by Robert Merle
But he was mistaken, as he himself informed me the next evening (after he’d seen his friend). The Présidial judges suspected that someone had shot Cabassus from a window, and believed that no one else but me would have had the audacity to do it, or the convenience of a window situated so close to the stake. But after a long debate, they decided that there would be no way to open an inquest on the matter that wouldn’t contradict the version of divine intervention that the crowd had been given, or immediately set them against the Vicomte de Joyeuse. But their hatred of me increased in direct proportion to their feelings of impotence in the matter, and Fogacer, repeating their venomous words, advised me to leave the city, at least for a while.
“If you were able to shoot Cabassus from your window,” he said, “no doubt some thug could shoot at you from a window as you passed in the street. It wouldn’t matter, then, how courageous and well armed you were.”
Ten days after Cabassus’s execution, they burned the Mangane girl, a punishment I felt very sorry about, despite the fact that the girl had so tortured me with her knot curse. But hadn’t I been forced to admit that it was all a farce and false magic like the rest of her affectations? And wasn’t Fogacer right when he explained that they didn’t burn her because of her satanic powers, but because she was creating panic and fear among the populace by her open adoration of the Devil, who didn’t exist? As for the miserable wretch, raised by a bunch of crazy fanatics who dreamt and fantasized that they’d had commerce with the Devil, how could she have failed to believe such stuff when she’d been brought up on these beliefs ab ovo? Nourished with thoughts of God, we believe in Him; fed with visions of the Devil, she believed in him. Was she a witch? I don’t believe so. And the proof that she both believed and didn’t believe in Satan was that she took me for Beelzebub when it served her desire, and as soon as she’d done with me she regretted her convenient mistake.
I don’t know who paid Vignogoule on this second occasion, but I did hear that, unlike his behaviour with Cabassus, he strangled the girl properly as soon as he’d lit the fire, so that, in the fine weather they enjoyed that day, the pyre burned quickly, and rapidly reduced to ashes an inert body. Nevertheless, the crowd, which had so vehemently protested when Cabassus suffered so terribly, protested with equal venom that the Mangane girl hadn’t suffered enough.
The same day, at four in the afternoon, a valet came to tell me that a minister of the reformed Church, Abraham de Gasc, wished to see me. Surprised at this request and given that I didn’t recognize the valet who delivered it, I feared it was a trap and sent Miroul to ask the pastor if this valet was, in fact, his, and if he had asked for a meeting with me. He replied in the affirmative, and so, trading my blue satin doublet for my everyday black college uniform, which I judged would sit better with this austere minister, I set out, well armed and hugging the walls, to his dwelling. His lodgings were neither poor nor paltry, as Monsieur de Gasc owned a candle shop, selling merchandise he’d brought from Lyons and, it was said, he prospered greatly in this commerce.
Nevertheless, the interior of his house seemed quite spare, and I guessed, seeing it thus, that Gasc preferred keeping his money in his coffers rather than in tapestries on his walls. Monsieur de Gasc was a tall, thin man, with a face so hollow that his skin seemed to be glued to his bones with no flesh intervening, which would have given him the appearance of a skull had his prominent nose and fiery eyes not countered this impression.
“Monsieur,” he said, “there are so many rumours circulating in Montpellier on your account that I thought I should ask you what this is all about, given that you profess the reformed religion.”
I did not like this introduction one whit and I replied coldly: “Monsieur de Gasc, does my fidelity to the reformed faith require that you hear my confession?”
Since hearing confession was considered by our Huguenots as one of the most shameful and despicable of the papist inventions, I could not have more blatantly confronted the minister than by implying his intention of submitting me to it. And indeed, he turned crimson and remained silent for a long moment.
“Monsieur de Siorac,” he said finally, “confession is neither a sacrament nor an obligation for us. Nevertheless, is it not my duty as a minister to enquire about the behaviour of members of our cult?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “for no minister has ever asked me any questions.”
“Then who enquired about your behaviour in Sarlat?” asked the minister stiffly.
“My father.”
“Since your father’s not here, why not consider me as your father?”
