City of Wisdom and Blood

by Robert Merle

  There were opportunities enough to test my virtue at Barbentane, where the chambermaids, rejected by my brother, would happily have taken revenge on me! But although my strength was returning, along with my great thirst for life, I resisted their advances as best I could. For I must confess that, in the silence of my nights and in my daydreams, I’d given my love entirely to Angelina, being persuaded that I’d never find in this vast world, however far and wide I searched, a woman who would unite such beauty and such heart. I didn’t breathe a word of this to her, however, since I had no way of knowing whether her feelings matched mine, which were so strong I couldn’t think about leaving her without suffering frightfully. But as little assured as I was of ever earning her love, I didn’t want to do anything to risk losing it. Certainly, if it depended only on me, I could have, as Madame de Joyeuse was wont to say, “enjoyed a crust of bread on the other side of a thicket”. But I doubt Angelina would have accepted such behaviour. Although she was two years older than I, she seemed too naive to distinguish between love and the tyranny of desire, not being, as I was, accustomed to give in to the latter.

  I received two letters from Madame de Joyeuse. One, twenty days after I was wounded, urging me to return to Montpellier, since the report sent by the bishop of Nîmes to the vicomte had swayed public opinion in my favour.

  The other, a fortnight later, sang an entirely different song:

  My Little Cousin,

  Oh, our poor king! Our poor kingdom! What a terrible thing is this misfortune we’ve just experienced! I think I’ll die of heartbreak or lose the little beauty I have left! Those nasty Huguenots (who are your allies, my sweet little cousin), have taken Montpellier by force, and the vicomte, with a handful of men, took refuge in the Saint-Pierre fortress, taking his wife and children and his silverware. But as these fanatics were preparing to lay siege to the fortress, the vicomte fled by a secret door. Once outside, he made a bargain with the rebels to let us leave—me, his children and his silverware. This arrangement was brokered by our good Cossolat, who’s got a foot in both camps, being a Huguenot but loyal to his king, so this enterprise was successful—at least for me and my children. For the rebels kept the silver and, after we had escaped, very devoutly pillaged the fortress, taking everything, even the small forks. My cousin, is this what your Calvin teaches?

  The vicomte is furious at this loss, and at Pézenas where we’ve taken refuge, he’s nursing his anger at these scoundrels. So, in order to calm him down and bend him to my own designs, I offered him my complete gold-plated serving dishes.

  All in vain! At the first word I uttered about having you join us here, he threw up his hands and shouted, “Madame, rumours are flying already! You want more? Montpellier was one thing. He was studying medicine there. But what possible pretext could there be for bringing him to Pézenas? Especially since he’s a Huguenot! Are you looking to have me ridiculed?”

  My sweet cousin, you can well imagine that I threw fire and flames on such odious suspicions. And you can also well imagine with what annoyance I rejected his innuendos about the innocence of our relationship. But, alas! my little cousin, my efforts and goodwill on your behalf were without any effect on the vicomte, who’s closed up like an oyster on this matter. Oh, my sweet cousin, you, at least, obey me, and when I think about it (and I think about it often) you’re the only one in the world to whom I can say, “My sweet, do that thing I like,” and be assured that you’ll obey. And you can be sure that not to be able to say it makes me very sad indeed!

  My little cousin, as you read this, have pity on me! To live in Pézenas without my ladies-in-waiting and in such cramped quarters! Without all my things! Without my little martyr! Ah, it’s too terrible! My beauty is fading, I won’t survive such a misfortune!

  My little cousin, I offer my fingertips to your lips…

  Eléonore de Joyeuse

  As tenderly as I felt about Madame de Joyeuse, and as unhypocritical as was my nature, how could I answer this letter, except hypocritically? My pen took pity on Madame de Joyeuse because she wished it so. And while awaiting my answer, she lamented the fate that kept me so far from her indestructible beauty. But one can easily imagine that I was not loath to remain at Barbentane, since things had taken such a pleasant turn here.

