City of Wisdom and Blood Read online

  “Things are calming down, Monsieur de Lattes,” replied Cossolat.

  And, indeed, already Caudebec had furtively replaced his dagger in its sheath and was looking at Monsieur de Lattes without saying a word or moving a muscle, so astonished was he by the man’s presence and appearance.

  “Are you the Baron de Caudebec?” enquired Lattes.

  “I am,” replied Caudebec.

  “Monsieur, I want to thank you for the good grace you have shown in making a reconciliation with Siorac,” said Lattes, “and Monsieur de Joyeuse wishes to make you a gift of a barrel of muscat to replace the one that you so artfully used to fool the brigands of the Corbières. Are you two indeed reconciled?”

  “We are working on it,” I said, bowing deeply to Monsieur de Lattes. “All that remains is the apology that the Baron de Caudebec intends to offer me for a few unfortunate words that escaped him in a moment of anger.”

  Caudebec looked from Monsieur de Lattes to Cossolat, to the barrel of wine, to me, and, with ashen face, he mumbled, “Monsieur de Siorac, I offer you my apologies.”

  “Monsieur,” I replied, “I am at your service.” And stepping up to him, I smiled, embraced him warmly and kissed him on both cheeks. He responded with much more good grace than I would have expected, for he was doubtless secretly relieved to have got off so easily.

  “Monsieur,” I whispered as we hugged each other, “you must promise me that you won’t whip your page tonight. Without him, I’d be dead and you would be languishing in a fetid jail waiting to be beheaded.”

  He promised. I won’t repeat all the compliments that were exchanged and all the beautiful (and lengthy) phrases that were passed back and forth, Lattes displaying an easy mastery of French and loving to hear himself speak. As soon as this handsome gentleman had left the common room, and while Cossolat was accepting a glass of muscat from the baron, I bid everyone good day and took my leave. As I left the Three Kings, however, I ducked into a doorway and pulled Dame Gertrude’s note from my doublet and read:

  My gentul brother. Pleez fine me a diskreet place which I will pey for, to meet my little sikke frend, since we can’t meet heer four I’ve been under hevey wach since Lézignan. I will wate for you pressenly at the chursh of Saint-Firmin. Pleez, my sweat brother, due what I sae or I shall dye.

  G.

  “Ah,” I smiled, “wouldn’t it be better for these two to live side by side instead of dying far from each other?” But rereading the letter, laughing at her spelling, I suddenly remembered the note little Hélix had sent me when Samson and I were locked up in the north-east tower at Mespech when we returned from our expedition to the plague-infected Sarlat. I fell into a brown study thinking about the poor girl, dead in the bloom of her youth, and how I was like a widower, deprived of the company of one whom I’d know so well and so closely since my earliest memories. These thoughts pained me deeply but fortunately were interrupted by the appearance of Cossolat on the threshold of the Three Kings. I rushed up to him and pulled him aside to whisper to him that I was looking for a “diskreet place” for a few days.

  “Oh, Monsieur scholar!” laughed Cossolat. “What a man you are! You’re scarcely free of the clutches of this roumieu, and there you go again throwing yourself at the feet of some she-wolf.”

  “Not at all! This she-wolf is for my brother and not for me.”

  “What are you telling me? That he can’t find the den for himself?”

  “Ah, that he can’t, he’s one of God’s angels, wandering dreamily around this earth, and full of remorse for having feelings about this woman.”

  “Well, you’re a good brother!” said Cossolat with a laugh. “Given how much you’re doing to help him exercise his member, which, without your aid, would fall into total disrepair. Come with me!”

  Taking me by the arm, laughing and joking, this man, who had seemed so serious and humourless, led me through the city to the rue du Bayle, a little street that bordered on the Saint-Firmin church, and there he showed me a little shop with a first-floor garret. “Thomassine lives here,” he explained. “She owns this needle shop, but rents out the room above to certain rich merchants who, like the camel in the Bible, don’t dream of passing through the eye of the needle.” (He laughed heartily at his own joke, which I suspected he’d told more than once.) “Thomassine arrived here ten years ago, chased from her home in the Cévennes hills by a terrible famine that wiped out her entire family. The poor wench was so defeated when she arrived in Montpellier that she had to sell her blouse to buy a skirt. But ever since, choosing her clients from among Montpellier’s finest families (including some canons of the cathedral of Notre-Dame des Tables), Thomassine has so prospered that she now owns this shop and a very handy lodging only forty toises from the door of Saint-Firmin. It’s a very nice trick. The client enters the shop to buy needles and thread, finds himself upstairs where the bawd is waiting for him and then leaves by the back door which gives onto a little alley which no one ever uses.”

