by Robert Merle
“Friend,” I answered, “you are indeed very thin. Do you have enough to eat?”
“Enough?” he laughed bitterly. “I don’t even know what that word means. There is great misery among the branches of this olive tree, and misery of another sort on the earth we walk on, and I don’t know which is the worse.”
“Miroul,” I said, “give this man one of our loaves of bread.”
“Monsieur,” returned our peasant drawing himself up proudly, “I have never begged for anything, nor from any man in my life.”
“Steady there, friend!” I replied. “Don’t make your stomach angry! This is no curate’s charity but the gift of a friend.”
Miroul dug through our provisions and handed the man a wheat loaf, which the man seized with his meagre fingers, sniffed voluptuously, and devoured without a word or look of thanks, as though he were ashamed to accept food he hadn’t earned.
“Let’s be off!” I said, my throat in a knot, realizing that I had accomplished nothing in this gift but a small balm to my conscience without really remedying the man’s condition.
We galloped along for a while, but soon slowed to a walk as the road became rough and hilly. As we proceeded, I tried to chase from my mind the terrible image of the girl’s mutilated body left hanging as an example to all. But an example of what? Of the barbarous law that had made her its victim? And wasn’t it a pity and a bitter coincidence, I realized as I thought more about it, that they had chosen for their executions this field of such beautiful trees and that it was precisely on the Mount of Olives that Christ had prayed in the last hours before his crucifixion?
The Common Wall (I don’t know why my ear and heart found this expression so pleasing, but during the entire time I would spend in Montpellier I enjoyed repeating it) is a good thick rampart, though not as strong and well built as the one in Carcassonne. Arriving from Narbonne, you enter through the la Saulnerie gate, so named, I’ll wager, because it was the route the salt carts took to enter the city.
We had to present ourselves unarmed at the guard house, show the safe-conduct passes prepared for us by the seneschal in Sarlat and explain the reason for our stay in Montpellier and the address of our lodgings there. Satisfied with my answers, the captain of the archers said with great seriousness: “Young scholars, you must always remember that carrying sword or firearm is expressly forbidden within the royal colleges and in the surrounding streets. Moreover, quarrels, insults, blows and, a fortiori, duels between students are rigorously outlawed by order of the police lieutenant. Any student violating these proscriptions, just as any other citizen of Montpellier, may be hanged for a capital crime, unless he is, like yourself, of noble birth, in which case he will be beheaded, but, in either case, he will be dismembered by the executioner.”
“Monsieur,” I replied, “we are studious people and not bloodthirsty rogues, although we bear the arms of war because of the dangers of the road.”
“Nor should you be blamed for this in such troubled times. But here in Montpellier, things are, for the moment, quite peaceable, as Catholics and those of the reformed religion seem to be getting along.” He frowned as he said this, as though this state of affairs were in no way to his taste, and, suddenly glaring at us, asked, “And you scholars, which side are you on?”
I was quite astonished by this abrupt question, and hesitated to answer. But another look at this captain of the archers, at the gravity of his expression and the stiffness of his bearing, convinced me that I was quite familiar with this type of soldier and so I opted for the truth: “Monsieur, my brother and I are both of the reformed religion, and my valet as well.”
“I thought as much,” said the head of the archers, softening his stance so much that he actually gave us a smile and welcomed us to his city, which he hadn’t yet thought to do. “So, my young scholars, I heard you had a bone to pick with the brigands of the Corbières!”
“Indeed we did! We killed four of their number a few leagues from Lézignan.”
“Say no more! Monsieur de Joyeuse, on my report, will send for you tomorrow for a report of this incident.”
He bowed to us and with his usual gravity (but which now hid some warmth) closed the barrier behind us and ordered the city gates opened wide. And so it was that my little troop entered Montpellier on the twenty-second day of June in the year 1566.
Although assuredly less ancient than Sarlat, since it is but five centuries old, Montpellier is a much larger city, and though its streets are narrow and winding I found it quite beautiful, for its houses, or at least the mansions of the nobility and bourgeoisie, are built of cut stone without any wooden additions of any kind.