  Alas, however, these days spent in secret delight—since nothing had been said on either side—these days were numbered. My father, to whom I’d made a faithful report of what had happened in Nîmes and what was now going on in Montpellier, wrote to me that he didn’t want me to return to that city because of the terrible excesses the Huguenots were committing there, killing priests and demolishing entire churches. But he didn’t want us to attempt by ourselves to return to Mespech either, given that the three of us would be too few to travel in such perilous times, and so he proposed to come to fetch us in Barbentane with the best of Mespech’s fighters. But the fact that my father would have to come through the Auvergne mountains to reach us—a long and difficult journey—gave me some unexpected extra time to enjoy my present circumstances.

  With Angelina listening with both eyes and ears to the recitation of my exploits, I was in no hurry to conclude my odyssey, not least since our conversations always began with her prattling on sweetly about her morning activities and my news about Samson, Miroul, my father and Uncle de Sauveterre. But after an hour of trading the journals of our respective chateaux, she begged me to continue my history from the point where I’d left off the previous afternoon.

  But I reached a point in my narrative where I suddenly felt exceedingly sad and couldn’t say a word. I was telling her about leaving Montpellier to head to Nîmes, and how I left the city at daybreak and found myself at the foot of the gibbet. Angelina saw my confusion and asked what was the matter, so I told her that what I had to tell about that day was so infinitely sad and painful that I was unsure whether to exclude it from my account or to include it.

  “Oh,” she said, “you must choose the latter! If one of your characters has earned your compassion, she needs it now in her distress!”

  This sentiment seemed so touching and so finely tuned to the goodness of her soul that I decided to tell her the lamentable ending of my poor Fontanette, hiding from her the relationship we had enjoyed for such a short time.

  Angelia was sitting in a high-backed chair between the two leaded windows, caressing the black cat named Belzebuth, who was sitting purring in her lap. This name was an insult to such a suave and nonchalant tom, who loved his mistress and followed her about like a lapdog.

  It’s easy to remember this moment, which, even after so many years, is still painted with such lively colours in my mind. The afternoon sun flowing in through the open windows—that October was so mild—lit with a kind of dusty aura her Venetian red hair that fell about her face in such wavy curls. She was not wearing a high collar since Belzebuth had scratched her when playing with it, but an open collar displaying a cross on a golden chain. Her dress, of pale-green silk with dark-green ribbons, moved me all by itself, since green had been my mother’s favourite colour. There was something in Angela’s wide-eyed expression that I loved very much. Her coal-black irises glowed with a soft, quiet light, so tender and friendly that I’ve never seen the like, even in a doe, and I felt an almost irresistible urge to leap into her lap like a child, but also the desire to protect her.

  I began my story in my usual way, standing and moving this way and that around the room, miming each voice, reliving my memories, but as soon as Fontanette entered this one, riding on her mule, she reappeared with such incredible force, her hands tied behind her back, that a terrible charm began to work on me. I believed I could see her as if she were still alive, and imitated her tiny, pitiful voice, feeling the tears flowing down her cheeks, and how the evil of men had brought her to the gibbet. Christ! It was all right in front of me again! I touched her shoulder with my hand. She rested her cheek on my hand. I would never have thought that words could contain a magic powerful enough to resuscitate
a memory to the point of making it tangible, and of twisting my heart to the point of breaking it, of tying such a terrible knot in my throat, altering and squeezing my voice, that I could scarcely whisper my hoarse and stuttering account.

  I couldn’t finish. I broke into sobs. My eyes blinded by my tears, I approached Angelina, whose hair was shining in a halo of sun. Belzebuth, seized by some kind of fright, leapt from Angelina’s lap when he saw me, and she made no effort to stop him, looking only at me, her eyes shining with compassion. In my distress I dared to do something I never would have had the courage to venture otherwise. I threw myself at Angelina’s feet and cried, my head in my hands, tormented by the desire to put it in her lap to be comforted, but not daring to go that far, so great was my respect for her innocence. She didn’t move a muscle for a very long time, though I could feel her trembling in every part of her body, but since my tears just kept flowing and my emotional tumult did not abate, she finally put her right hand on my head and very lightly began caressing my hair, as a mother might do to her child. And since I didn’t know whether to attribute this gesture to pity or to some stronger feeling, astonished by my very uncertainty and, thus, distracted from my grief, I found myself feeling more peaceful and fell silent, continuing to hold my hands up to my face, fearing that if I removed them, she would feel ashamed and withdraw her hand from my head.

