by Robert Merle
And it came to pass that one day the sons and daughters of Job were taking food and wine in the house of Job’s eldest brother. And a messenger came to Job and told him: “Your bulls were working the plough and your donkeys grazing by their side when suddenly a band of Sabeans burst in and seized them and put all of your servants to the sword…”
And even as he was speaking, another servant ran up and said: “Fire from the All Powerful One has fallen from the skies. It burned up all your sheep and the shepherds with them…”
And before he could finish, yet another arrived, who said: “The Chaldeans have rounded up your camels and taken them and killed all of your servants…”
And while he was still speaking, another of his servants came running up and cried: “Your sons and daughters were enjoying a meal in the house of the eldest brother, and a great wind came out of the desert and so shook the house that it collapsed on them and killed them all…”
And Job rose up and tore his coat. And then he shaved his head, fell to the ground and said: “Naked came I from the womb of my mother and naked will I return there. The Lord has provided and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
And, closing his Bible, Monsieur de La Place quietly explained to us, with great composure, that suffering is necessary so that Christians can exercise their virtue, and that it is not so much that the Devil makes us suffer, but that God permits it. “My children,” he concluded, “pray to the Lord for me as I pray for you. If, as I fear, a great wind strike down my house and disperse my family, pray, I beseech you, pray that we will all be joined again in the life hereafter since our only hope is in God and in God alone!”
Monsieur de La Place’s homily was longer than I’ve been able to tell it here, but I will only add that at the end I began to feel some impatience begin to mingle with my emotions, believing as I do that the Lord does not wish to abandon His creatures to the storm, but wishes us to struggle tooth and claw to hold on to life, because He granted us that life to begin with. Listening to Monsieur de La Place as he confronted the last hours of his life, it seemed to me that he had some appetite for martyrdom that inclined him to submit rather than to act. I do not share this attitude, but incline more to the one displayed by another famous Huguenot, Monsieur de Briquemaut, who, at more than seventy years of age, while he was being pursued by the mob, undressed and threw himself into the mass of cadavers in the street, escaping by night and disguising himself as one of the grooms of the English ambassador. Unfortunately, in the end he was seized and hanged, but at least we can laud the struggles of this brave desperado.
I couldn’t help thinking, as I listened to Monsieur de La Place with all the reverence his deep faith couldn’t help but inspire in me, that if I had been he, I wouldn’t have forgone the use of my hidden staircase, and my horses, to flee, being more resolved to live and less inclined to die than he was, more active and less prayerful. Not that I think prayer is superfluous, but I believe it is the sister to action and not a form of resignation.
Monsieur de La Place had scarcely finished his sermon when there was a loud knock at the door, which was immediately shaken, though it didn’t open, since it was bolted from within.
“Who is it?” demanded Monsieur de La Place.
“The captain from the Grand Châtelet!” cried the brutal and guttural voice that I knew well.
“Unbolt the door, Florine,” commanded Monsieur de La Place.
“Monsieur,” I whispered, moving quickly to his side, “before Florine unlocks the door, I beg you to permit us to withdraw. We’ll serve you better if we’re not seen with you by this brigand, who takes us for a bunch of pillagers.”
“Then you must hide in the secret stairway,” agreed my host.
The four of us disappeared in a trice, and I remained on the top step with the door slightly ajar so that I could watch what was to happen.
God knows, the rogue wasn’t pleasant to look at, with his large moustache and heavy eyebrows, which were pressed into a terrible grimace when he burst through the open door, his large hands gripping the hilt of his sword. He stood there glaring at the two peaceable legal men, their wives and the two young boys.
“Now then!” he growled in a voice more thick from drink than arrogant. “Are you still at your prayers? Enough hypocrisy! We know what those sad faces are worth after the excesses of the Genevans! Stand at attention, Monsieur de La Place! President Charron wants a word with you!”
