Fortunes of France 4: League of Spies Page 11

  “Your heads, Monsieur?” gasped Catherine, her hands on her heart.

  “They would have rolled!”

  “God forbid, my dear Quéribus,” said my father in a half-serious, half-amused tone, “that such a handsome head should fall under a Polish sword!”

  “Well, it came within a hair’s breadth!” came Quéribus’s fiery response. “Just as we reached Plès, the first Austrian village, the king’s mare fell under him, dead as a doornail, and Tęczyński and his Tartars were right behind him. There was no help to be got from the villagers, who, at the sight of the band of Tartars, had boarded themselves up in their houses.”

  “Ah, Monsieur!” panted Catherine. “So what did this terrible Tęc… what’s-his-name end up doing?”

  “Tęczyński. Without a word, he looked at the king—who had stood and was bravely looking back at him—signalled a halt to his Tartars, walked his little white horse alone towards the king, dismounted… and fell flat on his face in the dust of the street. We were, in fact, amazed that the fellow had lasted so many hours in his stupefied condition on his steed. Finally, he managed to get to his feet, and staggered forward. The king cried, ‘My friend, do you approach as friend or foe?’

  “‘Well, sire!’ replied the giant in French as he staggered uncertainly towards the king (no doubt very moved that his monarch had called him ‘my friend’). ‘I come as the very humble servant of His Majesty.’

  “‘Well then,’ shouted Soubré, ‘order your Tartars to withdraw!’

  “At this, Tęczyński, who was holding a hunting whip in his hand, turned and gave it a furious crack, with such force that he almost lost his balance; then he shouted an incomprehensible order in Polish, whereupon the Tartar cavalry turned their mounts and rode away in a trice, leaving the little white horse alone in the town square, who now began to follow his master step by step as Tęczyński walked towards the king. This man was at least two heads taller than anyone in the king’s retinue—though I myself am not a little man,” added Quéribus proudly. “His beard was sticky from all the wine he’d spilt on it, and white from the dust of the road; his doublet was torn and unbuttoned over his hairy chest; his breeches were falling down and his arms were decorated with enormous jewels—but he was armed, thank God, with only a knife, which reassured us, since we had swords and pistols, all of us except the king.

  “‘Well, sire!’ cried Tęczyński, throwing himself at the feet of His Majesty, and speaking French with his jarring accent, but with enviable eloquence for one as inebriated as he was. ‘I beg you not to leave Poland, but to return to your poor subjects who, if you return to your capital, will wake up tomorrow orphans and stripped of their beloved monarch.’

  “‘This I cannot do,’ replied Henri. (I’m among the few people who can call him by his name and with whom he uses the familiar tu on occasion.) ‘I must go and reclaim the kingdom that God has given me through legitimate succession. However, my friend, I am not abandoning the throne to which I was elected. And I am only leaving for a while and will return here when I have been crowned king of France.’

  “‘Oh, sire!’ cried Tęczyński, in the depths of despair, since he didn’t believe a word of what he’d just heard, yet couldn’t accuse his king of dishonesty. Then, falling silent and crying hot tears, beating his chest, tearing at his beard and hair, and encircling the king’s legs with his whip, he fell to his knees and kissed the king’s feet, sobbing, ‘Sire! Sire! Come back now to your poor orphaned people!’

  “We all put our hands to our swords at the sight of the king tied up this way by the giant, but Henri, with his usual grace and pleasant manner—and, as far as I could tell, quite moved by the loving protestations of the palace marshal—signalled to us to remain calm, and said:

  “‘Monsieur, are you a faithful subject of your king?’

  “‘Oh, sire!’ cried Tęczyński, staggering to his feet, the huge gold earring in his left ear trembling with the effort. ‘Could you ever doubt it?’ And at this, he staggered back three steps, drew his knife, cut a gash in his right hand and drank his own blood—which, in his people’s bizarre customs, meant, I suppose, that he was swearing eternal allegiance to His Majesty.

  “‘Monsieur,’ said the king, who hadn’t blinked an eye when the giant drew his knife, ‘since you are a good, loyal and devoted subject, I order you to return to Warsaw and tell the palatines what I have decided.’

