Heretic Dawn Read online

  “Well,” observed Rabastens, “you won’t find him. He’s not at home now. He’s gone to play tennis at the Louvre.”

  “At the Louvre? Do you mean there are tennis courts at the Louvre?”

  “There are two of them, not inside, but set against the surrounding walls and very conveniently placed to the right and to the left of the entrance on the rue d’Hostriche. The captain, who despite his age remains one of the most capable players of the court, prefers the court on the left because, he says, the ground is more solid, the light better and the balls more lively. They call this court the Five Virgins because the master there has five daughters who are awaiting husbands.”

  “Will they get them?”

  “Assuredly so! The master is quite well-to-do since the king gives him his business.”

  “The king plays tennis?”

  “Furiously!” replied Rabastens.

  And that this word fit Charles IX perfectly I would soon discover for myself, for you couldn’t set foot in the Louvre without people everywhere telling you with what furia the king blew his trumpets, brandished the hammer in his forge or shot the arquebus; or how he hunted like a madman, and leapt off his horse, knife in hand, to kill his quarry, loving the sight of blood spurting from its fuming entrails.

  Rabastens very politely offered to take me to the Five Virgins to see Monsieur de Nançay, since he himself had to go to the Louvre for his fencing work. So we headed back to the rue de la Ferronnerie, and went as far as the grand’rue Saint-Honoré, which hardly deserves to be called “grand”, although there are many beautiful nobles’ houses there.

  Since the names of the streets on our left, which had been carved in stone at eye level, had become illegible over time, Rabastens named them for us so that when we returned we’d remember the route we’d taken and not have to ask some insolent Guillaume. And so we passed the rue Tirechappe, then the rue de Bresse, next the rue des Poulies, and turned left into the rue de l’Hostriche, which was the most famous in Paris since it led to the Louvre.

  “I call it rue de l’Hostriche,” Rabastens said, “since that’s what my father called it. But some Parisians call it l’Autruche, thinking it’s named for the ostrich, and still others call it l’Autriche, thinking it’s named for Austria. There’s no way to know who’s right and who’s wrong, since the name has completely worn away.”

  “But isn’t there a map of the city that would show it’s real name?”

  “I’ve heard there was one,” Rabastens replied, “although few have ever seen it, and those that have claim that it was full of mistakes, both in the layout and in the names of streets.”

  “Well,” I thought, “what a strange and anarchic city, where everything is so uncertain: the lighting, public safety, street names!” But I fell silent when I saw the Louvre, which filled me with a kind of silent awe and even fear, such as the subjects of a great and powerful monarch should feel in his presence. And though I’m not normally subject to such abject emotions, I nevertheless couldn’t help feeling dwarfed by the immense city that surrounded me and by the prodigious building that commanded the kingdom.

  Certainly it’s no insignificant thing in Sarlat to be the younger son of the Baron de Mespech, lodged in a chateau with such beautiful ramparts, cousin of the Caumont brothers of Castelnau and Milandes, allied with Pierre de Bourdeille, the abbot of Brantôme, and friend of so many Huguenot and papist gentlemen in Périgord. But here, what was I? What did I matter? What was I worth in this capital city and at the foot of the Louvre, bristling with its towers? This was the seat of royal power, with its Swiss guards, its prisons, its cannon (a single one of which could have destroyed the walls of Mespech), and its sovereign, descended from a great line, absolute master of one of the great kingdoms of the universe, holding irrefutable sway over the lives and liberties of his subjects—and what’s more, solemnly crowned, anointed by the holy chrism, ruling by a divine right that even the Huguenots wouldn’t dare contest!

  The wall surrounding the chateau began at the corner of the rue de l’Hostriche, but you couldn’t see the three towers that were lined up along it, since the king had allowed houses to be built up against this wall, which considerably diminished its defensive value. But did the king really need this enclosure, these moats which ran along his formidable palace to protect him? Against whom? There were so many riches that flowed his way and so many gentlemen to protect them, who were so zealous to serve him that they would have given their souls to him if he’d asked for them.