No sooner had he said this than the provost of the merchants crossed the threshold, holding a pike in his hand and gallantly decked out in full battle dress, with a jacket of chain mail, and a captain’s field helmet with a gold neck-protector. He was a fairly tall man with broad shoulders, a red face and an air of immense self-importance, as befitted the First Bourgeois of Paris. And yet, for all the violence we’d experienced from men of his ilk, I didn’t find that his countenance evoked such evil cruelty. On the contrary, I was not surprised to learn, much later, that, when the king had ordered him to launch the massacre of the Huguenots that previous Saturday, he’d spent the day weeping and begging the king not to proceed, and had only given in to Charles’s orders when they threatened to send him to the gibbet.
Behind President Charron, serving as his escort, entered two soldiers, who wore blue helmets decorated with fleurs-de-lis, and immediately eyed the white jacket of the captain of the Grand Châtelet suspiciously, since there’d always been deep antipathy between the two squadrons. For his part, the captain, who received his orders from the provost of the Grand Châtelet, was scarcely able to hide, behind a mask of apparent respect, the utter disdain he felt for the provost of the merchants and his blue acolytes, all decked out with fleurs-de-lis. And so, standing there obstinately in the library, he make it clear that he was in charge of this dwelling, and cast mistrustful looks at both Monsieur Charron and Monsieur de la Place, listening in on their conversation with a most suspicious air.
“Well, Monsieur de La Place,” said Monsieur Charron, stepping forward with his hand held out as an expression of his peaceful intentions, “I want you to know that I am here to ensure that you have what you need and to render you any service you might require.”
Monsieur de La Place was too moved to reply to these generous words, but his wife, his daughter, his son-in-law and the two young boys rushed up to President Charron and pleaded tearfully, “Save us, Monsieur! Save us! And save our father!”
The good and beneficent Charron could not help showing how moved he was by this supplication, in part no doubt because this family reminded him of his own, and he could imagine what distress they would have experienced had he not, against his conscience, obeyed the king.
“Please! Save us, Monsieur!” begged Madame de La Place. “And save my husband!”
“And so I will, Madame,” said Charron finally, “if it is God’s will… and the king’s,” he added, seeing the glowering looks of the captain.
But whether he immediately reproached himself for such prudence, or whether he became suddenly angry at the captain’s insolence, I know not, but he began pacing back and forth in the library, biting his lip and appearing to reflect on the matter.
“Monsieur de La Place,” he said, finally, “if you please, ask your family to leave us for a moment. I want to speak with you eye to eye.”
On these words and at a sign from Monsieur de La Place, his wife and children retreated into a little room that was adjacent to the library, but the captain remained, his right hand grasping the hilt of his sword, his left on the handle of his pistol. He had such an arrogant and defiant air about him, strutting and prancing like a peacock, that I thought what a shame it was he didn’t have a third hand with which to stroke his prominent moustache.
“Well, Captain, what are you waiting for?” said Charron imperiously.
“Monsieur provost,” said the captain with a hint of disrespect, “I must stay. The prisoner is in my charge.”
“And I’m ordering you to lea
ve the room!” said Charron, baring his teeth.
“Monsieur,” said the captain, “I take my orders from the provost of the Grand Châtelet.”
“And did he order you,” shouted Charron furiously, his eyes ablaze, “to spy on the provost of the merchants? You little fly,” he continued, stepping up to him and brandishing his pike, “I have twenty guards stationed outside and if you delay one second more in obeying me, I’ll have them give you a spanking in the kitchen like a little brat! Now get out of here, or you’ll regret it, my little friend!”
At these words, since the captain still hesitated, Charron’s two blue helmets stepped forward, so eagerly intent on throwing him downstairs that the captain reversed his position and, visibly crestfallen, fled like a rabbit into a bush.
“Ah, Monsieur!” gushed Monsieur de La Place. “I am so indebted to you for teaching that little coxcomb a lesson. His men have committed every excess imaginable here, beating my servants and pillaging the entire house.”
