This was incontestable, so Pittrino obeyed. He composed the sign with the six doctors and the designated title, the alderman approved of it, and the sign was well received by the citizenry. It just proved, Pittrino said, that poetry was wasted on the bourgeois. Cropole, to console the painter and acknowledge the artistry of the original, hung the image of the nymphs in his bedroom, which made Madame Cropole blush beneath them every night while undressing.
That was where the gabled house got its sign, and how, making its fortune, the Inn of The Médicis was able to expand in the manner described. And that was how Blois happened to have a hostelry of that name, with a painter-in-residence named Pittrino.
VI The Stranger
Established thus on a firm foundation and advertised by a bold sign, the inn of Maître Cropole enjoyed a respectable prosperity. It’s not that Cropole was likely to earn a vast fortune, but he might in time hope to double the thousand louis d’or bequeathed to him by his father, make another thousand by the sale of his house and goods, and retire as a free citizen of the town.
Cropole was eager for profit and welcomed the news of the arrival of King Louis XIV. He, his wife, Pittrino, and two scullions immediately laid their hands on all the inhabitants of the dovecote, the coop, and the hutches, so that the kitchen yard of the Hôtellerie des Médicis resounded with as many cries and lamentations as Rama.
At the time, Cropole had only one lodger. He was a man of scarcely thirty, handsome, tall, austere, or rather melancholy in attitude and appearance. He was dressed in a black velvet coat with buttons of jet; a white collar, as simple as that worn by the Puritans, brought out the fair and youthful tint of his neck; while a slight blond mustache barely covered a quivering and disdainful lip. When he spoke to people he looked them in the eye, not to intimidate, but with brutal candor, so that the brilliance of his blue eyes became so hard to bear that the other’s gaze often fell before his, as the weaker sword does in single combat. At that time when men, though created equal by God, were divided by prejudice into two castes, the gentleman and the commoner, as they really divide into two races, the black and the white27—at that time, as we say, the man whose portrait we just sketched could not fail to be taken for a gentleman, and of the best breeding. One need only look at his hands, long, tapered, and pale, with every muscle and vein visible beneath the skin at the slightest movement, the fingers blushing at the slightest tension.
This gentleman had arrived at Cropole’s inn alone. He had taken without hesitation, without even thinking about it, the best rooms in the inn, which the innkeeper had shown him right away, in the service of what some would call reprehensible greed and others just good business. It certainly showed that Cropole was a physiognomist28 who could size people up at first glance.
These rooms occupied the upstairs front of the old triangular house: a large living room lit by two windows on the first floor up, a small room next to it, and another one above. Since his arrival, the gentleman had scarcely touched the meal that had been served to him the night before. He had said just a few words to his host to warn him that he awaited a traveler named Parry, and that when he arrived the host should show him up. Then he’d kept so quietly to himself that Cropole was almost offended, as he preferred guests who were good company.
This gentleman had risen early on the morning of the day this story began and placed himself in the window of his drawing room, sitting on the sill and leaning on the banister of the balcony, watching both sides of the street sadly and stubbornly, doubtless awaiting the arrival of the traveler he’d mentioned to his host. He had watched the passing of Monsieur’s little cortege returning from the hunt, then had seemed to savor the town’s sleepy tranquility as he settled into his waiting.
Suddenly there came the commotion of the poor folk hastening out to the meadows, of couriers departing, of washers scrubbing the pavement, of servants hurrying from the château, the rush of chattering shop boys, the clatter of carts, of hairdressers on the run, and pages bearing packages; this tumult and din had surprised him, but without affecting his air of impassive majesty, which resembled that which gives the eagle and the lion their supremely contemptuous looks despite the clamor and scurry of hunters and hyenas.
Soon the sounds from the street were joined by the cries of the victims in the kitchen yard, as well as the hurried footsteps of Madame Cropole, along with the bounding gait of Pittrino, who usually spent the morning smoking at the door with the phlegm of a Dutchman, a flurry of sounds that carried up the echoing wooden staircase. This all caused the lodger to start in surprise and agitation.
