The Brethren Page 34

  This lair consisted of a large house which had formerly belonged to an order of nuns who, contrary to the priests of the bishopric, had remained at Sarlat during the entire duration of the plague to bring religious comfort to those afflicted with the disease. Death had rewarded their marvellous devotion, sparing but two of their order, whom Forcalquier had shamelessly evicted in order to take possession of their convent, whose furnishings he coveted. Surrounded by all his knaves, as well as a group of trollops whom our crow had told us about, Forcalquier wallowed in drink, feasting and lechery, and a strange cult devoted to the Virgin, whom, he claimed, had spoken to him in a dream.

  Day was just breaking when, with the town surrounded by these small outposts—Samson, François and I, commanding one of these in a very narrow street affording a good view of the convent—the larger part of our band quietly occupied an abandoned house opposite the butcher-baron’s lair. Miroul then crept up, his grappling hook in hand and cord around his neck, and wound in a bandolier over his shoulder some cotton packets which, as I later learnt, contained flower of sulphur. To my great astonishment, after having studied the facade of the convent, he began scaling it, using his hands and feet but no grappling hook of any kind, looking like nothing so much as a fly moving up the side of a wall. Reaching the roofing tiles, he ran in zigzag up the very steep roof until he reached one of the chimneys, caught hold of it and took out one of his cotton packets. He then struck his flint and lit the bag containing the sulphur, fanned it into a flame with his breath, then tossed it down the chimney flue. He did the same with each of the other packets whose number corresponded precisely to the number of flues, proof that my father had previously sent someone to spy out the place. This done, Miroul came down from the roof with such speed as to leave us breathless, and as soon as he had landed on the paving stones ran over to join my brothers and me. My father had assigned him this post in view of his age, planning to shelter him from the bitterest part of the combat once his rooftop mission was accomplished. If my father had hoped to smoke the fox out of his lair with these sulphur packets, the results did not meet his expectations. For after a tense period of waiting, all the windows of the place were opened simultaneously and the cotton packets thrown burning into the street and the windows shut again before any of our men could fire on the openings. Indeed, my father’s orders had been to refrain from firing into the windows and to shoot at the brigands as they fled the smoke-filled building.

  And so, in a matter of seconds, my father’s plan was destroyed, and the advantage of surprise eliminated. Now the wind, blowing the sulphurous vapours towards the place where the larger part of our troop was stationed, began to create a serious problem, since the abandoned house where they were hiding had neither windows nor vents. Luckily there were doors at the rear of the building, and my father ordered his men to withdraw through them. This was an orderly enough retreat, yet Forcalquier, who had been watching from one of the convent windows, decided to seize the advantage of this moment for a sudden sortie before my father could redeploy his troops.

  Forcalquier’s band, divided into three groups, burst from their lair, partially hidden from view by the sulphurous smoke, and, trying to flee the town, ran directly into the small outposts my father had established. And since the brigands outnumbered and were better armed than the men at these posts blocking their way, there followed a series of confused and savage street fights—exactly the eventuality my father had hoped most fervently to avoid. The noise of blunderbusses, the clash of swords and shouts of rage or pain broke out on all sides of the town. For François, Miroul, Samson and me, posted in a passage so narrow that three men couldn’t walk it abreast, our situation became quickly critical when we spied seven men armed with pikes rush at us on a dead run.

  “Let’s hide in the doorways,” whispered François, “and let them pass.”

  Whereas from Samson or Miroul this advice would have seemed reasonable enough, from my elder brother I could not accept it. “No indeed!” I hissed. “That would be too cowardly.” And taking up a position in the middle of the street, I drew the two pistols I had in my belt, fired and brought down two men. Miroul, who had but one pistol, also fired and wounded his man. But François, stunned by my bravery, remained frozen to the spot and Samson did not budge either, surely not from fear but rather from his usual laconic manner. As for the four remaining bandits, they let out ferocious shouts at seeing their comrades fall, and, looking truly immense in the narrow street, they rushed at us brandishing their pikes. I saw François draw his sword and drew my own, but as Samson stood ever immobile, no doubt forgetting his, I leapt to his side and shouted in his ear, “Your sword, Samson, your sword!” He drew it, at last, but distracted by his slowness, I failed to see the terrible pike blow aimed at me by one of our assailants. The point was stopped by my armour, but the shock was so great that I rolled to the ground, just managing to hold on to my weapon. The man, who seemed to me gigantic, was suddenly standing over me, brandishing his pike and shouting, “I’m going to kill you, little rascal!”