“What! They pillaged the place?” said Charron, amazed. “I’ll put things right before leaving. My friend,” he continued, “I wish I could now guarantee your safety, but I cannot: to do so would be to disobey the king, who wants you kept here, perhaps so you can be interrogated about the finances of the Huguenots. On the other hand, I am able to give sanctuary to your entire family, either with me at the Hôtel de Ville, or with Biron at the arsenal.”
“Ah, Monsieur,” said Monsieur de La Place, taking his hands in gratitude, “I cannot thank you enough and will continue to express my gratitude in the next world when I leave this one. And, once my family is safe, I promise to remain here awaiting orders from my king and I give you my word that I will make no attempt to flee.”
Charron seemed somewhat taken aback by this pledge, as though he weren’t asking for so much, but after a sideways glance at his blue helmets, who seemed uncomfortable with such displays of friendship for a Huguenot, he decided to remain silent. And when La Place’s family returned to the library, he hurried the anguished adieux of these poor people, who naturally feared the worst for their father despite Charron’s assurances that the king had ordered the cessation of all executions that morning. I later learnt that he was speaking the truth, and that the orders had indeed come from the Louvre that morning, but were almost immediately rescinded.
Before leaving, Charron ordered his blue helmets to expel the four Grand Châtelet guards and their captain from the house, which they did with admirable alacrity and not without some bruises and cuts administered to the departing troops. We watched their expulsion through the broken windows of the library, I in delight, Monsieur de La Place in tears at the departure of his family.
I heard Charron order Florine to rebolt and rebar the door. This done, he stationed six of his guards in front of (not within) the house, and with the rest—about fifteen or so—he surrounded the group of prisoners (as he affected to call them), and, taking the lead, set off with his men in tight formation and with brandished pikes, since the mob that had surrounded the house began hooting, shaking their fists and spitting at the “prisoners”, all the while chanting, “To the cause! To Madame la Cause! Kill! Kill!”
“Monsieur de La Place,” I urged, as soon as they turned the corner, “now your family is safe. But time is of the essence! We must look to your safety and get you out of here as quickly as possible. Those guards will be back soon to put the blue helmets to flight. Do you think you can count on the provost of the Grand Châtelet as you did on Charron?”
“Not at all! Senneçay is a viper and hates me, I’m certain. But, Monsieur de Siorac, I cannot leave this house. I gave my word to the provost of the merchants.”
“But he didn’t ask for your word and he seemed to regret that you’d given it!”
“Nevertheless, I did so,” replied Monsieur, his head held high and the Ten Commandments imprinted on his face. “I’ll wait here for the orders of the king, who knows me as his loyal subject and would never hand me over to my secret enemies.”
“What? You know who they are?”
“One of them is, like me, a magistrate at the palace, and would be delighted by my assassination, coveting as he has done for so long my bonnet of office as president of the Court of Aids.”
“Well,” I thought, “so you can engineer the murder of a colleague simply in order to wear his black velvet, gold-braided president’s hat?”
“And what’s the name of this good friend?” I asked.
“Nully,” laughed Monsieur de La Place, “the dative of the Latin nullus, and that he is null and void I wouldn’t doubt.”
“So you’re saying that Senneçay would, for money, do Nully’s dirty work?”
“Yes, alas, it could happen, since Senneçay is accustomed, from what I’ve heard, to take money from any hand that proffers it.”
“Well then,” I cried, “it’s pure folly, Monsieur de La Place, to remain here!”
But I was wasting my breath. From the fidelity he’d sworn to Charron there was no turning back, no matter how much I (and Giacomi, who added his voice to mine) insisted, and this from the conviction, I believe, that, once they’d taken his life, they’d spare those of his loved ones.
“But Monsieur,” he said with a smile that, though sad, also displayed a sweet serenity that was not of this world, “you must take the advice you’ve so liberally offered me, and secure your own safety without delay. Take the secret staircase, saddle my horses and be gone! But may I ask you to take Florine to the rue des Grands-Augustins, to the home of her cousin, who may be able to take her in?”