“But, Monsieur,” I said without batting an eyelid, “I already have a father here to whom I am accountable. It’s Chancellor Saporta.”
“And can you not have the same confidence in me that you have in him?”
This embarrassed me somewhat, and, lowering my eyes, I took some time to think about it. I wanted neither to offend him nor to give in to his demands. “Monsieur,” I said finally, “I’d have the same confidence in you as I do in him if your questions were as discreet as his.”
“Ha! What kind of a person are you to limit my questions before I’ve posed them?”
“Monsieur de Gasc, it’s better to limit the questions than the answers.”
“Are you saying you can’t answer sincerely?”
“I’m simply saying that I won’t undergo confession against my will.”
“Do you feel so guilty?”
“Certainly, Monsieur, I feel very guilty towards my Creator.”
“Well! I’m happy to hear that!”
And, indeed, he seemed very relieved of a great weight. I would have been astonished at this if what he said next hadn’t immediately revealed his suspicions about me.
“My son,” he continued, raising his hands, “you did not lose your faith in your contact with this atheist! You believe in God!”
“But of course I do!” I said, open-mouthed. “And I’m very disappointed you should think so, since I’ve never missed a single service! Do you think I’m such a hypocrite that I would profess with my lips that which I didn’t believe in my heart?”
“My son,” said the minister, “please forgive me. I’m infinitely happy that the Devil didn’t make you his prey. For, to say the least, my son, your daily habits are hardly edifying. From what I’ve heard you’re something of a skirt-chaser. You were out dancing in the streets at carnival. And you’ve been seen playing at tric-trac with friends at the Three Kings.”
“Ha!” I thought, greatly annoyed to see myself given a dressing-down in this way. “So tric-trac is the sin! Like Clément Marot in Geneva, I’m being censured for playing this innocent game! I’m going to bet that I won’t be accused of adultery, since my accomplice is a noblewoman and too well placed to be implicated. Whether you’re a papist or a Huguenot, morality seems to stop short, terrified, before the throne of power.”
“Monsieur,” I said, “your questions are so artfully posed that answers become useless.”
“I have one last question to ask you,” he replied gravely. “Rumours have been flying among the Présidial judges that, on the twenty-fifth of September, you shot Cabassus in his agony at the stake with an arquebus.”
“Monsieur,” I said with the iciest tone I could manage, “the Présidial court decided not to pursue this question. Do you want to pursue this inquest on your own?”
“You misunderstand me, Siorac, I’m not interested in the crime, but in the sin. And it is a grave sin to steal from the Lord His just punishment of an atheist.”
“Did I hear you correctly?” I gasped. “The person who killed Cabassus committed a sin in putting an end to the earthly suffering of an atheist? Can’t we trust God to punish this atheist in the afterlife if He so chooses?”
“Wrong, Siorac! This is a grave error!” cried Monsieur de Gasc, raising his hands heavenward. “The absolute sovereignty of the Lord does not relieve us of our duty, which, in this life, is to pursue and punish
impiety.”
“So the papists did the right thing to burn Cabassus?”
“We would have burnt him too,” replied Gasc gravely.
“And on a slow fire, if the wood didn’t burn?”
“Can you believe, young man, that the rain, that day, wasn’t an act of God and that whoever tried to shorten the atheist’s suffering was acting contrary to divine will?”
“So that’s it?” I said. “Cabassus’s long and atrocious agony was God’s will, and whoever shortened it has committed a sin? For countermanding the will of God? Did I hear you correctly?”
“Assuredly so.”
I lowered my eyes, chilled to my very heart by what I’d just heard, which was so contrary to my feelings and my beliefs. Moreover, my instinct didn’t fail to alert me to some danger that lurked in all of this, for if Monsieur de Gasc had learnt from the “corridors” of the Présidial court that I’d fired an arquebus shot that I believed to have been merciful but was considered by papists and reformists alike to have been a sin, I knew I should be on my guard. Who knew whether information wasn’t flowing in both directions? And whether what I said here wouldn’t be repeated in the “corridors” of these judges?