  I rolled to one side just as the pike was planted in the unpaved alleyway. The absence of paving stones saved me, for in the time it took the man to unearth his weapon I’d leapt to my feet and given him so vigorous a thrust that the point of my sword traversed his body and entered the greeny loam of the mud wall behind him. It seemed to me that the handle of my sword tore itself from my grasp, and I just stood there unable to move, staring at this poor wretch, whose lung was pierced, and who, as though nailed to the wall, stared back at me, blood beginning to flow from the corners of his lips. I picked up his pike, but no one seemed to require my help. I didn’t see what happened, but learnt afterwards that François, meeting his enemy’s blow with his sword, had suddenly remembered the pistol in his belt, drawn it with his left hand, cocked it and fired. Miroul, who had the advantage of being armed with a pike, had used it with such dexterity that he’d wounded his assailant, who lay nearby moaning piteously. Alone, Samson still fought on, bleeding from one arm. He was pressing his advantage, but his natural goodness prevented him from concluding his affair. His adversary, seeing this and observing that he was alone against the four of us, turned tail and fled as fast as his legs would carry him down the alley.

  “Fire, Samson, fire!” I cried. But Samson looked at me astonished through his big blue eyes without even making a gesture to draw his pistol:

  “Why thould I? He’th running away!”

  I answered not a word. The thought had just crossed my mind that I must pull my sword from the body of my assailant, and this thought deeply horrified me. Staggering slightly, my armour dented and dirtied by the mire of the alleyway where I’d fallen and rolled, I returned to the man whom I’d pinned to the wall. His eyes were closed, but he held himself erect, his face all a grimace, yet emitting no sound whatsoever as the two rivulets of blood continued to flow from the corners of his mouth. However, as soon as he saw me, or rather as soon as he felt me take hold of my sword handle, he opened his eyes and staring at me said, in a hoarse and raspy voice: “If it please you, Monsieur, wipe the point of your sword before pulling it out of me. I wouldn’t want the dirt of the wall to enter my body.”

  Though this man had tried to kill me, this supplication filled me with an inexplicable chagrin. Calling Samson, I told him to hold the wretch by the shoulders, and going behind him I pulled him away from the wall to disengage the point of my sword. Then taking the white scarf I was wearing about my neck, carefully cleaned the point, marvelling at the delicacy of this peasant, who, even if he weren’t to die from his wound, would surely be hanged.

  Then, standing in front of the man, I told Samson to hold him up and, seizing my sword by the blade, pulled it vigorously towards me. The man let out a piercing cry, and, despite Samson’s help, went limp. I tried to hold him up with the flat of my hand, but he vomited out such a flood of blood on my hand and arm that I instinctively retreated at the feel of this hot, viscous liquid, and, despite Samson
’s efforts, he fell, large and heavy, to the ground. Lying there, he made not a peep, but kept his eyes fixed on me.

  The only sounds we could hear now were, in the distance, from various points in the town, muffled blunderbuss shots. My father burst into the alleyway on the run, his blood-soaked sword in hand, followed by Cabusse and Coulondre. “Well, my rascals,” he called as soon as he spied us, “everyone healthy and happy?” And as we were slow to respond, all four too stunned by this carnage to speak, he caught sight of the dents in my armour and the blood on my arm and scarf and cried out in an anguished voice that went straight to my heart: “My little rascal, are you wounded?”

  “No, father, this is the blood of my adversary. I am all right, but Samson is wounded, I think.”

  “Ith jutht a thratch,” lisped Samson.

