration a project that was more profitable yet.

  One Saturday, Sauveterre was doing his marketing at Sarlat, when he spied before him on the church square a little dark man limping along carrying a box on his b
ack. “Greetings, friend,” said Sauveterre, in a military but cordial way, “where did you catch that limp?” The dark little fellow turned in his tracks, looked long and hard at Sauveterre, placed his box on the ground and removed his cap. “I didn’t catch it,” he replied, “it caught me, and it was moving right smartly, the bullet that gave it to me at Ceresole.”

  “At Ceresole? So you were a soldier!”

  “Ay, an armourer in the legion of Guyenne.”

  “And who was the commanding officer at Ceresole?”

  This question was, of course, a trap, but the soldier replied evasively by naming the field general.

  “D’Enghien.”

  “And did your captain give you honorary discharge?”

  “That he did! The paper is in my box. Would you read it?”

  “Soldier,” replied Sauveterre, “you should not be so quick to show your papers. Someone might take them from you.”

  “Monsieur, you do not appear to be ‘someone’, or a thief.”

  “I am Captain de Sauveterre of the Norman legion. And I caught my limp in the same place and on the same day as yourself.”

  The soldier gaped in disbelief and then immediately in joy, so clearly did this meeting augur well for him.

  “And what are you doing here, soldier?” continued Sauveterre.

  “I am seeking a job as a cooper. They call me Faujanet and I’m twenty-nine years old.” And opening his toolbox, he brought out a tiny barrel merely three inches high, but in every respect similar to a wine cask, with its casings and sluice hole. Handing it to Sauveterre, he announced, “Here is my work, Captain. And what I have done in miniature here, I can do full-size as well.”

  Sauveterre, fully enjoying the feel of it, turned the little cask in his hand. “Faujanet,” he said (pronouncing it “Faujanette” in our Périgordian way), “this is good work and finely cut and it speaks well of you. But it’s made of chestnut and not oak.”