  “But isn’t this a brothel? The lady is very refined.”

  “Not at all! It’s just a shop with articles for women. It’s like in Spanish inns. Everyone eats the food they bring in. Monsieur scholar, I’ll take my leave. I just noticed the red curtain upstairs is moving, so Thomassine is watching us. Adieu. She’ll like you. She’s a beautiful and strong woman. Having known many men has not soured her view of our species.”

  Turning on his heels, Cossolat marched off in his abrupt and military way. I couldn’t help feeling surprised all over again by this rather schoolboy-like side of him. I watched his broad shoulders disappear from sight. “Well now,” I thought, “Huguenot he may be, but a captain of the archers is no toddler who has to have his bread buttered for him. No doubt he knows each paving stone in this city by day and by night and all that goes on behind every facade.”

  Scarcely had I set foot in Thomassine’s needle shop before a very trim chambermaid appeared and said with an inviting smile, “My mistress is awaiting you.” She preceded me with a lively step up the staircase, her ample hips rolling in a way that left me feeling cradled in her beauty. “Ah,” I thought to myself, “hasn’t this poor beast been bridled enough? Since the inn at Lézignan, I’ve been languishing in a nun’s chastity, and in Maître Sanche’s house growing thin on his meagre fare. Did I come to Montpellier to dry up, studying logic and philosophy, labouring all day with my head, my stomach empty and my arms unencumbered?”

  Aha! I was sure of it! Thomassine was at breakfast and her table laden with sumptuous meats and delicacies. Joyeuse in his mansion, the roumieux at the Three Kings and now Thomassine in her rooms! “By the belly of St Anthony!” I thought. “Everyone in this town is gorging themselves, everyone except me! I haven’t eaten a morsel since last night.” Let me just say, without wishing to offend anyone: let the Lord protect Thomassine to the end of her earthly days for having guessed from her first glance at me that I was weak from hunger and, in her sweetness and hospitality, for having said as soon as I crossed her threshold, “Monsieur, no ceremony! Sit, I beg you, and enjoy my table. You’re my guest, it won’t cost you a sol. No! I won’t take no for an answer. Azaïs, set a place for the gentleman, and quickly! Here, next to me. Eat, my noble friend, eat! Without meat to fill our bellies, there’s no life! Without life, there’s no love. Without love there’s no life! Azaïs! Where’s the man’s goblet? Fill it to the top! Don’t hold back! Serve him some more of this Bigorre sausage! Oh, my! What a pleasure to watch him eat with those beautiful white teeth! Azaïs, give him more ham! He’s eating a whole slice in one bite! It’s wonderful! Monsieur, have some more of this Corbières wine! Something to wash down your breakfast with! Azaïs, remove this man’s ruff! Take off his doublet! It’s too hot in here! Help him off with his boots so he can make himself at home! Good Monsieur, have another slice of this cherry pie! Finish your wine so that Azaïs can pour you some of this muscat. It’s from Frontignan, smooth and sweet, and flows down your throat like Lyons velvet.”
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  To be sure, there were no silver platters, or gold-plated tableware, or golden-handled little forks, or tall valets in superb livery, but by the belly of St Anthony, it was very pleasant here! I devoured healthy but simple food and drank these excellent regional wines in the cool darkness of the room, whose shutters were half closed against the sun and flies. And there was beautiful Thomassine, watching me with generous eyes, she of the easy saddle but heavenly soul, may God watch over her! And, to top it off, here was a trim chambermaid, taking off my ruff, my doublet and my boots with light and caressing fingers and a cheerful smile.