  Without a word, my father seized his dagger, split his sleeve open and looked at the cut. “A slash,” he reported, “but not very deep. It’ll heal within a fortnight. All the same, when we get back to the wagon I’ll wash it and bind it. So,” he continued, but not quite with his usual gaiety, “you did good work, my boys.” We could manage no other response than a mournful silence, and my father said in a much-changed voice, “Alas, we’ve defeated them, but we paid more dearly for it than I’d wanted. Campagnac lost a man, Puymartin two and there are a few wounded as well.”

  At this very moment, Jonas appeared at the end of the alley, running towards us. “My Lord!” he cried, “One of our men is gravely wounded from an ambush.”

  My father paled and, sword in hand, set off at a run, his three sons at his heels. Opposite what had been the butcher-baron’s hideout, the Mespech wagon was drawn up and stretched out on its bed, livid, his eyes shut, his corselet shredded and bloody, lay Cockeyed Marsal. My father leant over him and, as he tried to turn him so he could unlace the thongs of his corselet, Marsal opened his eyes and spoke in a weak voice, but for the first and last time in his life without any stutter whatsoever, a whole sentence which years later none of our servants could recall without a knot in their throat and tears in their eyes: “If it please you, My Lord, don’t touch me—it’s no good, I’m going to die.”

  So saying, Cockeyed Marsal opened his mouth three times, prey to a terrible convulsion, and expired.

  “I’ll go to look to the wounded,” said my father, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Our troops reported ten wounded in all, three of them from Mespech: Samson, his arm cut by a pike; Cabusse, his scalp grazed by a bullet which pierced his helmet and caused him to bleed like a bull; and one of the Siorac twins, his cheek slashed by a sword. Having given each a drink of a few drops of brandy, my father cleaned their wounds and bound them, trying, despite his own heavy heart, to cheer them up with his banter. “And which one are you?” he asked Siorac.

  “I’m the brother of the other one.”

  “I know. Michel or Benoît?”

  “Michel.”

  “Well, then, Michel, you’re going to have a nice scar on your left cheek, just like the late Duc de Guise and me. From now on, thanks to this mark, we’ll be able to distinguish you from your brother.”

  “But I don’t want to be distinguished from my brother,” moaned Michel tearfully, and Benoît wrapped his arm around his shoulders to console him.

  Handsome Puymartin came up with a sad gait and sadder mien, to ask my father if he could place his two dead soldiers on our wagon. The slain man from Campagnac was added as well, while my father was finishing his attentions to the wounded, Puymartin standing by watching him pensively. “Don’t you find it strange, My Lord, that you’re as good at healing men as giving them your sword?”

  “There’s a time for everything under this heaven,” replied my father. “A time to kill and a time to heal.”

  “I don’t know that proverb.”

  “Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verse three.”

  “Huguenot,” smiled Puymartin, “do you have a biblical quotation ready for every act of your life?”

  “Of course. Isn’t that the Word of God?”

  “Well then, find me one for my present troubles: I’ve lost two men just when haying and harvest times are coming.”

  “There is a time to rip and a time to sew.”

  “But how can I sew when thread and cloth are lacking? How can I recruit two labourers to replace these poor fellows when famine and plague have swept away so many men that there’s not a healthy man left without work in the whole province?”

  “I’ve got enough worries about this myself to bite my nails right off,” agreed my father. “We were already too few at Mespech.” I noticed nevertheless that he did not offer to help Puymartin with his haying and harvesting as he might have done for a fellow Huguenot.

  Cabusse brought up the wagon to where my father was attending to the last of the wounded. Looking very heroic with a bloodstained bandage encircling his head, his eyes flashing and his moustache bristling, this man said to my father in the same semi-familiar, semi-respectful tone my father had adopted with him: “My Lord, Forcalquier, who is merely wounded, asks to speak to you in private.”

  “What does this miscreant want with me?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s very insistent.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Be careful, Mespech,” warned Puymartin. “The scoundrel may have a weapon hidden on him.”