  “‘Sire, I will do your bidding,’ replied Tęczyński, tears flowing down his cheeks into his beard; and suddenly, unsteady as he was, he thrust his knife back into its sheath in a single movement and without even looking; then he ripped from his hairy, muscular forearm a gold bracelet, dropped to one knee and held it out as a present for the king. Henri accepted it with a thousand thanks, weighing it in his hand as though surprised by its heaviness, and embarrassed that, dressed as he was in a valet’s clothes, he had nothing of value to give to the count other than a tiny gold pin of such little consequence that it would have been an insult to offer it, given that he was the king of two great Christian countries. And finally, at his request, Soubré handed him a diamond that was very beautiful and certainly of a size to represent a suitable response to Tęczyński’s offering, clearly worth at least 1,200 écus.

  “The count was so happy that, holding it up in the dawn sunlight, he turned it over and over in his thick fingers, and then, having no safe place to put it in his doublet, which was torn to shreds, he stuffed it in his mouth, bowed to the king, leapt on his little white horse with surprising agility and galloped off like a shot.

  “‘My God, I hope he doesn’t swallow it!’ gulped Pibrac.

  “‘If he does,’ smiled the king, who loved to jest, ‘that stone will be the purest thing he’s ever drunk!’”

  We all burst out laughing at this, and Catherine harder than any of us, her periwinkle-blue eyes gazing at Quéribus as if he were the most handsome, valiant and witty person in all humankind. My father’s admiration was perhaps less extreme, but I could see he was delighted by the swagger with which Quéribus had recounted his little epic. As for me, knowing our guest much better than either my sister or my father, I couldn’t help but be moved by the ardent admiration he displayed for my beloved sister, knowing as I did that his rough-and-tumble exterior hid a very generous heart.

  “So at what point,” asked my father, “did you ask the king permission to leave his service?”

  “In Venice, where His Majesty was received with great pomp and where he allowed himself some rest and relaxation after the Polish winter. As for me, after having begged permission to depart, just as Tęczyński had done—though,” he said with a knowing look at Catherine, “I hope I don’t resemble him in any other wise—I quickly crossed the Alps with my little escort, and, finding myself in the sweet climes of Provence, I went to pay my respects to my cousin Montcalm in Barbentane.”

  “Barbentane!” I cried, leaping up so abruptly from my stool that I knocked it over with a great clatter.

  “Well, I certainly could not have passed through Provence,” he said with a sly smile, “without going to greet Montcalm and embrace my three other cousins: mother and daughters!”

  “Three?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Madame de Montcalm, Angelina and Larissa!”

  “Larissa? But who’s Larissa?”

  “Angelina’s twin sister. But let’s not talk about Larissa. It’s a sad and most painful story, one that I shall recount another time. I have here,” he said, rising and stepping towards me, “two letters. One addressed to your father and the other to you.”

  “Ah, you scoundrel!” I hissed. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

  I tore the letter from his hands and opened it by the light of the candelabrum Franchou had just placed on the table nearby. My father did the same, though with a much greater display of outward calm than I could manage, my hands all atremble like poplar leaves in the evening breeze and my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst from my chest. I d
ared hope that finally Angelina’s prayers had been answered and that heaven had opened its gates to the prelate who’d promised a life in hell to Monsieur de Montcalm if he married his daughter to me.

  “Monsieur de Montcalm,” announced Jean de Siorac at last, to a room so silent you could have heard a pin drop, “has written me a very civil letter, in which he assures me that he would be infinitely happy to see his daughter Angelina married to my son, Pierre, at the same time that my daughter Catherine is joined in wedlock to the Baron de Quéribus, provided that each of my children, being Huguenots, agree to a condition that his confessor, Father Anselm, has imposed on them. And this condition being what it is, I shall have to give it some thought and sleep on it. I shall tell you tomorrow what I have decided. Monsieur,” he concluded, “I bid you goodnight and a welcome and deep sleep after your long journey. Pierre, please show the baron to his room. Catherine, take my arm, please! And Franchou, what are you doing, standing there crying like a cow who’s lost her calf instead of lighting our way?”