Our route took us through the magnificent place de la Canourgue, the most beautiful of all of Montpellier’s open spaces, and, as I learnt later, the favourite meeting place of all the youth of both sexes, who enjoy walking round it of an evening, meeting each other and exchanging glances and gallantries. I was quite surprised as we entered this square to see a group of horsemen arrive in a procession preceded by some musicians playing lutes and viols. These young men, who displayed the easy grace of their noble birth, were wearing, over their vests and leggings, full-length robes of an immaculate white. And what so amused me and aroused my curiosity was that each one held in his left hand a silver shell and in his right a spoon of the same metal with which he struck the shells, keeping time with the musicians and making a most agreeable sound. This music was interrupted frequently, however, for every time they spied a pretty damsel—and there was a marvellous profusion of these—so many in fact that I have never seen their equal in any other city in France—they would head towards her and surround her, each one offering her a spoonful of the sugared almonds that filled their shells. It was a pretty spectacle to behold the happy confusion among the wenches prompted by the offerings and compliments that these cavaliers bestowed on them. When one of them actually accepted the proffered sweet, it appeared to be the result of much consideration, having less to do with what was offered than with the one who offered it. And yet, as soon as the damsel had poured the spoon’s contents into her little hand, the rules seemed to require that her cavalier quit her side immediately (though not, perhaps, without some whispered rendezvous) and that the procession would immediate head for another maid, and when she’d been sugared in turn, to yet another, with the white cavaliers flying like a swarm of bees from flower to flower all around the place de la Canourgue, preceded or followed by their musicians.
This scene, which, at least momentarily, drove from my mind the awful spectacle of the olive grove, unfolded in the golden light of a June sunset. With my Accla standing still and warm between my legs, I happily watched my fill of this pretty commotion and especially the young maidens at its centre. Gripping Accla’s reins, I stood straight up in my stirrups, craning my neck to the left and the right, the better to observe these goings-on, breathless, my heart palpitating. Frolicking about, laughing, batting their lashes at their cavaliers and so full of joie de vivre, these creatures of God inspired a greater love than I could hold. For, as transported as I felt, I was, at the same time, mindful that the infinity of choices in this beautiful city, by virtue of the very excesses of their beauty and rich diversity, made it difficult for me and might well end up impoverishing me. For immediately to take one of these damsels into my arms (supposing she were to accept) could only, I surmised, be cheating myself, for any kiss bestowed on one would necessarily exclude all of the others. The opposite of that cruel tyrant who wished that all men and women had but one neck, so that, by cutting it, he could make the heads of all mankind fall at one time, I would have wished that all the girls in Montpellier had but one single mouth that I might kiss them all at once.
I was in the midst of such delicious reveries when Samson suddenly said, “My brother, why are we watching this? All I can see here are silly frivolities and guilty dissipation. What are we doing here?”
To which, a bit put out, I responded half in jest, half serious, �
�We’re here to forget our own enormous sins and criticize the peccadillos of others.”
My poor Samson turned a deep shade of scarlet at this rebuff, and hardly were the words out of my mouth when I greatly regretted them, having no desire to add fuel to the fire that was consuming him. We rode on a bit farther and crossed the Jewish quarter, but never encountered so much as a cat there, so late was the hour, and finally reached the rue de la Canebasserie. Between this street and the rue de la Barrelerie stretched the place des Cévenols, where, every Sunday, the workers would come on their day off to show off their feats of strength.
On the far side of this square rose the imposing and handsome chemist’s shop of Maître Sanche. To my great surprise, for I would not have imagined him to be so unassuming, I spied the great apothecary seated benevolently in front of his door, enjoying the coolness of the evening with his family. He looked exactly as my father had described him. I dismounted, threw my reins to Miroul and, removing my hat, made him a deep bow and said in Latin (for I knew that he liked to express himself in public in this learned tongue), “Magister illustrissime, sum Petrus Sioracus, filius tui amici, et hic est frater meus, Samsonus Sioracus.”*
No sooner had I spoken than he leapt to his feet with a degree of agility I would never have expected from a man of his age, and ran up to me, gave me an enormous hug, and another to Samson, and then gave me another, welcoming us warmly with a generous mixture of French, Latin, Provençal and Catalan.
