by Robert Merle
When the soldiers finally withdrew, a dozen of these rogues lay bleeding on the cobblestones. They were brought to the pharmacy to be bandaged, and we discovered that they were not from Montpellier, but had been recruited from outlying villages (the countryside being much more stoutly papist than the city). Our local papists had brought these labourers in from their farms and whipped up their religious zeal to provoke the riot. So we could see here the work of the cabal of papists that Cossolat had warned me about, and in no wise the work of the bishop, who seemed very troubled and unhappy to be associated with such damnable excesses.
After having helped Maître Sanche and Fogacer to cleanse the wounds of these wretches—victims of the hate that they’d been taught by their curates—I came back to my room, where Fogacer immediately joined me. “This much is clear,” he said, arching his eyebrows, “they’ve used this poor atheist as an excuse to go after the Huguenots. Don’t leave the pharmacy, but have your horse saddled and ready to go. They’re going to torture Cabassus with atrocious zeal. The entire Présidial court will be there. And if, as I fear, Cabassus names you, I’ll run here to warn you.”
I scarcely had time to thank him: he was gone in a flash. I tried to focus on the work at hand, but couldn’t, since my ears were ringing with the screams that Cabassus would be making as they tortured him. I threw myself on my bed and, for the first time since I’d got my courage back, I shed hot tears, which did little to soothe me, since it wasn’t on my own account that I was crying.
After a few moments, however, I realized I should send Miroul to find Carajac and Merdanson, thinking that we’d be well advised to remain together if we had to get from the pharmacy to the Joyeuse mansion, for the same people who arranged the attack on Cossolat might well, if our names were known, prepare an ambush for us to speed up the work of justice.
Carajac and Merdanson, who had prepared themselves for travel, arrived at my lodgings by different routes, and seemed quite relieved to be in my company in this extremity, especially since asylum had been promised them at the Joyeuse mansion. I told Miroul to saddle his Arabian mare, Albière (since I’d loaned Accla to Fogacer so he could come back as quickly as possible from the secret place he’d agreed to meet his friend once Cabassus’s torture was completed). Then I distributed weapons among the three of us, giving each two loaded pistols and a sword.
Four o’clock had just sounded, I think (though my memory is a bit jumbled), when I recognized the sound of Accla’s trot outside. I leant out the window and Fogacer, raising his eyes at that moment, nodded gravely.
“Friends,” I cried, “we’ve been named! Let’s get out of here!”
We rushed downstairs at breakneck speed. Fogacer handed me Accla’s reins, and the three of us were saddled up in the blink of an eye—and not a minute too soon, for as we spurred our horses on, a group of angry men surged towards us from the rue de la Barrelerie, whom I thought I recognized as the same peasants from the morning’s riot. Fogacer’s friend wasn’t the only judge who had leaked the news: Cabassus’s torture scarcely ended, our enemies, who know who we were, had moved against us.
“Spurs to horses!” I cried, and our three steeds, leaving sparks on the cobblestones behind them, bounded forward.
* “[You’re starting] in the middle?”
† “Right then and there.”
‡ “My son, do you believe in God?”
§ “My Lord, I do not believe in God. I deny that God exists.” “You name God, therefore He exists.” “God is a word and a name. As a being He does not exist.”
¶ “My son. To err is human, to persist is diabolical.” “The Devil does not exist.”
12
MADAME DE JOYEUSE was anything but joyous when I was ushered into her presence, and though it was still early in the afternoon, had already slipped into her nightgown and was in bed.
“Oh, Pierre!” she moaned, raising herself on her elbow. “I’m no longer what I was. There was a time when a little supper with a dozen courses, accompanied by two or three flagons of good wine, would leave me feeling fresh as the morning dew the next day. Alas! Those times are no more! What did I eat yesterday? Practically nothing, a few Bigorre sausages, three or four slices of ham, half a carp that was fished that morning, a garlic-roasted capon, an egg cream, a few almond tarts and, finally, some sugared almonds, nougats, fruit compotes, and other sweets that I adore. And very little wine, perhaps two or three glasses of Frontignan. In short, almost nothing! And here I am, Pierre, my liver in revolt, my stomach all angry and, what’s worse, my poor dear, my complexion is awful despite all the make-up I applied.”
“But, Madame,” I soothed, “you have defamed yourself! I don’t know what’s happening inside, but the outside is as bewitching as ever, and if you weren’t so uncomfortable, I’d show you!”
“Oh, please, Pierre, don’t kiss me! My breath stinks like a swamp. And don’t touch me either. I’m feeling like I’m going to throw up and you can’t imagine what that’s like!”
“Madame,” I said, sitting down on a stool at her bedside, “I’m devastated that you’re not well enough to tolerate my particular remedy, which is reputed to be unparalleled when one is built like you.”
“Pierre! Pierre! Don’t make me laugh either!” she laughed. “My guts are working me over! But tell me,” she continued, “is it really true that you think my body is all right?”
“Oh, Madame, you’re joking! You’re so ravishing in your roundness that I could never forget your beautiful curves cupped so deliciously in the palm of my hand.”