  “Ah, Monsieur, my good master!” replied Franchou in Provençal. “I couldn’t help hearing what you said, and I’ll go on crying the entire time you’re away marrying off your son and daughter in Provence.”

  “Well, you silly goose,” he laughed, “then you heard something I haven’t said yet! Far from it!”

  At this “far from it”, I gave Catherine’s arm a little pinch to reassure her that the words were pure facade, given how happy my father must be with this double marriage, yet how reluctant he’d be to rush into anything without due consideration. There was no doubt he took as much care managing the affairs of his barony as he had in the military exploits that had won him that title. As for the condition that had been imposed, I learnt of it the next morning after a long sleepless night—sleepless not because of my anxiety about the decision but because of the intoxicating delights that I felt were soon to be mine, having loved my Angelina for so many years without being able to marry her, or even approach her as long as her father’s confessor held sway over him. Since my father hadn’t immediately refused, and since I knew Anselm was very fond of me, I believed that his conditions wouldn’t be too severe. And finally, towards dawn, just as I had finally fallen asleep, exhausted from the turbulence of my emotions and visions of Angelina, I was awakened by Miroul, who’d come to tell me that my father was awaiting my presence in his room.

  I hurried to dress, knowing that he needed to head off to Marcuays to look at a pair of oxen that had been highly recommended to him by his drover.

  “Ah, there you are, Pierre!” said my father, as Franchou was fluttering around him, trying to dress him. “Out you go, Franchou!”

  “But Monsieur, you can’t go out undressed!”

  “Leave us! Pierre, give me a hug! Well, in two words, here are the conditions! Leave me alone, dammit, Franchou!”

  “Monsieur, just a second: I have to button up your doublet! Your workers can’t see you in your undershirt!”

  “So, Pierre, the conditions… A plague on this fly who’s buzzing around me! What are you doing to my collar?!”

  “I’m fastening it. Surely you’re not thinking of going to Marcuays without your lace collar?”

  “Pierre, you’ll have to promise Father Anselm to hear Mass every time you’re lodged with a Catholic lord.”

  “Is that all?” I answered. “That’s not so much to worry about!”

  “It’s not much and it’s a lot. You’re choking me, you silly witch. Take your fingers off of my throat!”

  “Monsieur, your lace collar is hanging like a cow’s udder! I have to fasten it!”

  “My father, I don’t understand. Where’s the ‘lot’ in this ‘not so much’?”

  “Well, suppose you end up at the Louvre, commissioned by the king to help Miron and Fogacer in their medical duties? You’ll have to hear Mass every day, since you’ll be in the king’s service. You silly goose, are you not yet done?”

  “But Monsieur, your breeches are hanging loose and your aiguillette is unfastened!”

  “My father,” I interjected, my voice barely clearing the knot in my throat, “is there really any possibility of such a commission? Could I fulfil it? Has it been decided?”

  “Yes, it’s done! Franchou, by the belly of St Anthony! Take your fingers out of there!”

  “Monsieur, I will not let you go through the streets of our villages with your flies hanging open! By my faith! They’d have a good laugh at your expense!”

  “The king’s physician!” I answered dreamily. “Is that not marvellous? What could be better?”

  “Of course—but Pierre, hear Mass?”

  “I’ll listen to it with a Huguenot ear.”

  “Which is to say you’ll be sitting with your arse on two stools: one buttock in Geneva and the other in Rome, and that’s a pretty wide spread! Franchou, my little hen, have you still not finished?”

  “Indeed so, Master! Now you’re set!”

  “Amen! Pierre, look before you leap! A Mass every day?!”

  “But, my father, in Paris! At the Louvre! The king’s physician!”