  While I was wolfing down this repast, and already three-quarters full (but this chasm was woefully deep), I glanced around the room and what struck me, other than the tapestries and many Persian rugs, was a bed so large that five people my size could easily have slept in it. The coverlet was of red velvet, matching the curtains that enclosed its alcove. Of other furniture there was none, excepting a trunk where, doubtless, Thomassine kept her clothes, and the table at which I was seated. As for Thomassine, she was not yet thirty and very beautiful, with black, luxurious hair, a round face and large red mouth. She had a robust neck and certainly, exposed as it was by a largely unlaced bodice, the largest, firmest, most milky and round bosom that I ever saw on a wench—except my beloved Barberine, whom she strongly resembled, though my nurse lacked Thomassine’s saucy effrontery.

  “Monsieur de Siorac, are you well filled?”

  “Oh, Madame, marvellously so! What gratitude and thanks I owe you! But, pray tell, how do you know my name?”

  “My bed is more talkative and warmer than ten confessionals, and though my little ear hears secrets a plenty therein, my tongue never repeats a one. What do you need?”

  “A room, Madame, for five or six days.”

  “As you’ve an older brother in Périgord, young man, and you’re a medical student without much money, I’ll let you have it for six sols a day.”

  “A thousand thanks, Madame,” I replied, “but I do not want to take advantage of your goodness. It is not I who will pay for the room but the lady, who herself is quite well-to-do.”

  At this naive remark, Thomassine threw her head back and laughed until tears came to her eyes.

  “My noble Monsieur! I like you! You’re as frank as a freshly minted coin. And so good-looking! You’re pawing the ground like a stallion in a pasture! So, it will be ten sols a day! Go find your lady right away! Where did you leave her?”

  “At the Saint-Firmin church, saying her prayers. But alas, she is not mine but my brother’s. I wish to God she were mine, for in these last ten days I’ve kissed only the wind.”

  “If I understand you,” laughed Thomassine, “you’re pretty hungry in that way too! But tell me, is your brother’s lady so beautiful that you covet her yourself?”

  “Oh, Madame, she is not half so pretty as you, her blonde hair seems so pale compared to your jet-black curls.”

  At this, Thomassine laughed again, and what gay and inebriating music that laugh was to my ears!

  “Azaïs, did you hear this gallantry? What a clever boy he is with his compliments. And the look in his eyes! They’re flashing fire! Azaïs, what are we going to do with this poor lad and his strident hunger?”

  “Satisfy it, Madame. Charity demands no less. After the belly comes the ballet.”

  “Well said!” replied Thomassine. “Monsieur, I’ve heard you’re a valiant fellow. Here’s your citadel,” she continued, rising, her cheeks on fire and her legs spread invitingly. “Arise and have at ’em! Give no quarter!”

  “What, Madame! Laying siege at this hour of the morning? And with that lady waiting?”

  “Let her pray! Let her pray to her God since she’s going to offend him! The more she prays, the lighter will be her soul when the pleasure comes. Come, Monsieur, I’ll brook no refusal. Azaïs, close the door behind you. And don’t go listening at the keyhole or I’ll whip you tonight like green barley.”

  I don’t know which of us carried the other to bed but we were there in the blink of an eye, our clothes discarded and thrown to the Devil, the velvet curtains closed around us like the future baby in it’s mother’s womb. My head buried in Thomassine’s ample bosom, I felt myself flying so high, so high that I could scarcely believe my senses. “Oh!” I thought in absolute wonder. “Is this really me in here, so well lodged and received?”

  These pleasures finished, which always finish too soon, I had a lot of running to do. First to the church of Saint-Firmin where I saw Dame Gertrude du Luc on her knees, deep in prayer in front of a statue of the Virgin, a thick black veil over her beautiful straw-coloured hair, which I’d dared to malign just minutes earlier. She had chosen Jesus’s mother for intercession, hoping no doubt that since Mary was a woman she would better understand the mix of scruples and desires she was feeling. I came up to her from behind, touched her gently on the shoulder and, when she turned, I saw her face bathed in tears, either because of her conscience or because she feared I might not come, for she whispered to me that she had despaired of seeing me. I didn’t want to lose any more time in excuses or civilities and told her to follow me at a distance of ten paces to the home of a woman who was a friend of mine—which she did immediately, hiding her identity behind a mask she’d brought for the occasion. Her face thus disguised, she crossed the street separating the Catholic church from the needle shop, where another idolatrous rite was celebrated daily, by which I mean that of our mortal flesh. Alas, I agree wholeheartedly that men should love God. But are we able to, constructed as we are and as He created us? It is not I who sin, says St Paul, but the sin that is in me.