“Oh, Pierre, you’re such a comfort! You have such a honeyed tongue!”
Hearing this I said nothing in reply, but gave her a very knowing look, which she understood immediately.
“My little cousin,” she sighed, “no temptations today, I beg you! I couldn’t. Nor would I want to when I’m entirely devoted to my repentance and to God when I’m in such discomfort.”
“Madame,” I soothed, “the little abbot who confesses you hereby absolves you. Would he be so impertinent as to put you on a diet?”
“We shall see what we shall see!” replied Madame de Joyeuse. “But as soon as this madness comes over me, my conscience goes soft as well. Forgive me!”
“Forgive you, Madame?” I said gravely, kneeling by her bedside. “I who dream only of living at your feet?”
She was very touched by my words, and reached out and ran her fingers through my hair and began caressing my head.
“So,” she said, suddenly changing tone and subject, “it seems Cabassus has named you. Here you are, in danger of really losing your head, and I talk of losing mine! I heard there was a great tumult when this fellow was defrocked.”
I told her everything I’d seen from my window, and the trap that first Cossolat and then I almost fell victim to when I left the pharmacy. As she listened to this, she grew quite pale, then frowned and gnashed her teeth, and, when I’d finished my account, she entirely forgot her stomach problems in her wrath, got up out of bed and paced angrily back and forth, biting her fists; suddenly she roared like a lioness defending her cubs, “What! These scoundrels want to assassinate my sweet little man! Do they really think I’m going to let them do this? Do they think I’m going to tolerate this outrage? Zounds! They won’t get away with this if I still have any influence on Monsieur de Joyeuse! My little cousin, wait here, and don’t move an inch! I’m going to see him and I’ll be back soon.”
What happened next—the interview between the lieutenant general of Provence and his wife—I learnt only from the account of it given later by Madame de Joyeuse, and which I remember virtually word for word, it was so lively and colourful.
Monsieur de Joyeuse was at dinner when his big knave of a valet announced that Madame de Joyeuse was asking to speak with him.
“Madame!” he said, rising to meet her as she entered. “You don’t need to wait to be announced! My door,” he added with a smile, “is always open to you, day and night, though I res
pect your privacy, not wishing to violate the arcane mysteries that surround your beauty.”
“My good husband, you are too kind!” she said as he took her hand and led her to an easy chair. “Thank you infinitely for your civility.”
“Madame, might I ask you to do me the honour of sharing my repast?”
“Oh, sweet Jesus, Monsieur! Don’t talk to me of meat or of eating! I had a little supper last night that seems to have weighed too heavily on my epigastrium.”
“I’ll wager it wasn’t so little,” laughed the vicomte. “But, if you’ll permit me, I’ll continue my dinner while we talk: I’m hungry as a bear, since I just returned from Nîmes, where I fear there’s going to be a dust-up between the Huguenots and our Catholics. The bishop, Bernard d’Elbène was so ill advised as to close the College of Letters since all the professors were of the reformed religion. Alas, when I arrived, the deed was done. I had to support Bernard d’Elbène, whatever the cost. But I fear the worst in Nîmes. From what I hear, on both sides there are anonymous attacks, plots and secret assemblies.”
“Well, Monsieur,” said Madame de Joyeuse, “I think you’re going to have the same predicament here. Has Cossolat told you what happened?”
“I’ll meet with him tomorrow.”
“And it will be too late!” cried Madame de Joyeuse.
Forthwith, she recounted to her husband the defrocking of Cabassus, the angry mob that followed it, Cabassus’s revelations, and the ambush that my friends and I had just barely escaped.
“And where are our three schoolboys now?” asked Monsieur de Joyeuse, frowning at this story, furious that this riot had taken place behind his back when he was in Nîmes.
“Here, within our walls. Two with our major-domo and Monsieur de Siorac in my apartments.”
“I’ll warrant he’s not the most unhappy of the three,” smiled the vicomte. “As for me, I’m delighted that your little cousin, who so charms and delights you, should help you pass the time in your solitude, which the duties of my office oblige me to impose all too often on you.”
“It is indeed true, Monsieur,” Madame de Joyeuse agreed, “that for a woman who is still young and who has managed to conserve at least some of her former beauty, I find myself too often abandoned.”
“’Tis but too true, my love,” said the vicomte bowing, “and I often reproach myself for this negligence. I don’t pay your marvellous beauty the homage it deserves as often as I should, since I’m so constantly riding around the kingdom in the service of the king to preside over his local tribunals.”
“But I’m happy to hear that there are some rustic beauties who succeed in offering you at least some comfort.”
“Madame,” replied the vicomte bowing again, “I’m so delighted that you can offer such generous indulgence to me, who must occasionally dine—you get my gist, I think—on stale bread and in such spare circumstances. But, my heart belongs ever to you, my dear. You have but to command and I will obey.”
“But, Monsieur, the king himself is the only one in Provence who may command you.”
“Oh, Madame!” lamented the vicomte with a sigh. “Would that you were right! But I have only what Michel de Montaigne has termed ‘a very confused authority’ in these parts, commanding too few troops to carry much weight on my right and on my left; I must rely more on persuasion than commands. The inhabitants of Montpellier are so rebellious and insubordinate. Do you know what the king of France calls them? ‘My little kings of Montpellier!’… Nevertheless, I repeat, your wish is my command.”
