Merchants of Virtue

by Paul C R Monk

  Jeanne knew more than anyone in the world when her husband had doubts. She had seen it when he had been obliged to sell his practice, when he had ventured into a new occupation, when their second daughter was called to heaven after a short illness at the age of five. She placed her hand on his temple and brushed back his hair over his ear.

  The young lady he had married twelve years earlier had grown to love him. Her devotion shone through in the way she had made his house their home. It shone through when he saw their children.

  Turning to her, he grasped her hand to arrest its caress, and said, ‘Jeanne, you really ought not to have travelled in your condition!’

  ‘I told you, Jacob, I want the baby to be born in Montauban, like our other children.’ She tugged her hand free, ran it down his arm and slipped it around his wrist. ‘I am the one who is carrying it!’

  There was no rational case against that. He would have to try to force his wishes upon her.

  ‘I am not going to argue with you, Jeanne. My decision is final.’

  She let his hand drop onto the bed, and said, ‘I am not one of your farmhands, Jacob… I suspect you want me out of the way so that you can put together another moneymaking venture with your lawyer friend.’

  ‘No, it is not that. I told you, there is little risk there. And besides, Maître Satur takes care of everything, he is the one in relation with the ship owners.’

  ‘But doesn’t the Bible say it is wrong to lend money for money’s sake? And you know what my father used to say, that money put into New World ventures is more often than not employed to purchase slaves!’

  ‘Jeanne, I would do no such thing.’

  ‘I know you would not, Jacob, but I am not so sure about Maître Satur.’

  ‘Well, if it will reassure you, I am not planning another moneymaking venture as you call it, I shall have enough on my plate with the harvest.’ He took her hand in both of his, and softening his tone, ‘Please, Jeanne,’ he prayed, ‘You must leave first thing tomorrow morning with the children.’

  ‘I cannot…’

  ‘My dear Jeanne, listen. I… I fear the immediate future does not bode well.’

  Jeanne sat immobile as she studied the staid gravity of her husband’s face. ‘Monsieur Picquos was not exaggerating when he told me the soldiers are coming then.’

  ‘I fear not.’

  Taking hold of his right hand again, she said, ‘All the more reason to stay together, Jacob, as we always have. We are a family, are we not?’ She pressed his hand on the tight mound of her belly, and she said, ‘Come, let us pray.’

  2

  20 August 1685

  An hour after sunrise, two raps of the doorknocker made Jacob and Jeanne look up from their draught of chocolate.

  Jeanne, holding her belly with one hand, pushed back her chair, then made her way from the panelled dining-room to the spacious vestibule. She began to climb the wide dark-wood staircase to the upper rooms where her children still lay sleeping.

  Jacob had hurried to the window in the adjoining study that looked onto the street. He now peered between the wooden shutters that had been pulled ajar to screen the room from the day’s heat. The maid, with fear in her eyes, had moved into the vestibule and now stood at the front door waiting for the signal.

  ‘It is one of Robert’s servants,’ said Jacob with a sigh of relief. ‘Open the door, Anette, and let him in.’

  It was that time of day when a large number of chamber pots were emptied out of upper floor windows and, in his precipitation, the lackey had trodden on a turd. He was scraping his shoe on the wrought iron boot scraper when the massive green door opened. He stepped inside the entrance hall which led to the study, the rear corridor, and the staircase. Inside the door stood a wooden bench where people could remove their street footwear and garments, but the lackey remained standing.

  ‘Speak up, my boy,’ said Jacob from the study doorway.

  ‘Monsieur, my master has sent me to tell you that soldiers are entering through Moustier gate. They are in great numbers, some on foot, some on horseback. Even greater numbers, some say thousands, are entering through the gate of Villebourbon.’

  Despite her imminent labour, Jeanne, who had paused on the intermediate landing, hurried up the stairs. She was normally of a calm and rational disposition and not subject to panic, however these days it was every Huguenot mother’s angst that her children would be taken away from her. She knew how easy it was for powerful men to amend and interpret the law as it suited them. When Madame Larieux’s husband died, the authorities took the opportunity of her mourning to assign her three daughters to a convent, so that they could be brought up in the religion of the state according to a new law.