  The keeper of the tennis courts and five or six guards, poleaxes in hand, stopped us at the entryway into the Five Virgins, and wouldn’t have let us pass had not Rabastens pushed us through ahead of him, including Miroul, for which I was very grateful since our valet had acted so quickly to save my Samson.

  In truth, this tennis court wasn’t any better than the one belonging to Chancellor Saporta in Montpellier, other than in its grandstands, which were so full of courtiers and noble ladies that there wouldn’t have been room for a pin—this was doubtless the reason that Rabastens led us, by way of a small staircase, to a stand that was smaller but higher than the first one, and that occupied the back wall and was made of wood like the grandstand; the wall opposite this structure was made of closely joined stone bricks so that one could play, as they said in Paris, à la bricole, that is, one could make the ball ricochet against its surface to place it in the opponent’s camp without its passing under the rope. But I express myself badly when I use this word, for the two opposing camps were separated by a rope, to be sure, but to it were attached a whole series of closely spaced fringes that extended to the ground: a refinement unknown in Montpellier, where occasionally there were very hot arguments about whether the ball had passed over or under the rope; here, however, the fringes impeded the ball’s progress when it was launched too low, so that there were fewer disputes—or at least so I believed.

  The smaller stands, to which Rabastens led us, were occupied only by a scorekeeper, who stood ready, a piece of white charcoal in hand, to mark the points of the match on a board placed at the front of the stand, and easily visible by the spectators in the grandstand that was at a right angle to ours. The scorekeeper’s face had been sewn up with a scar across the top of his bald skull; he had a wooden left leg and the face of a veteran of several wars—which he must have been, for, initially unhappy about our arrival, he softened considerably when he saw Rabastens, and immediately placed on his shiny bald head a feathered hat of the kind worn by the foot guards twenty years previously, and then doffed it when he made a deep bow to the sergeant, who returned the gesture with great dignity.

  “Monsieur,” said the man, “if these gentlemen are with you they are welcome here. But they should sit at the back and shouldn’t show themselves since these stands are reserved for the score.”

  “I understand completely,” said Rabastens.

  We four then bowed to the scorekeeper, who again put on his hat (which had as many feathers as a rooster’s tail), and doffed it a second time as he bowed to us, though without as much pomp or so deep a genuflection as he’d made to the sergeant.

  As for me, I only had eyes for the grandstand, never having seen an assemblage so richly attired in silks, brocades and pearls, and other precious stones, nor one so colourful, the courtiers, as well as the ladies, dressed in clothes of which not a sleeve or stocking was the same colour as any other item, so that you would have thought you were looking at a garden of a thousand different flowers displaying a thousand palettes of nature.

  But I was distracted from this gay and gallant spectacle by a great commotion in the grandstand caused by the entrance of the queen mother, whom I recognized by her black clothing and by the retinue of ladies-in-waiting of such beauty as to stop your breath in your lungs. These ladies were in truth famous throughout the kingdom for their beauty, and gave the impression of flying around Catherine de’ Medici in their brilliant finery like so many brilliant pieces of the rainbow.


  The queen mother took her place in the middle of the grandstand under a canopy painted with the fleur-de-lis that I would have thought reserved for the king. But that she should casually usurp it did not surprise me, since d’Argence had written to my father that at Charles IX’s entry into the city of Metz, three years previously, Catherine de’ Medici had demanded that she enter the gates before the king her son—you heard me: before the king!—and with her own cortège of ladies and officers. Well, no doubt the Florentine needed revenge for all the slights and scorn she’d suffered, both in the court of François I and during the reign of her husband, Henri II, when, with Diane de Poitiers reigning, even in the conjugal bed, she had to accept her rival’s supremacy.