Maître Sanche could hardly boast about his physical appearance: he had a bloated and ugly face, his globulous, crossed eyes placed unevenly in his dark-skinned visage on either side of an enormous, bony and twisted nose, which itself was perched over a mouthful of yellowing and badly arranged teeth. His body was hardly more attractive, with one shoulder set lower than the other, a caved chest, slightly humped back and bowed legs followed around by a prominent posterior. But despite his long grey beard and his more than fifty years, he was astonishingly lively, constantly in motion, jumping from one foot to the other, his eye as sharp as a dagger, his tongue not without its bite and his mind a source of deep wisdom. Twice a widower and with all but two of his grown children well placed in good professions, he had, he explained to me, remarried the previous spring and, turning towards her, he introduced me to his wife, Rachel, who was sitting next to him looking extremely pregnant, and told me in Latin that she was going to bear him a son this very evening as her contractions had already begun.
“Balsa,” he cried in Provençal to one of his clerks, “help these gentlemen’s valet unburden their horses and take them to the stable. My nephew,” he said, taking my arm, “allow me to introduce you to my daughter Typhème, who is, as I’m sure you’ll agree, quite beautiful, but whom you must be careful not to fall in love with since she’s engaged to the venerable Dr Saporta, who will be your teacher.”
I bowed to Typhème, whom I found, indeed, superb, with languid eyes, rich complexion and a luxurious head of Saracen hair.
“And this is my son, Luc,” Sanche continued. “As he has reached majority and is consequently under his own guidance, he has decided to convert to the reformed religion. For my own part, I have sadly, as your father must have told you, remained a member of the very corrupt Roman religion, whose infinite abuses I must willy-nilly accept.” This strange profession of his faith, mumbled rapidly in Latin, left me quite open-mouthed in surprise. However, I greeted Luc, as ugly as his sister was beautiful, but whose eyes were as expressive as his father’s, and who, if left to his own devices, doubtless could have said as much, as rapidly and in as many languages as his progenitor.
“Luc,” Maître Sanche added, “is fifteen. And may I present his teacher, whom I count a member of my household, for he is as rich in science as he is poor in silver. Hic,” he added in Latin with a great sense of pomp, “est Johannus Fogacerus, in medicina baccalaureus et procurator studiosorum.”†
I bowed to this great personage, for great he was both in size and in titles. For it is no small honour to hold the title of bachelor of medicine and, on top of that, dean of students, and to represent them in assemblies of professors and doctors.
“Messieurs de Siorac, at your service!” replied Jean Fogacer with a large flourish, by which he seemed to mock both his own importance and ours.
He was clothed in black, somewhat threadbare robes, but his height and sinewy build gave him a kind of elegance that was seconded by his graceful gestures and remarkable physiognomy. I was struck by his very beautiful teeth, full red lips and aquiline beak; he had chestnut eyes and such black eyebrows that they appeared painted on his face, curling up towards his temples, all of which gave him the aspect that we often attribute to Satan. But to tell the truth, if he were a demon, he was one jolly devil, for he smiled broadly and repeatedly laughed good-naturedly while Maître Sanche was introducing us to his family—and with especial gusto when the chemist told us that his wife was going to deliver a son that very evening. I have to admit that I also found it quite astonishing that Maître Sanche could pronounce on the sex of his child before the infant had emerged from his mother’s womb.
“My nephews,” said Maître Sanche, who was never to call us anything else, “you must be exhausted from your travels. Hey, Fontanette! Silly wench, instead of staring at these young gentlemen, show them to their rooms!”
My first unhappy thought was that our host had given Samson and me separate rooms, since we were so accustomed to sharing room and bed, but as I followed the pretty chambermaid up the stairs, observing that I couldn’t take my eyes off her comely back, I realized that perhaps separate rooms wouldn’t be such a bad arrangement after all!
“Here’s your room, Monsieur,” curtseyed Fontanette to Samson with a charming smile. “Would you like me to help you off with your boots?”