  Jacob sent word to his own lackey to forewarn his mother and widowed sister who resided in the west part of town, a stone’s throw away from the recently demolished temple. In this way, word spread from family to family, and in its wake marched de Boufflers’ army, an army made up for the most part of Swiss and German mercenaries.

  *

  The bells of Saint Jacques chimed the hour. Today might be the day the Huguenot safe haven would become Catholic again, thought intendant de la Berchère. It gave him a real sense of virtue and piety to win over the heretics and rid the generality of heresy, for the sake of national unity, for once and for all.

  Unfurling a scroll that lay on his desk, he turned his head to the Marquis de Boufflers who was standing at his side with the Bishop of Montauban.

  The intendant said: ‘In accordance with your instructions, my Lord Marquis, with Monseigneur Jean-Baptiste-Michel, we have drawn up a list of Protestant homes to be billeted, here.’ His forefinger ran down a long list of names. ‘Along with the number of troopers they are to accommodate.’

  The Right Reverend Bishop Jean-Baptiste-Michel Colbert, a large-shouldered and pot-bellied man in his mid-forties, gave a little cough. And in his beautiful tenor voice, he said: ‘The numbers have been carefully pondered, my Lord, in relation to the type of house and the, shall we say, potential resistance that is likely to be encountered.’

  ‘Excellent, Your Grace,’ said the Marquis, who proceeded in opening a leather pouch he was holding. While pulling out bundles of printed billets he continued: ‘All you do now is write the name of the owner on a billet, the corresponding number of soldiers, and sign it.’ The last wad of printed billets fell onto the desk. ‘The simplest plans often make for the most effective results,’ he said with a flourish of the wrist.

  The billets were filled out, signed, then passed on to the commanding officers of small sections of troops. This took some time, and it was not until past lunchtime that many sections were informed of their quarters which they then had to locate.

  *

  After taking note of his billet, Lieutenant Didier Ducamp glanced at the sun from the northern double-vaulted arcade of the main square where he and his men – four Germans, two French, two Swiss – had settled after the march into town. He cast his eyes to his left toward a cobbled lane. ‘Right, men, rue de la Serre is that way, I wager. We’ll be needing a townsman to guide us, preferably a Catholic!’ he said in his dry humour, as much to himself as to his men half of whom could barely understand him anyway.

  In truth though, the lieutenant really did not care what religion his guide belonged to, so long as he led them to their destination. He knew from experience that every man was made of the same stuff inside, he had seen men of every religion slaughtered on the battlefield. They all spilled their guts the same when their belly was sliced. They all bled red blood, and shat through their arses in a like manner. Besides, he was beginning to dislike this dragonnade business. It had been amusing in Pau at first traipsing through bourgeois’ homes but now it was becoming tedious. It was not what the army was made for. That said, duty was duty and in another three years he might even retire with enough money to get a tavern and a new wife.

  There happened to be a crowd of onlookers on the corner. They had stopped to
witness the scene of a Huguenot toff flapping around at his townhouse where soldiers were piling in through the large carriage door.

  ‘You there,’ called the lieutenant designating a bourgeois who looked like he was enjoying the show. Ducamp, who was over six feet tall, strode the few yards that separated them. He had to raise his voice above the ambient din of bawled commands, Germanic grunts, marching boots, the clank of steel and horses stamping and snorting. He said: ‘Do you know rue de la Serre? I’m looking for a tall house with a large green door. Belongs to a certain Jacob Delpech.’

  ‘I do indeed, sir,’ said the bourgeois, proud to be of service. He took a few strides out of the way of the din and said: ‘It so happens I live opposite. It is a spacious townhouse. Monsieur Delpech is of a long line of nobles of the robe, you know, except for his father who was a physician, I believe. I am sure you will find all the comforts you require there.’