  As soon as Thomassine saw Dame Gertrude du Luc before her, all blushing and ashamed, she understood what a novice she was dealing with, and took compassion on her from the depths of her generous heart. She caressed her new acquaintance a lot and gave her a goblet of Frontignan wine, told Azaïs to brush her blonde hair, perfumed it with essence of musk, which, as everyone knows, is an aphrodisiac, and, in an attempt to distract her thoughts from images of hellfire, asked her straight out what kind of man her lover was. To which, Dame Gertrude, who, up until that moment, had been sitting still and quiet on her stool as though paralysed by fear and shame, suddenly grew quite animated and, blue eyes shining now, cried, “Oh, good hostess! He is so handsome and so radiant, and so suave that there is no angel in God’s heaven his equal.”

  Happy to see her so restored, she who had appeared so enfeebled, I immediately left and ran all the way to the apothecary to seek this beautiful angel, from whom very unangelic things were expected. I was careful not to tell him where I was taking him or what he would see, wishing to avoid any argument such as we had already had, and counting on the sight of the lady to dissipate all his heroic resolutions. To tell the truth, the effect exceeded all of my expectations, for scarcely had he caught sight of Dame Gertrude standing in the upper room of the needle shop before he paled terribly and fainted dead away. I gave a few slaps on his cheeks to bring him round, and Gertrude du Luc, when I had done, applied a few kisses, both remedies having remarkable success: his pale face regained its colour immediately, and his eyes, upon opening, fixed on his lady with such an air of adoration that I was seized with respect for such a noble and powerful feeling. I withdrew. And leaving them to celebrate the rites of their great love, I went away all pensive, pricked a bit by envy—not of the lady, but of this unique happiness into which I had watched them melt.

  I returned on the run to the apothecary, for it was close on noon, and I didn’t want to offend Maître Sanche by my tardiness. It was excessively hot for early June and the citizens of Montpellier had, from house to house, strung cords at the level of the first floor, on which they threw branches and reeds, so that passers-by would be shaded from the terrible midday heat. They had also thrown water they’d drawn from wells or cisterns on the paving stones, since there is only one fountain in Montpellier, in the place Saint-Gély. The sun, even through these branches,
fell heavily on the heads and shoulders of the crowd of pedestrians, who seemed unaffected by it, but strolled through the streets laughing and chattering gaily, young men and women eyeing each other carefully. Running as I had to do, I arrived at Maître Sanche’s house all moist with sweat. The dinner bell was ringing and, in the great hall, all were standing at their places round the table, waiting for the illustrious master, whom some business must have detained in his office.

  “Where is your pretty brother?” asked Fogacer.

  “I left him at the Three Kings with a roumieu who invited him to dine there.”

  “And this roumieu didn’t invite you?” asked Fogacer, raising one diabolical eyebrow.

  “No,” I answered curtly, hoping to put an end to this line of enquiry, to which Typhème on my left lent an avid ear.

  Then, parading in majestically in his black satin robes, the very illustrious master immediately noticed Samson’s absence, and he, too, enquired after his nephew, but seemed to accept my lame answer without any reaction, focusing instead on removing his robe and replacing his tufted hat with a his little cap. After which he intoned his strange benedicite.

  “Good nephew,” said Maître Sanche as soon as Fontanette had served the midday soup, “is it because you had such an exciting morning that, as hungry as you must be, you’re picking at your food without appetite?” However cockeyed he was, his look was now very penetrating.

  “No, no, illustrious master,” I pleaded, reddening so much that Typhème, on my left, looked at me very curiously without turning her head. I blushed even more when, to my infinite astonishment, Maître Sanche began recounting, as if he’d been present, my interview with Monsieur de Joyeuse and my fight with Caudebec at the Three Kings. He stopped there, but I had no doubt he also knew the rest of my activities of the morning, so I sat quite still on my stool, suddenly aware of what would later be confirmed by Fogacer: that among the Sephardic families of Montpellier, news travelled like lightning, since these people lived in constant fear that some popular uprising or machination of the priests might put their lives in danger, as had been the case in Spain with their security and well-being.