As he was getting up to inquire into this commotion, the door to his chamber opened. The lodger thought that no doubt the traveler he awaited had arrived at last. In unaccustomed haste, he took three quick steps toward the opening door.
But instead of the figure he hoped to see, that of Maître Cropole appeared, and behind him, in the shadows of the staircase, the rather graceful face of Madame Cropole, pointedly curious as she glanced at the stranger and then withdrew. Cropole advanced smiling, hat in hand, more bent than bowing. A silent gesture from the stranger asked him his intentions.
“Monsieur,” said Cropole, “I’ve come to ask—but how should I address Monsieur, as Your Lordship? Monsieur le Comte? Monsieur le Marquis?”
“Just say Monsieur, and come to your business quickly,” said the stranger in that haughty tone that admits neither discussion nor question.
“I came to find out how Monsieur had spent the night and ask if Monsieur intended to keep the apartment.”
“Yes.”
“Monsieur, I must say that an unforeseen event has occurred.”
“What’s that?”
“His Majesty Louis XIV is arriving in our city today and will spend a night here, or perhaps two.”
The stranger appeared astonished by this news. “The King of France is coming to Blois?”
“He’s on his way, Monsieur.”
“Then, all the more reason for me to stay,” said the stranger.
“Very good, Monsieur—but will Monsieur wish to retain the entire apartment?”
“I don’t understand. Why would I want less today than I did yesterday?”
“Because, Monsieur, if Your Lordship will allow me to say so, when Your Lordship engaged the apartment yesterday, its price was that of ordinary times… but now…”
The stranger flushed, perhaps thinking himself insulted by an implication that his means might be limited. “And now,” he said coldly, “what of now?”
“Monsieur, I’m an honest man, thank God, and though I may be only an innkeeper, within me flows the blood of a gentleman—my father was a servant and officer of the late Marshal d’Ancre, God rest his soul!”
“I’ll not dispute the point, Monsieur; but I want to know, and quickly, what you have to ask.”
“You are, Monsieur, too wise not to understand that our town is small, that the Court is numerous, that all our houses will overflow with visitors, and that consequently the value of a room… goes up.”
The stranger flushed again. “State your conditions, Monsieur,” he said.
“I say in all honesty, Monsieur, that I seek only fair profit from the situation and seek to do business without incivility or rudeness. Now, the apartment you occupy is spacious, and you are alone…”
“That’s my business.”
“Of course, Monsieur! I’m not seeking to turn Monsieur out.”
The stranger colored red to his temples, and he flashed a look at poor Cropole that, descended though he was from an officer of Marshal d’Ancre, would have sent him crawling back under that famous brick in the chimney if he hadn’t been fixed immovably by the interest of profit.
“Do you want me to leave? Explain yourself and be quick about it.”
“Monsieur, Monsieur, you misunderstand me. It’s a delicate situation, difficult to address properly, and doubtless I express myself badly—or perhaps, since Monsieur is a foreigner, as I can tell from
his accent…”
In fact, the stranger spoke with that brusqueness that was the principal hallmark of an English accent, even among those of his countrymen who speak the purest French.
“As Monsieur is a foreigner, I say, perhaps it’s he who misunderstands the nuances of my request. I propose that Monsieur give up one or two of the rooms he occupies, as that would reduce his rent quite a bit and relieve my conscience—for under the circumstances I see no alternative but to increase the price of these chambers, which as Monsieur must see is only reasonable.”
“What was the rent for the first day?”
“One louis, Monsieur, including meals plus fodder for the horse.”
“Fine. And the rate now?”
“Ah, that’s the difficulty! With the arrival of the king, the price of beds goes up, and three double rooms cost six louis. Two louis, Monsieur, are nothing, but six louis, that’s a lot.”
The stranger, from red, had gone very pale. With heroic bravery, he drew from his pouch a coin purse embroidered with arms, which he carefully concealed in the hollow of his hand. This purse had a flatness, a flaccidity that didn’t escape Cropole’s eye.