“My valet will do it,” replied Samson curtly, averting his eyes. He was in such a hurry to be alone that he closed the door in our faces, and I could hear him throw himself down on his bed to continue his reveries.
I would have been quite vexed to see Samson behave so rudely with the poor girl had I not understood the reasons for it. Oh, what power a little wench can wield over man. When he falls into the snares of the flesh, he’s stuck and wholly bewitched. Where his flesh has gone, heart and head will follow. At least I didn’t have to worry that Dame Gertrude would abuse her considerable power over Samson, seeing as how she seemed to be in a condition so like his own.
“And here’s your room, Monsieur,” said Fontanette, visibly put off by Samson’s rebuff and unwilling to risk renewing the offer of her services.
“Please come in!” I smiled as I sat down on the bed. “As for me, I’d happily accept your offer of help if it’s still available.”
“With all my heart, Monsieur!” said the wench, kneeling gracefully at my feet, her position in front of me affording a pleasant view of her bodice, which was so loosely laced as to give an ample glimpse of its contents. “I like you better than your brother, Monsieur! He may be prettier than you, but at least you’re not so proud.”
“It’s not pride that makes Samson so cold,” I explained, thoroughly enjoying watching the delicious effects of her efforts to remove my boots. “Samson is terribly lovesick over a lady and it has made him all dreamy and distant.”
“And this lady has cast him off?” asked Fontanette, her light-brown eyes aglow with renewed interest.
“No, but she’s far away, travelling the world.”
“Ah,” sighed Fontanette, “what a pity to love what you cannot hold and to embrace only the wind. And you, Monsieur, do you, too, mourn some faraway damsel?”
I looked at her half in mirth, half in tenderness, for I found her excessively pretty and pert, and melting under my gaze like butter.
“I’m not sure, Fontanette,” I answered after some reflection, “I don’t know you well enough yet.”
“Ah, Monsieur, you’re mocking me!” she blushed. “A future baron smitten by a chambermaid!”
“I’ll never be a baron, Fontanette. I have an older brother. That’s why I must study medicine!”
“But someday you’ll be a famous physician, Monsieur,” she sighed, rising to her feet, “like Maître Sanche or Monsieur Fogacer. And I’ll still be as ignorant as a goat in the shed.”
“That matters not a whit to me!” I replied, taking her about the waist and kissing her fresh cheeks.
“Hold, Monsieur,” she protested, pulling away, “you’re moving too fast for me! If you’re giving me kisses today, what will you be doing tomorrow?”
I broke out laughing at her naivety, and, laughing with me, she said, “If it please you, Monsieur, I must go. I must go down and help with dinner.”
This first supper in Maître Sanche’s house, when we were all so famished from the long road, was a sad affair, for we were served but a salad and a thin slice of roasted meat—one only—and no dessert. Of butter there was not a trace either on the table or on the roast, since their cooking was done with olive oil, not butter. As for drink we had a rather bitter wine, ingeniously concocted to keep us from drinking too much: Fontanette passed around the table with two pitchers, one of water—from which she filled most of one’s glass—the second of wine, with which she topped off the water. Happily the rye bread was good and copious and I devoured most of a loaf to fill the hole that still growled for its share in my stomach. “Ah, Fontanette,” I thought as I watched her serve us, “I can certainly feast my eyes on you, but as our good people at Mespech always said, you can taste beauty but you can’t eat it.” As for Samson, he still didn’t seem to know where he was, what was said to him or what he was swallowing. He was dining on his dreams. But I, alas, kept thinking about the Unicorn inn in Lézignan, the Two Angels in Toulouse, the Golden Lion in Castelnau d’Ary and La Patota’s pastries, whose memory still made my mouth water as I sat before Maître Sanche’s meagre board. Nor could I help wallowing in memories of Mespech and la Maligou’s Périgordian cuisine, so savoury, velvety, appetizing and well cooked. For however silly, gossipy, idolatrous and superstitious she was—not to mention lecherous—she could make a roast melt in your mouth. Which was why my father had always forgiven her transgressions, including having it away with the curate of Marcuays—under our very roof! Under our very Huguenot roof!