  It seemed as though, from that time on, she had only insults for names: “the shopkeeper” was the name the courtiers in the Louvre gave her when she arrived from Florence. “Jezebel” was what the Huguenots called her after the Meeting of Bayonne, at which she tried to bargain for French blood with the Duque de Alba, in an attempt to exchange the massacre of the Protestants for a Spanish marriage.

  I could only see her from above and in profile, except when she turned her head to the right, which she did quite often, her large, dilated eyes paying close attention to everything that was going on around her. She seemed smaller and more obese than she’d been described to me, her cheeks round and puffy, her lower lip hanging loosely, and yet not at all languid in her movements, but, quite the contrary, lively and vigorous. She had a worried look in her eyes, which were veiled by heavy eyelids that gave her a somewhat toad-like appearance. Pierre de L’Étoile had told me that she had taken great umbrage at the fact that Coligny had Charles’s ear, and was pushing the king to go to war in Flanders, believing that the favour our leader enjoyed might threaten the great power she exercised in the state and force her into exile.

  I cannot fathom how all those splendid ladies-in-waiting, with their beautiful hoop skirts, managed to squeeze in behind the queen mother on this grandstand, which was already so full, but I certainly wouldn’t have minded to find myself in the middle of their ranks, with all the rustling of the petticoats, and I began to dream about it with great appetite given how much women’s beauty holds sway over our thoughts without our even willing it to. But suddenly I remembered my unfortunate doublet, which, not content simply to be outmoded, had the temerity to display on its front a shameful repair, and I felt a cruel chagrin. This piece of my wardrobe would cause me to be completely despised in gallant company, and, what’s more, would doubtless deprive me for ever of the sweet joys that the little house on the rue Trouvevache had promised me that very morning. What to do? Without my own money, or any money I could expect from Samson, was there any remedy to this predicament?

  I was in the midst of such mental thorns and brambles when I saw a middle-aged gentleman enter the arena clad in shirt and leggings only—that is, without his doublet. He was fairly tall, but well built, youthful and vigorous, with tanned skin, grey eyes, thick eyebrows, a square face and a goatee more pepper than salt; his head was erect and he had a spring in his step even though he was walking slowly. He headed towards the queen mother, made her a deep bow, to which she responded with a nod and a smile gracious enough for me to believe that this gentleman was well received in court. This was confirmed by the applause of the courtiers and the ladies when he greeted them all with an ample and gracious gesture.

  “Monsieur de Nançay,” observed the scorekeeper to our mentor, “seems none the worse for his fall from his horse.”

  “Indeed,” Rabastens replied. “The captain is built with brick and mortar. You’d need a cannonball to take him down!”

  A brouhaha from the grandstand interrupted him, followed by a burst of applause, and I saw that a second gentleman, also clad only in shirt and leggings, had entered the tennis court. But this one rushed up to the stands, bowed to the queen mother and then ran over to Nançay and embraced him. After which, wishing to reach the opponent’s side, he simply jumped over the rope; but, strange to tell, he went head-first as if diving into a river, and landed on the ground on his two hands and neck and did a complete somersault before coming to a standing position with incredible dexterity—an exploit that was warmly applauded by the spectators.

  “Now there’s a marvellous leaper!” I exclaimed to Rabastens. “Who is the gentleman?”

  “But it’s the king,” whispered Rabastens.

  “What? Did I hear you right? The king?”

  “The king himself.”

  I was astounded, and you may well imagine that I had eyes only for the sovereign as the tennis master walked over to him, followed by two valets, one carrying the racquets and the other a basketful of balls.

  Charles IX was fairly tall and well proportioned, though very thin and a bit stooped, and, despite his agility he had a generally unhealthy look about him. His eyes maintained a thoroughly distrustful look; this was coupled with an expression that suggested both a lack of self-assurance and a general nervousness. Moreover, his gestures and his behaviour betrayed a need to be seen and, at the same time, a sort of childish fear of not being seen enough, having nothing of the composure or the self-confidence of a man of twenty-two whose power, if he’d wanted to exercise it, would be practically limitless.

