Remorse, because he realized that his mission to the princess was a confidential one, which he had sacrificed to his love, and the outcome of the sin that he had committed because of this was terrible. In Chantilly, Madame de Condé was only a fugitive, but in Bordeaux, Madame de Condé was a seditious princess. And, as well as remorse, he felt fear, because he knew from her reputation how savage could be the revenge of an enraged Anne of Austria.
Another less precise feeling of remorse was perhaps even more profound than the first. Somewhere there was a beautiful, intelligent young woman who had used her influence only to advance his career and her credit only to protect him, a woman who, through her love for him, had twenty times risked her position, her future and her fortune… This woman was not only the most charming mistress, but also the most devoted friend. He had left her suddenly, cruelly, with no excuse and no justification, at a time when she was thinking of him, and instead of taking revenge, she had followed him with still more generosity; her name, instead of sounding to him in the accents of reproach, had sung in his ears with the soothing sweetness of an almost royal favour. It is true that the favour had arrived at a bad moment, a moment when, indeed, Canolles would have preferred a disservice, but was that Nanon’s fault? All that Nanon had seen in this mission for His Majesty was an increase in fortune and position for the man who was constantly in her thoughts.
So all those who have loved two women at once – and here I must beg forgiveness of my female readers: this phenomenon is incomprehensible for them, for they have only ever had one love, while it is commonplace among us men – so, I say, all those who have loved two women at once will understand how, as Canolles sank deeper into his reflections, Nanon regained the influence over his mind that he thought she had lost. The rough edges of character, which hurt as they rub together in intimacy and cause momentary feelings of irritation, are smoothed out with distance, while, by contrast, certain sweeter memories regain their former intensity in solitude. Finally (and it’s sad to say), ethereal love, which promised only favours, evaporates in isolation, while in the same situation material love, on the contrary, appears to memory armed with all its earthly pleasures, which also have their value. Lovely and lost, generous and deceived: this is how Canolles now saw Nanon.
It was because Canolles was searching his soul candidly and not with the bad faith of those accused persons who are forced to make a general confession. What had Nanon done for him to abandon her? What had Madame de Cambes done for him to pursue her? What was there, then, so desirable and magnificently amorous in the little rider at the inn of the Golden Calf? Was Madame de Cambes so far superior to Nanon? Is blonde hair so much better than dark hair for a man to become unfaithful and ungrateful towards his mistress, and a traitor and disloyal towards his king, by simply exchanging these dark locks for those fair ones? And yet – oh, how wretchedly is mankind designed! – Canolles presented himself with all these arguments (eminently reasonable, as one can see), and yet was not persuaded.
The heart is full of such mysteries, which are the joy of lovers and the despair of philosophers.
This did not prevent Canolles from being angry with himself and thoroughly upbraiding himself.
‘I shall be punished,’ he thought, feeling that punishment eradicates sin. ‘I shall be punished, so much the better! There will be some fine captain there, a rough type, very rude and brutal, who in his capacity as jailer-in-chief, will read me an order from Monsieur de Mazarin, then point me to a dungeon and send me to rot fifteen feet below the ground with rats and toads, while I could have lived in broad daylight and blossomed in the sun, in the arms of a woman who loved me, and whom I loved… and, by Jove, whom I may still love.
‘Away with you, cursed little viscount! Why did you serve as covering for such a delightful viscountess?
‘Yes, but is there in the world any viscountess who is worth what this will cost me? The prison governor and the dungeon fifteen feet below ground are not all. If they think I am a traitor, they will not leave things only half explained: they will want to argue about that stay in Chantilly, which I could never pay at too high a price, I agree, if it had been more fruitful for me, but which, when you add it up, brought me three kisses on the hand altogether. What a three-times fool I am, having had the power and the ability to misuse it, for not taking advantage of it! Brainless fool, as Monsieur de Mazarin said, who became a traitor and did not get the reward of his treachery! And who is going to pay me now?’
Canolles shrugged his shoulders, the gesture scornfully replying to the question in his thoughts.
The man with the round eyes, sharp-sighted as he was, could not understand a word of this dumbshow and was looking at him with amazement.
‘If they question me,’ Canolles went on, ‘I shall not reply. For what should I have to answer? That I did not like Monsieur de Mazarin? Then I ought not to have served him. That I did love Madame de Cambes? There’s a fine reason to give a queen and a prime minister! So I shall not answer. But judges are easily offended: when they ask a question, they want an answer. There are some savage places in these provincial jails: they will break those little knees that I was so proud of and send me back all twisted to my rats and toads. I’ll be all knock-kneed, like the Prince de Conti, for the rest of my life, which is very ugly, even if His Majesty’s pardon is extended to me, which it won’t be.’
Apart from that governor, those rats and toads and those savage places, there were certain scaffolds where rebels were beheaded, gallows where traitors were hanged and parade grounds where deserters were shot. But, you will understand, such considerations were nothing for a handsome lad like Canolles, compared with knock-knees.
So he resolved to clear up the matter and to ask his travelling companion about it.