“Well?” said Gasc. “You haven’t answered my question. Are you the one who shot Cabassus?”
So, looking him straight in the eye, I said curtly: “No.”
To this day, I don’t know whether Gasc believed me or not, for without altering his habitual grave expression in the least, he said, “I leave you to your conscience. I hope you can reconcile yourself with your conscience on this matter and your conscience with you.”
That was, I’ll warrant, an ambiguous conclusion to our discussion, but I took it as a courteous leave-taking. So, maintaining my own marmoreal expression and with eyes respectfully lowered, I bowed deeply (though Monsieur de Gasc neither bowed nor said one word of goodbye) and left. Already the object of intense hatred of the most fanatical papists, I now realized that my own people smelt a rat and considered my faith to be shaken and condemned me for this. And yet I had no doubt that if the former had killed me, the latter would have tried to avenge my death: which was small consolation after the tongue-lashing I’d just endured.
Madame de Joyeuse’s carriage was waiting for me in the rue de la Barrelerie, and, taking the time to change back into my blue silk doublet, I thought how ironic it was that it was sent by a “skirt” whom Monsieur de Gasc would never have dared name, no more than he dared mention the grave-robbing in Saint-Denis, perhaps because he knew that the court minutes that incriminated me had been burnt—a sin, moreover, that he considered minor compared to the deadly affront to his God of having shortened the suffering of an atheist by a few minutes in this world when he believed Cabassus’s suffering would be eternal in the next.
“Ah,” I mused, “what’s become of humanity? Where is the God of mercy and love? Haven’t we, who claim we are the party of reform, outdone the papists in this domain? Aren’t we, like them, still in the shadows of age-old ferocity?”
It seems clear that this arquebus shot had done me a great disservice in all quarters. And great was my distress upon my arrival at the Joyeuse mansion when I did not receive my usual warm welcome, judging by the cold shoulder I got from Aglaé de Mérol, who, as she accompanied me to Madame’s chambers, rejected my advances, my compliments and my witticisms, refusing to smile and thereby denying me a glimpse of her dimples, not to mention a kiss, as she left me.
“Ah!” I thought, a pinch at my heart. “What an icy greeting I’m in for with Madame, if her lady-in-waiting is so cold!”
“Monsieur de Siorac,” said Madame de Joyeuse as soon as we were alone together, adopting one of her superior airs and refusing me her hand, “you’ve disgraced yourself in this house, to be frank! The vicomte is very angry with you and said out loud that you no longer deserved his protection, going from folly to folly, committing one crime after another, and this latest one has turned the entire city against you. Scarcely are you out of one quagmire when you throw yourself head-first into another. It’s madness! And might I ask you to tell me, Monsieur, what drove you to fire this weapon?”
“Madame,” I replied, “my compassion.”
Although my heart was passing sore at this greeting, my lady’s stiffness had provoked the same attitude in me and I said this last dry-eyed and with a strong sense of pride.
“Monsieur,” she snapped, “you’ve badly misplaced your compassion! An atheist! Are you so fond of blasphemy?”
“Madame,” I said, “that is an insult; I believe in God, but for me, Cabassus wasn’t just an atheist, he was a man, and I couldn’t bear his horrific suffering. If I have sinned, God will judge me.”
“Monsieur,” said Madame de Joyeuse archly, “does that mean man has no right to judge you? Do you dare remonstrate with me, wet behind the ears as you are?”
“No, Madame,” I answered with as firm an expression as I could, but softening my voice. “It would never be my intention to disagree with you. I know the gratitude I owe your gracious kindness, and even though it would cause me great sadness to lose the protection of your husband, especially with all the dangers that beset me, I would be infinitely sorrier to have lost the friendship of one whose beauty and goodness light up my life. But I see, Madame, that I have exhausted your patience and that I am no longer appreciated here, nor is my presence desired. Allow me, then, to take my leave, begging you, before departing, to grant me one last kiss of your precious hand.”