  With the tennis master I found him both too familiar and too brusque, all smiles one minute and frowning the next. Of the racquets that were offered him, two were strung with string, one square and one oval, and a third, round one was made of stretched parchment. From what I could tell by watching him, it was this third one that the tennis master recommended, a choice the king refused outright, as if he judged this suggestion to be impertinent. He then seemed to hesitate between the two strung racquets and kept taking up the oval one, then the square one without being able to make up his mind. This oscillation threatening to last the entire morning, the tennis master, without any sign that he was intimidated, again suggested the one made of parchment, and this time the king accepted it, but with visibly bad grace and less because he was convinced it was the right choice than because he simply couldn’t make up his mind between the other two.

  The second valet offering him the choice of a ball from the basket, the king made a brusque and impatient gesture, rejecting the responsibility of this decision, passing it on to Monsieur de Nançay, who acquitted himself admirably in this task, bouncing each of the balls on the ground and keeping the liveliest of them.

  “Nançay,” said the king, “I’m wagering 100 écus on myself. How much do you wager?”

  “Fifty écus on myself, sire.”

  “By God!” cried the king. “Fifty is very little!”

  “Sire,” replied Monsieur de Nançay, bowing to him, “I’d wager more if I were more assured of winning.”

  At this the king laughed and seemed happy, and even more so when the Medici’s page stepped up to announce that the queen mother would give 100 écus to the winner and fifty to the loser. The colourful assembly applauded and buzzed with appreciation at this announcement, and, as for me, I wouldn’t swear that the whole thing hadn’t been arranged beforehand by the Florentine and Monsieur de Nançay so that the captain wouldn’t leave any feathers on the court.

  The two umpires (two gentlemen, one chosen by the king and the other by Monsieur de Nançay) immediately requested the money from each player and the whole amount was deposited in a little pile on a small velvet rug placed at the level of the cord. All the while the king was jumping up and down with impatience and giving furious racquet strokes in the air.

  “Sire,” said Monsieur de Nançay, “shall we play à la bricole and allow ricocheted shots?”

  “I don’t know,” answered the king. “Do you want to?”

  “I think not.”

  But since Charles IX fell silent and couldn’t decide, Monsieur de Nançay, pretending the decision had been made, continued, “Sire, would you like to serve first?”

  “I don’t know,” answered the king. “I don’t see
that it’s to my advantage.”

  “Then don’t, sire, since it might be to your disadvantage,” smiled Nançay.

  “Sire,” said one of the two umpires, “may it please Your Majesty to spin your racquet? Let chance decide.”

  “I choose the mark,” said Nançay.

  “And I the blank side,” said the king, quickly making this choice since there was no other.

  The king placed his racquet on the ground with it’s oval top down, spun it like a top and let go. It fell on the mark, so that Monsieur de Nançay had service and the king seemed quite vexed, as if, not having it, he suddenly perceived that there was some advantage to it he hadn’t discerned before.

  “Now, let’s play!” he cried, backing up in little jumps almost all the way to our little gallery, and, seeing him take up his position, the valets who would pick up the balls ran to take their places, some to the four corners of the court and others to the sides of the rope. The tennis master threw a ball to Monsieur de Nançay from among the ones that he’d chosen. The captain caught it with his left hand and immediately set himself to serve.

  “Here you go, sire!” he cried.

  He served the ball over the rope with great force and, though it bounced quite a distance from him, the king rushed at it and struck it so fast and at such a low angle that Nançay couldn’t reach it, even on the rebound.

  “Fifteen for me!” shouted the king, greatly pleased with himself.

  To which the umpire—although the two consulted on each point, only one of the two spoke—echoed the king: “Fifteen for the king!”

  So the scorekeeper, with a sweeping movement of his arm, as if he were about to put his lips to a trumpet, marked “fifteen” in white chalk on his slate in exquisitely shaped and rounded characters.

  “Here you go, sire!” cried Nançay, but this time the king couldn’t catch up with the ball, even with the end of his racquet.