The stranger emptied his purse into his hand. It contained three double louis, six louis altogether, as the innkeeper had asked.
Except that it was seven that Cropole required, including the previous day. He looked at the stranger as if to say, “And?”
“It’s a louis short, is it not, Master Host?”
“Yes, Monsieur, but…”
The stranger rummaged through his breeches pocket and drew out a little wallet, a golden key, and some small change. Combining these coins he had just enough to add up to another louis.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” said Cropole. “Now I just have to ask if Monsieur intends to remain tomorrow as well. If so, fine—but if not, I’ll let it out to His Majesty’s people when they come.”
“That’s fair,” said the stranger, after a long silence. “But as I have no more coins, as you’ve seen, to keep the apartment you must take this diamond and either sell it in the city or hold it as security.”
Cropole looked at the diamond with such uncertainty that the stranger hastened to add, “I prefer that you sell it, Monsieur, for it’s worth three hundred pistoles. A Jew—is there a Jew in Blois?—will give you two hundred for it, or even a hundred and fifty. Take whatever he offers you, so long as it covers the rent of your apartment. Begone!”
“Oh, Monsieur!” cried Cropole, ashamed of the sudden inferiority reflected on him by this noble and disinterested disdain for money, and of having shown such ignoble suspicions. “Oh, Monsieur, I hope we’re not such thieves in Blois as you seem to believe, and if the diamond is worth what you say…”
The stranger again pierced Cropole with a look from his azure eyes.
“I know nothing about diamonds, Monsieur, but I believe it,” Cropole said.
“But the jewelers will know, so ask them,” said the stranger. “Now, does that conclude our business?”
“Yes, Monsieur, and I’m very sorry, for I believe Monsieur is offended.”
“It’s nothing,” said the stranger, with the majesty of high rank.
“Oh, but to be suspected of fleecing a noble traveler… please pardon me, Monsieur, I act only out of necessity.”
“Say no more about it, as I said, and leave me to myself.”
Cropole bowed deeply and departed with an agitation that revealed he was a man of heart who felt genuine remorse. The stranger locked the door himself, and then looked into the bottom of his purse, from which he’d drawn the small silk bag that contained the diamond, his last resource. He also searched once again through his pockets, looked through the papers in his wallet, and was convinced that complete destitution was upon him.
Then he raised his eyes to heaven in a sublime movement of calm despair, wiped a few drops of sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, and then, in a look that displayed an almost divine majesty, returned his gaze to the earth.
The inner storm had passed, thanks to a prayer that arose from the bottom of his soul.
He returned to the window, resuming his place at the balcony, and remained motionless, torpid, paralyzed, until the sky darkened, the first torches crossed the shadowy street, and nightfall signaled that it was time for lights to appear in all the windows of the town.
VII Parry
As the stranger listened to the noises of the town and watched its lights appear, Maître Cropole quietly entered the chamber with two scullions who set the table for supper.
The stranger paid no attention to them. Cropole, approaching his guest, whispered in his ear with the deepest respect: “Monsieur, the diamond has been appraised.”
“Ah!” said the traveler. “Well?”
“Well, Monsieur! The jeweler of His Royal Highness himself offered two hundred eighty pistoles.”
“You have it?”
“I thought I ought to take the money, Monsieur. However, I made it a condition of the sale that if Monsieur wanted to repurchase his diamond when he could afford to, that it would be made available to him.”
“By no means; I told you to sell it.”
“Which I did, more or less, since without definitively concluding the sale, I got the money.”
“Pay yourself,” added the stranger.
“Monsieur, I will do so, since you require it.”
A sad smile passed across the gentleman’s lips. “Put the money on that sideboard,” he said, turning to indicate the piece of furniture.
Cropole set down a bulging purse, from which he collected his rent. “Now,” he said, “it would sadden me if Monsieur refused to take his supper. Already dinner was passed over, a sad reflection on the house of The Médicis. See, Monsieur, your meal is served, and I venture to say it’s a good one.”