Saying this, and feeling very moved, I knelt before her, holding out my right hand. But she did not take it. Which was, of course, embarrassing and, even more, it wounded my heart so deeply that the tears I’d been trying to hold back came rolling down my cheeks. However, raising my eyes to see her beautiful face, I saw her quite undone, pale and without any of the haughtiness she’d displayed when I arrived. She stepped away from me, and fell into one of her armchairs, but kept her eyes lowered and said not a word, which I found quite surprising, since silence was not in her repertoire.
I didn’t know what to do next, but since I couldn’t stay on my knees for ever in the middle of the room, my right hand extended, I saw no alternative than to do what I’d said I’d do, and, standing, bowed to her and headed towards the door.
“Go ahead, Siorac,” she said suddenly, in a bitter and raspy voice, “hurry over to Saint-Firmin and seek consolation from the bawd who lives in public disgrace, whom you’ve got such pleasure from. Such a beautiful romantic story and so worthy of an atheist and a scoundrel! You were aiming way too high here! You’ll be so much better off in the needle shop, having your fun in that dung heap!”
I was deeply wounded by her cruel words and, turning as though I’d been stung by a wasp, I pulled myself up to my full height, looked Madame de Joyeuse in the eye and, in a serious but respectful tone, said, “Madame, I am neither an atheist nor a scoundrel. As for my delights and ‘romantic story’, I found them here as long as I was welcome. Madame, I am your servant.” And bowing deeply I walked proudly to the door, and, without waiting for my usual escort, headed for the antechamber. But blinded by my anger and sorrow, I mistook my way in the maze of corridors and was very heartened to hear the high heels of Aglaé de Mérol behind me.
“Ah, Siorac,” she cried, all out of breath, her chest heaving, “where are you rushing off to? That’s not the way! Anyway, my mistress requires your presence immediately!”
“So, she hasn’t finished tormenting me?”
“Oh, Monsieur!” said Aglaé, putting her hand on my arm. “I know my mistress: she’s quick to correct, but she has a good heart. Someone was spreading terrible rumours about you. And ever since that sad arquebus shot, everyone in this city hates you, and even Cossolat refuses to defend you any more!”
“Well then,” I replied, “I’ll be leaving your beautiful city since I’m no longer appreciated here.”
“Are you sure that’s so?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “For my part, I f
ind your pride very entertaining, and I think you’re the most rascally and most prideful young nobleman in all of Périgord, and I’m perfectly able to tolerate your presence here.”
“What! You tolerate it? I wouldn’t have guessed it from your welcome this morning.”
“I was ordered to behave that way,” she smiled.
“And this smile now, is it an order too? And your dimples? Is that the net you’re throwing over me to drag me back to submit to Madame de Joyeuse’s knife?”
“Ah, Monsieur, to bring you back, I’d do much more than that if I had to!” And she leant towards me and kissed my lips. After which, since she was smiling, I applied a few pecks to her dimples, which she managed to endure.
“Madame,” I sighed, “I shall follow you. Your mistress must be very good to you if you’re devoted to her to this extent.”
Meanwhile, this flirtation had considerably calmed me down—as my cunning little devil no doubt had intended, who, though unmarried and a virgin, was familiar with all the little tricks that girls use to bewitch us.
I found Madame de Joyeuse exactly as I had left her, sitting in the armchair, but now with her bodice unhooked, looking very flushed, breathing rapidly, covered with perfumes and, most significantly, in a state of mind I was more familiar with and which reassured me completely.
“Oh, my little cousin,” she moaned, “I thought I would die to be so mistreated by you! Are you now sufficiently ashamed and remorseful for behaving like such a ruffian and tyrant towards someone of my rank? That was so unseemly! Have I failed so badly to polish your rude and rustic Périgordian ways that you behave so crassly with me? In your unpardonable arrogance, insolent as a Spanish grandee, you’ve gone way beyond what I can tolerate! Am I or am I not, Monsieur, the Vicomtesse de Joyeuse?”
“Certainly you are, Madame,” I said, putting on a grave face, though smiling happily inside. “How could I doubt it, listening to you?”
“Then, young man, on your knees and humbly beg my forgiveness for the insults you heaped on me!”