  Ducamp liked jurists’ homes: they were well organised and most of them were well stocked. Things were picking up. He was looking forward to a decent night’s kip in a good bed. And he wondered if his new host had any worthy maids, or daughters.

  ‘If you would be so kind as to show us the way there, we shall find comfort all the sooner, shall we not?’ said Ducamp as a quip, though the humour in his voice was hardly perceptible.

  Over the next few hours, the clamour of four thousand men of war gradually spread out in small sections like Ducamp’s from the epicentre of the town. Some lanes were made of dark grey pebbles shaped like pork kidneys that marchers cursed, others were hard earth thoroughfares made dusty in the high noon sun.

  *

  The sickening ruckus of hobnailed boots on cobbles grew louder in rue de la Serre, as the banging of iron knockers on doors proliferated. Inside the tall house with the green door, Jacob, Jeanne and their three children came to the last verse of a favourite psalm as the doorknocker rapped with authority.

  The song always helped Jacob Delpech fight down a feeling of panic in times of uncertainty. And he must remain in charge of his emotions. He was, after all, responsible for the safety and wellbeing of his family and household. And he could not deny they were all probably about to suffer, unless he put his faith to one side.

  Jeanne sensed his inner turmoil. She pressed his forearm with silent and soulful determination, as on other occasions during their married life. But they were ready to confront the soldiers, even though they had both secretly hoped their house would be passed over, given Jacob’s status.

  He was a landowner and wealthy merchant now, had been so since the decree five years earlier that had forced Huguenot notaries to either sell their practice or abjure. His organisational skills had served him well in managing his farms and selling their produce of fruit, cattle and cereal. He was one of the first to plant maize, the versatile crop from the New World, in the great fertile plain that surrounded the town. He had also become quite a botanist, and studied water usage and plant requirements for more efficient growth. This resulted in recent yields being constantly higher than average, and his conversion from records of law to record yields had not transpired without some envy.

  God had come to try them before; if it pleased Him to try them again then so be it, Jeanne had told him. They would face up to this hurdle in the same way that they had confronted Jacob’s professional reconversion, with unwavering resolve without straying from the road of God’s love and ultimate reward.

  She ushered the children up the stairs to their first-floor rooms. That was the plan.

  The doorknocker hammered again.

  ‘King’s men, open the door!’ hurled a soldier’s voice.

  Jacob gave the nod to Anette to open up as he joined her in the vestibule where she stood at the front door, speechless and mouse-like.

  ‘This the house of Jacob Delpech?’ said the tall, rugged figure that dwarfed her, even though she was standing two steps higher.

  ‘Yes, sir, I am he,’ said Jacob stepping into view. ‘Whom do I have the pleasure of…’

  Lieutenant Ducamp had no time for bourgeois talk. He had a job to do. He held out his billet and read. ‘Conforming with the law, Monsieur Jacob Delpech shall give quarter to nine soldiers and will give to these soldiers light, board and lodging.’

  In times of conflict soldiers were lodged with the lower classes for a specified number of days.

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ said Jacob, feigning not to understand what was happening. ‘I am Jacob Delpech de Castanet.’

  ‘Read for yourself, Jacob Delpech de Castanet!’ growled the lieutenant holding up the billet in Jacob’s face.

  Didier Ducamp had seen the same mock incomprehension before in Bearn. It was becoming a bore. Did the bourgeois really think they were dealing with morons? He had to admit though, he had fallen for the comedy the first couple of times. On those occasions he had marched back to his commanding officer to check his information. However, now with experience, not to mention a right rollicking from his commander, he had learnt to disregard any theatricality and get on with the mission at hand.

  When he thought about it now, it made him laugh to think that he, who feared neither God nor the devil, had become a better missionary than the Bishop of Bearn.

  He pushed his way into the premises. His men followed suit without a thought for the boot scraper, and soon smells of sweat, oil, powder, leather and horse shit filled the largest reception room of the house.