The round eyes, aquiline nose and sullen appearance of the man were only moderate inducements to the prisoner to open a conversation. Yet since any face, however impassive, must have some moments when it relaxes a little, Canolles took advantage of a second when a grimace which resembled a smile passed across the features of the subordinate exempt, who was keeping such good watch over him.
‘Monsieur,’ he said.
‘Monsieur,’ replied the exempt.
‘Excuse me if I am interrupting your reflections.’
‘No apology needed, Monsieur. I never reflect.’
‘The devil you don’t! You must have a happy constitution, Monsieur.’
‘I’m not complaining.’
‘Well, that’s not the case with me, because I would very much like to complain.’
‘Of what, Monsieur?’
‘Of the fact that I have been carried off like this, just when I least expected it, and taken I know not where.’
‘That you do, Monsieur. They told you.’
‘Quite right. We’re going to the Ile Saint-Georges, aren’t we?’
‘Just so.’
‘Do you think I’ll be there a long time?’
‘I don’t know, Monsieur, but from the way you were described to me, I should think so.’
‘Ah! And is it a very ugly spot, this Ile Saint-Georges?’
‘Don’t you know the fortress?’
‘Inside, no. I’ve never been there.’
‘Well, it’s not beautiful. And apart from the governor’s rooms, which have just been done up and which are very pleasant, apparently, the rest of the lodgings are pretty grim.’
‘Very well. Do you think I’ll be interrogated?’
‘That’s fairly usual.’
‘And if I don’t reply?’
‘If you don’t reply?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why, in that case, as you know, you will be put to the question.’
‘Ordinary?’
‘Ordinary or extraordinary, according to the charge. What are you accused of, Monsieur?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve been accused of a crime against the state.’
‘Ah, in that case you qualify for the extraordinary quest
ion… Ten pots.’
‘What? Ten pots?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that you’ll have ten kettles.’
‘So the water torture is the one practised on the Ile Saint-Georges?’
‘Why, Monsieur, on the Garonne, you see…’
‘Quite so: the stuff is to hand. And how many buckets make ten kettles?’
‘Three buckets… three and a half…’
‘I’ll swell up a bit, then.’
‘A bit. But if you take the precaution of getting on the right side of the jailer…’
‘What then?’
‘You’ll be better off.’
‘And just what is the service that the jailer can do me, if I may ask?’
‘He can give you oil to drink.’
‘Oil is a specific in the case?’
‘A sovereign remedy, Monsieur.’
‘Do you think?’
‘I’m speaking from experience. I’ve imbibed…’
‘You’ve imbibed?’
‘I beg your pardon. I meant to say: I’ve revived… The habit of talking with Gascons means that I sometimes pronounce “b” as “v”, and vice versa.’
‘So you were saying,’ said Canolles, unable to repress a smile, despite the serious topic under discussion. ‘You were saying that you’ve “revived”…’
‘Yes, Monsieur. I’ve revived a man after drinking ten kettles with the greatest of ease, thanks to the oil which had correctly prepared the tubes. It’s true, he did swell up, as usual, but with a good fire we got him unswollen without too much damage. This is the main feature of the second part of the operation. Remember these two words: heat without burning.’
‘I understand,’ said Canolles. ‘Could it be that you were an executioner by any chance?’
‘No, Monsieur,’ the man replied, politely and modestly.
‘An assistant, perhaps?’
‘No, Monsieur. An onlooker, merely an interested amateur.’
‘Oh, really? And your name?’
‘Barabbas.’19
‘A fine name, an old name, well reputed from the scriptures.’
‘In the Easter service, Monsieur.’
‘That’s what I meant, but out of habit I used the other expression.’
‘You prefer the scriptures? Are you a Huguenot, then?’
‘Yes, but a very ignorant one. Would you believe that I know barely three thousand verses of psalms?’
‘That’s certainly not a lot.’
‘I can remember music better. We have been much hanged and burned in my family.’20
‘I hope that the gentleman is not destined for the same fate.’
‘No, they’re much more tolerant nowadays. I’ll just be submerged.’
Barabbas began to laugh.
Canolles’s heart leapt with joy: he had won over his guard. And indeed, if this temporary jailer should become a permanent one, he had every chance of getting some oil, so he decided to resume the conversation where he had left off.
‘Monsieur Barabbas,’ he said, ‘are we to be separated soon, or will you do me the honour of remaining in my company?’
‘When we get to the Ile Saint-Georges, I shall most regretfully have to leave you. I must return to our company.’
‘Very well. Do you belong to a company of archers?’
‘No, Monsieur, to a company of soldiers.’
‘One raised by the prime minister?’
‘No, Monsieur, by Captain Cauvignac. The same who had the honour to arrest you.’
‘And you serve the king?’
‘I think so.’
‘What on earth do you mean? Aren’t you sure?’
‘One can be sure of nothing in this world.’
‘So, if you are in doubt, you should do one thing to be certain.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Let me go.’
‘Impossible, Monsieur.’
‘But I should reward you handsomely for obliging me.’
‘What with?’