  “My boys will search him.” I followed along behind him, quite intrigued, as did Samson, but I noticed that François, as though troubled or distracted by his reverie, had pretended not to hear my father, and had gone up to Puymartin. Since this man was Diane de Fontenac’s cousin, I judged he intended to ask about her.

  Forcalquier was seated, leaning against the wall of the La Valade house, covered with blood, apparently wounded in every part of his body but his vital organs. I leant over him, my pistol at his temple, and opened his doublet (for he was wearing no armour) and searched him, but found no knife. Moreover his arms hung limp at his sides. When I had finished, he fixed his bulging eyes on my father and said in a firm voice:

  “My Lord, I’ve three requests to make of you.”

  “Speak, traitor,” replied my father, looking coldly at him from a toise away.

  “In this house I’m leaning against are hiding two monks whom I chased from their lodgings. My prayer is to have one of them brought to hear my confession.”

  “You’re not yet at death’s door, though not so far from it either.”

  “True enough, but that’s the point of my third request. My second is this: that you keep your soldiers from pillaging my house and shop for the money they’d find there. This money was honestly earned while I was still an honest man. I want my widow and children to have it.”

  “Granted,” said my father. “And what’s your third request?”

  “My Lord, what will you do with me now, except hand me over to La Porte, who will lock me up, see to my wounds and then torture me, have me judged by the Présidial court and condemn me to death. I’ll be eviscerated alive, my shaft and balls will be cut off, then I’ll be drawn and quartered by four horses, hanged, cut down, my four members lopped off along with my head. And all this will,” he said with some irony, “not be done without a hint of cruelty.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk of cruelty, you scoundrel!” said my father indignantly.

  “Excuse me, My Lord, ’tis true I’ve killed people, but I never tortured anyone. The Holy Virgin forbade it.”

  “Did not she forbid you to take the lives of your fellow men?”

  “No, she never did,” responded the butcher-baron with tranquil aplomb. “And I’ll tell this to the monk to mitigate my crimes.”

  “What are you getting at with all this nonsense?” cried my father impatiently. “And what do you want from me, you bloody fool?”

  Forcalquier lowered his voice: “After my confession I want you to kill me with your dagger.”

  “Absolutely not!” my father answered.

  “Yes, you
will!” Forcalquier replied. His black eyes twinkling with cunning, he continued, “My Lord, the city hasn’t got a sol in its treasury and already owes you 1,000 écus. It’ll never be able to compensate you for the expenses, risk and losses this expedition has cost you. But I can.”

  “You?!”

  “I’ve got a cache of 3,000 écus, stashed in the monk’s lodgings in a place only I know about, and so cleverly hidden that you’d never find it in a hundred years without my help.”

  “I’ll think about it,” replied my father abruptly and turned away. Samson and I followed him back to the wagon practically on the run to keep up with his long steps. Taking Puymartin aside, he whispered to him: “What do you think of this strange business? Obviously I don’t like the barbarous tortures inflicted by our authorities. I’m of a mind, however, to refuse.”

  “And I to accept,” answered Puymartin. “What do I care about the torture of this rascal on the public square in Sarlat? It will amuse the populace and titillate a few girls, but won’t put a sol in my coffers, which have withered quite empty in this drought. I’m not so rich as you, Huguenot.”

  “It’s not so much that we’re richer,” smiled my father, “but we spend less. Nonetheless I find this bargain repugnant… If news of it gets around…”

  “Who will know if the butcher’s dead? Let’s divide this cache in three unequal parts. Twelve hundred for you, 1,200 for me and 600 for Campagnac, since he didn’t come and didn’t take the same risks. Mespech, will you ever reap so much from one dagger thrust?”

  My father held out for a while longer, but rather in the manner of one who wants to be convinced. In such a delicate matter his Huguenot conscience, unlike the Catholic one, needed to be converted by degrees.

  “My rascals,” he said to Samson and me, pulling us to one side and putting his arms around our shoulders, “you must be silent as tombstones. Our honour is at stake.”