  Finally the desire to see her won out. I withdrew my hands. She withdrew hers from my hair and suddenly said: “Pierre, did you love this poor wench?”

  “It was friendship. Until this very moment, I’ve never loved anyone.”

  Hearing this, she held me in her gaze for a very long time, yet remained silent as if she expected me to continue. Which I did, encouraged by her silence, and I began speaking in words that surprised me since they appeared before I’d thought of them. “Angelina,” I said, “I am the younger son of a baron and I must make my fortune. Would you consent to wait for me?”

  Saying this, I rose from my knees and took a step back, to show her that I didn’t presume on the liberty I’d taken. She seemed to be stunned by my words. But as she lowered her eyes, I couldn’t tell how she had taken my proposal, since, with her eyes closed, her face no longer mirrored her thoughts.

  Finally, she rose with her usual nonchalance and, bowing her head, said without either looking at me or saying my name, “I wish you a good evening.”

  My heart was breaking. I thought I’d lost everything as she walked towards the door with what seemed like infinite slowness, but as she reached it, her right hand on the doorknob, she turned slightly and looked over her shoulder at me with great seriousness and said, not without some force and resolve:

  “Monsieur, I will wait for you.”

  That Angelina had confided in her mother and reported our conversation was very quickly made clear to me as I was sitting on a stone bench under an open window in the courtyard of the chateau later that evening. I heard footsteps in the room and recognized the voice of Monsieur de Montcalm and his wife, but since I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I didn’t move, and when I could, it was too late; they would have seen me as I stood up, and would have thought I was dishonest—especially given the subject of their conversation, which I couldn’t help overhearing, since they were speaking with such great animation and in such lively dispute.

  “Madame, I’ve already told you how I feel. Pierre is too young.”

  “Monsieur, my husband,” replied Madame de Montcalm, “the difference in their ages is very small. Moreover, Pierre is a man and already very mature. Angelina is a child.”

  “Perhaps. But I have other plans for her.”

  “Sadly, she won’t agree.”

  “She’ll agree.”

  “No. You know her. She’s more stubborn than a goat.”

  “All right, then. The convent will bring her around.”

  “Convent, Monsieur?” gasped Madame de Montcalm and then laughed out loud.

  “You’re laughing, Madame. Why make light of this?”

  “Monsieur, would you have the heart to lock Angelina in jail?”

  “And why not? Isn’t that where many fathers put their daughters when they’re insubordinate and rebellious?”

  “Those fathers aren’t you. You’ve always been crazy about your daughter.”

  “Madame,” said Monsieur de Montcalm after a moment of thought. “I’m not so weak. I will be obeyed.”

  “Who’s talking about disobedience? You have to admit Pierre is a very likeable young man.”

  “Yes, but he’s got no fortune.”

  “He’ll make one.”

  “If he’s not killed first. He’s high-handed and madly courageous.”

  “Ah, Monsieur! Would you reproach these qualities? Without his ‘mad courage’ neither you, nor I, nor your daughter would be here arguing about this!”

  “Madame!” growled Monsieur de Montcalm, with great irritation. “Are you going to split my ears with this rescue every single day of my life?”

  “No, Monsieur. I will henceforth rely on your gratitude.”

  “Now you’re making light of things again.”

  “Not at all!”

  “Madame, merely because Pierre helped save our lives, must I give him my chateau, my wife, my daughter, my house in Nîmes and my position as royal officer?”

  “Monsieur, he asks only for your daughter.”

  “He won’t have her! He’s a heretic!”