As he was saying this, we heard a loud noise in the street, and, leaning out of the windows, saw a group of forty guards from the Grand Châtelet putting Charron’s men to flight, not without a few parting caresses from their axe handles. This done, there came a tremendous blow on the front door.
“That’s Senneçay,” sighed Monsieur de La Place, paling, yet calm, “and he’s got three or four of the most unruly quarteniers with him. Florine, go and open the door, and come upstairs ahead of them so that you can quickly slip into the little room there until these men can lead you to safety.”
Saying this, he pointed to the secret staircase, and, after embracing him a final time, I headed there, followed by my companions, our heads bowed and our hearts beating heavily in our chests at the prospect that awaited our friend. Once in the staircase, I watched through a crack in the door as Senneçay burst into the room, armed for war, sword in hand and small shield on his arm as if he were just about to plunge valiantly into battle in the midst of a great clatter of pikes rather than entering into the quiet library of a magistrate who was alone and unarmed.
From having been for most of his life a man of exceedingly supple spine, the doer of the foulest deeds required by the Louvre, Senneçay had acquired a sly mixture of cruelty and deceit in his expression. His eyes were as shifty as a pair of servile, nervous little weasels, and his thin, colourless lips seemed to have been pulled inside his mouth and masticated by his various appetites. His face was entirely covered by red and purulent sores, as if his conscience were trying to push out the pus that it secreted.
Behind him, wearing the gold-embroidered collars of the captains, entered the three fellows whom Monsieur de La Place had described as the most unruly quarteniers, and who seemed to me to be more beasts than men, having the bearing, the muzzle and the smell of wild animals, one of them displaying his blood-spattered bare arms like a badge of honour, as if to remind us of the part he’d played in the butchery of the Huguenots over the last two days.
“Monsieur,” said Senneçay, without honouring Monsieur de La Place by using his title of president, and without even looking in his direction, his mendacious eyes flitting about the library without settling on any one thing, “I have express orders from the king to bring you to the Louvre.”
“To the Louvre, Monsieur!” cried Monsieur de La Place. “To the Louvre in the middle of this tumult! With the people on all sides sc
reaming for death! Even in the middle of your guards, pikes at the ready, I’ll never make it there alive!”
“I guarantee you the opposite,” said Senneçay, without however being able—or wishing to?—look him in the eye, his gaze wandering all over the library. “I will give you for your security a captain from Paris who is well known to the citizenry and who will accompany you.”
“Who would that be?” asked La Place.
“Monsieur Pezou, here present.”
At which, Monsieur Pezou, who was a sort of red-haired giant with watery eyes, stuck out his enormous stomach and put his hands on his hips with an air of ostentation.
“Pezou!” cried Monsieur de La Place, looking at him with horror. “I will say this to his face: Pezou is reputed to be the most violently cruel of all the quarteniers! Monsieur, you couldn’t have made a worse choice! Do you not see how Pezou, even at this moment, is parading the blood of my countrymen on his arms?”
“Of course I’m parading it,” sneered Pezou, his watery eyes glinting with bloodthirstiness. “I swore to the Blessed Virgin that I wouldn’t wash my arms—but would eat and drink with all this crusty blood on them—until every last heretic has been eradicated.”
“Monsieur,” laughed another quartenier, “it’s always for his own good that we bleed a body that suffers from any disorder. And the body of the state is no different, which has suffered too terribly from your pestilential heresy. Moreover, that’s what we heard from Monsieur de Tavannes, at dawn on St Bartholomew’s morning: ‘Bleed ’em! Bleed ’em, my friends. A good bleeding is as beneficial in August as in May!’”
Hearing this, Pezou winked his pale eyes and, shaking his head with pleasure, repeated, “A good bleeding is as beneficial in August as in May!”