‘Why, with money, of course!’
‘But the gentleman has none.’
‘What do you mean? I have none?’
‘Just so.’
Canolles felt in his pockets.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘My purse has vanished. So who took my purse?’
‘I did, Monsieur,’ Barabbas replied, with a respectful bow.
‘Why did you do that?’
‘So that Monsieur could not bribe me.’
Canolles looked at the worthy warder with amazement and admiration. And since the argument seemed to him unanswerable, he did not answer it.
Consequently, the travellers having once more lapsed into silence, the journey drew towards its end in the same melancholy mode in which it had started.
IX
Dawn was starting to break when the carriage arrived at the village nearest to the island towards which they were headed. Canolles, feeling it draw to a halt, put his head through the little hole – an opening designed to provide air for free men and quite convenient for denying it to prisoners.
A pretty little village, made up of a hundred houses clustered around a church, on the slope of a hill and overlooked by a castle, appeared bathed in the clear air of morning and gilded by the rays of sunlight, which were driving sheets of mist before them like floating gauze.
At that moment, the carriage was climbing a hill and the coachman had got down from his seat to walk along beside it.
‘My friend,’ Canolles asked. ‘Do you come from around here?’
‘Yes, Monsieur, I am from Libourne.’
‘In that case, you must know this village. What is that white house? And these delightful cottages?’
‘That is the manor of Cambes and this village one of those on the estate.’
Canolles shuddered and his colour faded in an instant from the deepest purple to an almost livid pallor.
‘Monsieur,’ said Barabbas, whose eagle eye missed nothing. ‘Did you by any chance hurt yourself on that little window?’
‘No… thank you.’ Then, continuing to question the peasant, he asked: ‘And whose is that mansion?’
‘It belongs to the Viscountess de Cambes.’
‘A young widow?’
‘Very beautiful and very rich.’
‘And consequently much in demand.’
‘Of course. A beautiful woman, a beautiful dowry: you don’t lack suitors when you have that.’
‘A good reputation?’
‘Yes, but a fanatical supporter of the princes.’
‘I believe I have heard so.’
‘A demon, Monsieur, a real demon!’
‘An angel!’ Canolles murmured to himself: every time that he thought of Claire, he did so with transports of adoration. ‘An angel!’ Then, aloud, he added: ‘Does she live here sometimes?’
‘Very rarely, Monsieur, but for a long time she did. Her husband left her there, and all the time she was in residence it was a blessing for all hereabouts. Now, so they say, she is with the princes.’
The carriage, having gone up, was ready to go down. The driver made a sign, asking permission to go back on his seat. Canolles, afraid of arousing suspicion if he continued to question him, put his head back inside the carriage, and the heavy vehicle set off again at a slow trot, its fastest speed.
After a quarter of an hour, during which Canolles, still under the watchful eye of Barabbas, had been sunk in the darkest thoughts, the carriage came to a halt.
‘Are we stopping here for lunch?’ asked Canolles.
‘We’re stopping altogether, Monsieur. We’ve arrived. This is the Ile Saint-Georges. We have only the river to cross.’
‘Right,’ murmured Canolles. ‘So near and yet so far!’
‘They are coming for you, Monsieur,’ said Barabbas. ‘Please get ready to descend.’
Canolles’s second warder, who was sitting on the seat beside the coachman, got dow
n and unlocked the door, to which he had the key.
Canolles looked back at the little white castle, which he had kept in sight, on the fortress that was to become his home. First of all, on the other side of quite a swiftly flowing river, he noticed a ferry and beside it a guard post with eight men and a sergeant. Behind that rose the walls of the citadel.
‘So!’ thought Canolles. ‘I was expected. Precautions have been taken.’
‘Are those my new guards?’ he asked Barabbas aloud.
‘I should like to give Monsieur a pertinent reply,’ said Barabbas. ‘But the truth is I don’t know.’
At that moment, after giving a signal that was repeated by the sentry mounting guard at the gate of the fort, the eight soldiers and the sergeant got into the ferry, crossed the Garonne and stepped ashore just as Canolles was getting down from the carriage.
The sergeant, seeing an officer, came over and gave a military salute.
‘Do I have the honour to address the Baron de Canolles, captain of the regiment of Navailles?’ he asked.
‘I am he,’ said Canolles, astonished by the man’s politeness.
The sergeant at once turned round to his men, ordered them to present arms and indicated the boat to Canolles with the end of his pike. Canolles got in between his two warders. The eight soldiers and the sergeant followed them, and the boat moved away from the shore, while Canolles cast a final glance towards Cambes as it vanished behind some higher ground.
Almost the whole island was covered in escarps and counterscarps, glacis and bastions, and all these military fortifications were overlooked by a little fort in quite good condition. The entrance to this was through an arched door, in front of which the sentry was marching backwards and forwards.
‘Who goes there?’ he shouted.
The little troop halted, the sergeant stepped forward and said a few words to the sentry, who shouted: ‘Present arms!’
At once, some twenty men who made up the garrison came out of the guardroom and hurried at the double to line up in front of the door.
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