  To which my father answered nothing further. Hadn’t he, too, loyally served, good Huguenot that he was, our Catholic king, Henri II—who was, after all, the one who began this persecution? But off he went, humming to himself a ribald tune in the sunshine of this beautiful summer day, with his sprightly step, his back as straight as a board and, as Franchou would say, “like a rooster after a hen in heat and as gay as an Easter hallelujah”. And may she be pardoned for mixing the sacred and the profane as she did, for she was merely using a saying that the wenches of Périgord often repeat without any malice whatsoever…

  I rushed up to Quéribus’s room and, hearing no answer when I knocked, entered. He was lying asleep, naked as the day he was born, on his cot, no doubt dreaming the same dreams I would have been immersed in, though with a different object, had Miroul not awakened me.

  I hesitated a bit before awakening him from such pleasure, but then, realizing that when he opened his eyes he, at least, would be able to see his great love in the flesh, I reached out to touch his shoulder. But as I did so, I was struck by our uncanny resemblance to each other: though I know his eyes are of a different shade of blue from mine, we have the same dark eyelashes and delicately chiselled noses, as well as similarly shaped mouths. Yet my features are less striking, I must admit, though I’m certainly not lacking in self-esteem—and again I sensed that he was the finished portrait for which I’d been only the sketch.

  Mirrors are indeed treacherous friends, who always manage to reveal the ugly along with the beautiful aspects of one’s face, as well as the wrinkles that age makes around one’s eyes—though, thank God, at twenty-three I didn’t yet bear her claw marks. But Quéribus was a more benign mirror, whose beauty and strength comforted me greatly, as long as I was able to forget that he was better looking than I, which I usually succeeded in doing when I loved him, and even more so when I loved him less. For though my friendship for him never cooled entirely, it couldn’t help fluctuating somewhat, according to which of his two faces I beheld: the man or the gallant.

  “Baron,” I said shaking him, “what are you doing lazing about in bed when I know someone who’s already up, fresh as a daisy, and happily enjoying her bread, milk, ham and other meats in the great hall?”

  “What say you?” groaned Quéribus, blinking himself awake and sitting up. “My beauty is awake? ’Sblood! I must fly to her side!”

  “Well, don’t fly there with nothing on, you’ll offend her modesty! And, for heaven’s sake, don’t swear within these Huguenot walls! And third, Monsieur my brother, hear this while you’re getting dressed: my father has accepted the condition that Father Anselm stipulated for me, and so there’s no reason he would refuse to do so for Catherine.”

  “Well, my brother! My good brother!” cried Quéribus, rushing to embrace me. “What a good angel of God you are to bring me such news!”

&nbs
p; “By the belly of St Anthony,” I joked, “if I’m an angel, then that divine cohort is better hung than they’re reputed to be! But, my brother, I need you to answer a question that has immense consequences for me: is it true that I’ve been commissioned as the king’s physician? And by whom?”

  “By the king, of course!” laughed Quéribus, his hand over his mouth in the manner of the favourites of the court.

  “Yes, but of his own accord?”

  “His, mine, Fogacer’s.”

  “Aha! So Fogacer’s behind this!”

  “And me!” corrected Quéribus, visibly a bit stung. “Do you think I go mute when it’s time to sing your praises to His Majesty? Who, by the way, remembers you very well and considers you a good man, along with your father, whose loyal and devoted service to François I and Henri II has not gone unnoticed. And as soon as he learnt of my desire to ally myself with your family by marrying your sister, and of your desire to ally yours with Montcalm’s by marrying my cousin, he conceived the project of bringing all of us together at court—you, me, your father and Montcalm (to whom he’d like to assign some duties at the Louvre). He wants to gather round him a group of steadfast and loyal friends who owe him everything, knowing how much his power is threatened on all sides by the factions which are destroying his kingdom.”

  “But, my brother, I’m a Huguenot, and my father as well!”

  “The king has no fear of Huguenots as long as they love him and agree to serve him loyally. He’s less the enemy of Henri de Navarre than of Guise, of the Spanish king and of the priests loyal to Guise.”

  “Well I certainly can’t answer for Montcalm,” I replied after a moment’s reflection, “but I doubt my father would agree to leave Mespech, being so invested in the management of his lands, and especially since he’s made so many innovations that he’s become a model for the entire region.”