  “Ah, Monsieur, what a big word! You’re not in Nîmes. Pierre is a loyalist Huguenot and hardly a zealot.”

  “Zealot or not, he’s a reformist.”

  “As is everyone else in your family in Montpellier. To my knowledge, you’re the only Montcalm who has remained in the faith of your fathers.”

  “I glory in that distinction!”

  “My husband, you might have remained Catholic with a bit more moderation. We might not have been made outlaws in our own town and had our house pillaged.”

  “What are you saying, Madame?” cried Monsieur de Montcalm angrily. “Do you dare censure me? Are you in league with my enemies?”

  There ensued a long silence, during which, I gather, she was using some of her charms, which she knew to have an effect on her husband, and then she said very sweetly, “My dear husband, I’m very sorry to have displeased you. If I have offended you, I shall withdraw immediately. I shall dine in my room.”

  “Stay, my friend!” countered Monsieur de Montcalm in more temperate tones. “It would distress me no end if you left me. You know I love everything about you, even our quarrels.”

  “Ah, Monsieur, you are too good to me! I’m a silly old fool to bother you so! It’s true that Pierre is too young for Angelina. But what will happen if he changes his mind when he’s made his fortune?”

  “Oh, I’m not the least worried about that! I completely trust his word. He’s a gentleman.”

  “Well, as for that, his nobility is a lot less ancient than yours. It was more than 300 years ago that your ancestor Dieudonné de Gozon killed the dragon of Rhodes!”

  “Assuredly so! But why should we despise new nobility when it, too, was won in combat as the Baron de Mespech’s was? And we mustn’t forget that Pierre’s mother is a Castelnau and Caumont, one of the oldest families in Périgord. And the baron is reputed to be quite rich, though a bit miserly in the Huguenot way.”

  “Yes, but Pierre’s his younger son.”

  “True, and yet he abounds in talent that will assure his success in the world.”

  “What you say is true, my friend, but the difference in our religions is of no little consequence in this business.”

  “Oh, Madame, there’s the problem! But Pierre is not the least zealous, and we can hope for his conversion!”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. He’d be too afraid to displease his father, who seems to be his god.”

  At this, they left the room, to my immense relief, leaving me on my bench, prey to a variety of feelings, in which hop
e and despair were mingled, since I was neither fully accepted nor fully rejected. However, I would have been happier if Madame de Montcalm hadn’t seemed so mercurial. So much so indeed that, no matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn’t understand how she could, almost in the same breath, support her daughter’s inclinations and harm them, refuting her arguments only moments after making them and undoing the web she had just so carefully woven for us.

  Meanwhile, nothing seemed to have changed in our daily routines, and I was able to see Angelina as much as I desired, though I never ventured a kiss or even a touch of her hand for fear of displeasing her, and without having her mother any more present than before, being a woman as lively and agitated as her daughter was languorous, and unable to stay more than half an hour in the same place without needing to go somewhere else. As for Monsieur de Montcalm, he put on a brave face about things, and one afternoon I even heard him say to Samson, whom he was very taken with, that he was very sorry that my father was coming to fetch us: he would have been happy to keep us the whole winter with him.

  But alas, that was not to be. I was living on borrowed time, and, as sweet as the days were, they were flowing by too quickly, whereas those of my convalescence had seemed too long. My father arrived in mid November, accompanied by our Siorac cousins, by Cabusse and by Jonas, our stonecutter, all armed to the teeth, their great hulks terrible to behold and their skin tanned nut-brown.

  Oh, reader! What a mad embrace it was! As soon as my father dismounted, I was in his arms, and how he hugged me to him, his blue eyes shining with joy! My gentle Samson wisely awaited his turn, which was just as emotional, for if my father admired me more, he loved Samson every bit as much, bastard though he was. Our Siorac cousins clutched us to them next. They could now be distinguished one from the other since Michel had a scar on his left cheek that he’d got in the fighting at la Lendrevie. I gave each of them a hug, of course, but Cabusse was anxious for his turn as well, looking very proud and wearing a prominent moustache.