  It was always an eye-opener to see how the other half lived. Useless ornaments on carved and embroidered furniture, paintings and tapestries on walls, and books, rows of them all leather bound, always a good sign of prosperity. Oh yes, money has left its mark here. It was a reassuring thought because he and his men could eat a stableful of horses. This, he sensed, would be better than the last billet in Pau which was barren as an old hen. And it had turned out messy too.

  The slip of a hand had accidentally popped the proprietor’s neck while they were helping him drink a ‘restorative’ to give him courage to abjure. Of course, the lieutenant had learnt since that you have to be extra careful how you handle pen pushers, soft as young pigeons!

  As the eight mercenaries in the pay of the King traipsed into the room, Didier Ducamp turned to his second in command, and gave him a hardly perceptible nod of appreciation. It meant there was no point rushing this one, at least, not while the storehouse was full and their bellies empty.

  ‘Bring us bread, meat, cheese and wine,’ said Lieutenant Ducamp.

  ‘Listen here, sir, you really ought to check with the intendant. I am a gentleman…’

  ‘And we are the King’s men!’ said Ducamp. ‘And hungry men with it. Now, do you love and respect your King?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Do you respect the law of this land?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then fetch us our grub and grog, unless you prefer we help ourselves!’

  Jacob could but agree to do as was required of him.

  ‘We’ll find our quarters ourselves,’ said Ducamp.

  The next moment the wooden staircase was trembling under the footfall of nine massive men-at-arms. Jeanne was on her way down, with her children in tow, having considered it would be better to keep them with her.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said boldly and with an empathetic smile. She managed to not let the organic stench of manure and body fluids overpower her nerve. ‘We have prepared a large room for you on the second floor where you will be comfortable, I am sure.’

  The soldiers laughed out loud and barged past her without a thought for her condition. Indeed it was fortunate she was standing, with her children filed behind her like goslings, on the wide intermediate landing. Otherwise she may well have been flattened against the wall.

  ‘My mother is with baby, sirs, please have some respect!’ said a determined little voice. It belonged to Paul, Jeanne’s son of seven.

  A soldier leered back over the banister with an amused jeer. But he was not staring at the boy. He was
looking at his elder sister, Elizabeth. The soldier seemed to be sizing her up, then he looked away in exasperation.

  ‘Bah, flat as a battledore!’ he grumbled.

  His marching partner behind him then quipped: ‘Give it another six months. If it bleeds it breeds, that’s what my ol’ man used to say.’

  By now, Jacob was standing at the foot of the stairs. ‘Gentlemen, I protest,’ he said firmly. ‘Not under my roof will thou speak foul!’

  He took his wife’s hand and led her down into the vestibule and into the dining-room while the soldiers continued into the first floor corridor.

  The bedroom doors upstairs could be heard being rattled, and forced open one by one. This was invariably followed by the clang of metal landing on the floor followed by the squeak of bed springs.

  The harassment, though not physical, had shattered Jacob’s sense of justice. It harked back to the day when he was told he would have to give up his practice. Then too it had felt that his world was about to cave in. However, as then, he still had his faith, and the love of his wife. She placed a hand on his shoulder as they knelt down to pray.

  *

  A good thing his uninvited guests missed the scene, busy as they were with their installation upstairs.

  Jacob had got to his feet by the time the soldiers reappeared. They were visibly satisfied with the self-attributed quarters and now were ready for food.

  They had been marching from Bearn since Friday. Bakers, who had been commissioned to produce bread in abundance, had not been able not provide enough for four thousand extra mouths. And by the time Ducamp had entered the town, albeit early morning, there was not a quignon of bread to be found. Was this the way to treat men who risked their lives in war? They had finished their own provisions of dried sausage and were now so ravenous they would put raw flesh between their teeth.

  On seeing nothing served, panic, a sense of injustice, then the fire of wrath, consumed the pit of their bellies where only hunger had previously growled. One soldier grabbed Jacob by the lapels, slammed him against the panelling. The thick-set man brought Jacob’s face level with his own, and, in a Germanic accent, he bellowed: ‘Food, where’s the bloody food! You want me ask your fat wench?’