The stranger asked for a glass of wine, broke off a piece of bread, and stayed by his post at the window as he ate and drank.
Presently there was a tumult of drums and trumpets, cries arose in the distance, and a confused buzz filled the lower town; the first distinct noise that struck the ear of the stranger was the sound of horses approaching.
“The king! The king!” repeated the loud and surging crowd.
“The king!” repeated Cropole, who abandoned his guest and his ideas of refined service to run and satisfy his curiosity. He collided on the stairs with Madame Cropole, Pittrino, the houseboys, and scullions.
The royal procession advanced slowly, lit by thousands of torches, some in the street, some in the windows. After a company of King’s Musketeers29 and a body of mounted gentlemen came the litter of Cardinal Mazarin, drawn like a carriage by four black horses. The pages and servants of the cardinal marched behind. Then came the carriage of the queen mother, her maids of honor leaning out the doors, her gentlemen riding on both sides. The king came next, mounted on a beautiful Saxon horse with a flowing mane. The young prince, illuminated by his pages’ torches, bowed toward those windows from which came the loudest acclamations, showing off his noble and graceful profile.
At the side of the king, but two paces behind, rode the Prince de Condé, Monsieur Dangeau,30 and twenty other courtiers, followed by a train of retainers and baggage, ending a veritable triumphal march.
This pomp had a distinctly military character. Some of the courtiers, mainly the older ones, wore traveling outfits, but most of the others were dressed as for war. Many wore the gorget and buffcoat31 of the times of Henri IV and Louis XIII.
When the king passed before him, the stranger, who’d leaned out over the balcony to see better, but with his face concealed behind his arm, felt his heart swell and overflow with bitter jealousy. The fanfares of the trumpets intoxicated him, the popular acclamations deafened him, and he was dizzied for a moment by the clamor, the dancing lights, and the bright figures before him.
“That is a king!” he murmured with such an accent of despair and anguish it could have risen straight to the foot of God’s throne.
Then, before he could return to his somber reveries, all the sound and pageantry passed on and was gone. The street below the stranger emptied out and nothing remained but a few hoarse voices calling, “Long live the king!” Then there were only six candles held by the household of The Médicis, that is, two held by the Cropoles, one by Pittrino, and one by each servant.
Cropole kept repeating, “How well he looked, the king, and how he resembles his illustrious father!”
“Handsome,” said Pittrino.
“And with such a proud look!” added Madame Cropole, already turning to chat with their neighbors. Cropole added some remarks of his own to the general discussion, without noticing an old man approaching on foot but leading a little Irish horse by the bridle, trying to make his way through the knot of men and women in front of The Médicis.
At that moment the voice of the stranger was heard from the balcony above. “Make way, Monsieur Innkeeper, to let the newcomer into your house.”
Cropole turned, saw the old man, and made room for him to pass, as the balcony window slammed shut. Pittrino pointed the way to the newcomer, who went in without saying a word.
The stranger was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. He opened his arms to the old man and led him to a chair, but he resisted. “Oh, no, no, Milord!” he said. “Me, to sit before you? Never!”
“Parry,”32 said the gentleman, “think nothing of it—you, who’ve come so far! From England! Ah, it’s not right for one of your age to exhaust yourself in my service. Rest, now…”
“First, I must give you my report, Milord.”
“Parry… I beg you, say nothing for now. If the news was good, you wouldn’t need to introduce it so. Your delay tells me the news must be bad.”
“Milord,” said the old man, “don’t alarm yourself unduly. All is not lost, or so I hope. It is will and perseverance we need now, and above all resignation.”
“Parry,” replied the young man, “I’ve come here alone, past a thousand snares and a thousand perils. Do you think I lack will? I planned this journey for ten years, despite all obstacles and advice to the contrary; do you doubt my perseverance? Tonight, I sold my father’s last diamond, because I didn’t have enough money to pay for my lodging and my host was asking me for it.”
Between Two Kings Page 5