“My dear husband, I hope that you will agree that we must save our three schoolboys from the Présidial tribunal and from assassination.”
“It’ll be easier to save them from the first than from the second, our devout papists are so implacable. But, starting tomorrow, I shall employ every means at my disposal on their behalf, Madame, I promise you.”
“Oh, Monsieur,” said Madame de Joyeuse, “I can’t thank you enough! Please let me offer you a token of my gratitude worthy of your immense goodness. I want to make you a gift of the silver dinnerware that I inherited from my father.”
“Madame,” said the vicomte, leaping to his feet with rather too much vivacity, “that’s too much! It’s a thousand times too much! I have my own silver service and it’s enough for me, a man of simple tastes, and not given to pomp, as you know all too well.” (Madame de Joyeuse couldn’t keep from laughing outright when she told me this part of their conversation.) “But, Madame, the generosity you’ve shown with your father’s estate is infinite. You are rich. I am not. And if it pleases you to fill my purse on this occasion, I would be infinitely grateful.”
“And, Madame, are you going to fill it?” I asked, gaping, as I listened to this account later that evening.
“To the brim! Though it’s a bottomless pit!”
“But, Madame,” I mused, “from what your husband has told you about Nîmes, if I understood it correctly, and about Montpellier, it would seem that what he fears most of all is an uprising by all the reformists in our provinces. Don’t you think that his primary aim is to prevent the fanatics among the papists in our city from murdering three Huguenot schoolboys for fear that our side will take revenge by an uprising that he won’t be able to control? And if that’s what he’s intending to do anyway, why pay him to do it?”
Madame de Joyeuse burst out laughing at my question. “My little cousin,” she said, “you’re very abrupt in your way of talking, but you’re quite right. But I think you’ll agree that, for my part, I’ve acted quite wisely, and since you’re so clever, you’ll no doubt work out why, if you think about it a bit.”
As for what happened the next day at the tribunal between the judges and the lieutenant general of Provence, I had news of it from two different sources. One was Madame de Joyeuse, who’d got it from her husband, the other Fogacer, who’d heard it from his friend. And, all things considered, I prefer the latter version, which I believe to be closer to the truth, since Monsieur de Joyeuse had every reason to want to inflate, in the eyes of his generous wife, the difficulties he encountered in his undertakings there.
The Présidial judges were deliberating my fate and that of my two companions, trying to decide whether they should arrest us based on Cabassus’s confession, when the Vicomte de Joyeuse asked to be allowed to meet with them immediately. The judges were quite surprised that the vicomte should condescend to visit them at the court, rather than to summon them to appear in his mansion. However, the most rabid among them understood very well what he was intending to ask them, and were of the opinion that they should decide first and receive him afterwards. But the more moderate group carried the day, judging that they couldn’t insult the king’s emissary by making him wait and that, in any case, it would be better to hear him before deciding the matter.
The judges all rose and bowed deeply when de Joyeuse was introduced by the beadle, and the vicomte, in turn, greeted them with great civility, and invited them to be seated. After which, he accepted the chair he was offered and began speaking forthwith, without any bitterness, and without raising his voice, speaking in tones that were more laced with chagrin than severity.
“Messieurs, I suppose that you are deliberating the sad case with which a little cousin of my wife’s has been most imprudently associated, and although laws are laws and justice applies to all and each alike, I am very unhappy that a relative of mine should be subjected to an outcome that would cast dishonour on me. There is no doubt that a crime has been committed: our three medical students dug up a whore and an orphan, but certainly not for any material gain nor because they intended any sacrilege, but simply because they sought to enlarge their understanding of the geography of the human body, as the great Vesalius himself did when he carried off a hanged man in Louvain. Remember, too, Messieurs, that Chancellor Rondelet was not afraid of dissecting his own son in order to discover the disease that killed him.”
“Ah, but that was different,” objected one of the jud
ges. “The child hadn’t been buried.”
“To be sure! To be sure! But consider, I beg you, that by their unhappy decision to dig up two bodies, our schoolboys did not offend any notable family in Montpellier: the orphan had been raised by public charity. As for the wench—a whore living in shame and selling her body—no one knows who were her parents. What’s more, after their dissection, the boys reburied the—”
“But without her heart!” remonstrated one of the judges.
“Did she have a heart when she was alive?” asked the vicomte, hoping to sidestep, with this quip, the swamps of a theological discussion about the difficulties for a mutilated corpse of receiving all the benefits at the resurrection of the dead at the Last Judgement. “Now, there’s still the matter of the little orphan boy who was turned into a skeleton. This is a capital crime, I grant you. But where is the skeleton now? Do you know? In the Royal College of Medicine! Our schoolboys have made of it an anonymous donation to the chancellor of the college and the chancellor has had the imprudence to accept this gift. It therefore follows that if you arrest my cousin and his two companions, you must also arrest Chancellor Saporta for having trafficked in bodies.”