‘Easy, Willheim, man!’ said Ducamp with the stamp of authority. ‘Remember what happened last time!’
Between gritted teeth the dragoon growled something in German, and let Jacob drop to the floor. A second later Monique, the old cook, thankfully shuffled in with a leg of ham, bread, cheese, a wicker-covered jug of wine and pewter tankards. Ducamp’s soldiers lunged for the table with their knives and sat down astride the benches.
‘Thank you,’ said Jacob, wiping the soldier’s saliva from his face.
Didier Ducamp stood tall and stoic, in spite of the scare that reminded him he was responsible for containing these savages, and that he would have to be vigilant at all times. He said to Jacob: ‘If you want us out of here, you know what to do. Abjure, man!’
3
21 August 1685
Under the Edict of Nantes which ended the wars of religion in France, Protestants had been granted safe havens in the form of towns in which they could freely practice their faith.
However, Louis XIV craved to unify his kingdom under one religion, which meant stamping out reformist hotbeds. Slowly at first, but surely, Protestant rights were ground down, protective city walls were destroyed, temples and schools were demolished, and government and judicial offices became restricted to Catholics only.
The most versatile among the Huguenot population of Montauban seeking employment in a royal office became Catholic. Nonetheless, despite the discrimination and the influx of Catholic clerks and suchlike, Montauban families had remained largely Protestant, especially those who wanted to get on in business.
So all about the town thousands of well-to-do families were undergoing a similar degree of intimidation and ill-treatment. It seemed to them, as it did to Jacob, that the very men paid through their taxes to protect them were treating the town like a vanquished enemy city, and were bent on destroying its very fabric with no respect for its past.
Most of these troopers were in fact mercenaries of Germanic stock. They cared little for the tradition and culture of the French generality, which made them ideal candidates for the job. They had no emotional ties; all they wanted was to earn money to send back to their homeland, or to squander as they saw fit.
Gentlemen’s homes became crowded with belching, farting, snoring men whose libido was quickened by the southern skies. The most audacious invariably grabbed inside their breeches whenever a lady of the house passed by.
*
Jacob looked as though he had aged ten years in a single night, harassed as he was by the demands of nine ruffians. He had insisted on waiting on them himself to save his household any further humiliation and to keep the soldiers from temptation. Besides, he would not have slept anyway, what with his harvest plans in turmoil – and no news from Maître Satur of their latest venture. At least he had managed to negotiate with the lieutenant to take repossession of his bedroom so that his wife and children could rest. In return he agreed to generously provide the men with as much food and wine as they could put down their gullets. A costly compromise for sure, but it meant the soldiers slept the afternoon away in a drunken torpor, which enabled Jacob and his family to regroup and reinforce their unity and conviction through prayer.
On this same day the intendant sent out a party of conciliatory officers to heretics’ homes. It was crucial for him to strike while the iron was hot to win the town back over to Roman Catholicism, and to avoid as many 'spillages' as possible.
Bertrand Nolen – a well-mannered man with a white philosopher’s beard, wearing a dark leather doublet with a folded down ruff from a previous decade – was one of these missionary officers. He had spent the morning pounding the cobblestones trying to talk some sense into the Protestant patriarchs. He bore witness time and again of ransacked homes in complete disorder. The dishevelled Huguenots saw his coming as a link to the higher spheres that could perhaps put an end to their sufferance. Nine times out of ten Bertrand Nolen had to first hear out their remonstrance, their rage and the accusations of wrong-doing. Bertrand’s strategy was to let them empty their bag of grievances so they would be in a better disposition to hear his arguments. Of course they were right: they were victims of higher affairs of state, out of his control. Of course they deserved compensation.
At present he was standing – his tall beaver hat under his arm and an abjuration certificate in his hand – in the entrance hall of the large house in rue de la Serre. He had known Monsieur Delpech from when Jacob worked as a notary.
‘It is up to you,’ said Monsieur Nolen, brandishing the blank certificate, ‘you can make it cease now, right this minute with a simple signature. That is all it takes for you to recover your household, sir. Not only that but as a Catholic you may take up your former profession, if you so wish. Our King only wants his kingdom to be united again, as it once was not so long ago, is that so wrong?’
‘You ask of me to betray my very soul,’ said Jacob, palming his straggling hair from his forehead, ‘my innermost convictions which make me the man that I am, sir.’
‘Then if not for the sake of your livelihood, do it for the sake of your family. For is not vanity a sin? I believe your wife is soon to bear her child, will she not fair better in a quiet room in a tranquil house?’
Jacob knew this argument had some substance, that he could be accused of taking his family hostage for his personal concerns. It even presented a respectable pretext for him to forsake his religion. But Jeanne, who had been standing by the stairs, raised her skirts slightly and stepped into the vestibule.
‘No, sir,’ she said to Monsieur Nolen’s regret. ‘I for one could never live with myself if we abjured our spiritual heritage, our simple and pure faith in God as our saviour preached it, without artifice. It is what keeps us strong against adversity and injustice, sir. It is the very fibre of our being. I would rather go without earthly possessions than be deprived of our Lord and His eternal promise.’
‘You have my answer,’ said Jacob, who felt the force of righteousness behind him again. ‘We shall not abjure, we shall endure.’
‘Then I am afraid endure you shall,’ said Monsieur Nolen, placing his certificate with grave regret back into his leather shoulder pouch. ‘You have been given the opportunity to save yourselves from the imminent storm. I have tried my best, our elite have tried and will continue to do so despite your obstinacy.’ He turned and made for the door. ‘But let me leave you in the hope that our conversation will stay with you, that you may see reason yet. May you know, sir, madame, that it will never be too late to abjure and bear allegiance to your King once again. May God be with you.’
Bertrand Nolen gave a prolonged bow, sweeping his tall hat before him. He knew his sincerity had at least touched their hearts, and he felt better in the knowledge that he had done all he could to bring these poor souls back into the fold. He stepped back into the street, positioned his hat on his head, and continued on his crusade.
4
23 August 1685
‘My Lords, gentlemen,’ said intendant Le Goux de La Berchère, ‘dare I say there has been some heated debate this afternoon.’ He paused with the solemnity of one used to public speaking.
Intendant Le Goux de La Berchère was standing – immaculately attired in black breeches and stockings, a velvet doublet with white cuffs, and silver buckle shoes that gave him extra poise – before an assembly of Huguenots in the large bureau in the town hall. The bishop was to his left, and on his right stood Louis Lefranc de Lacary, the president of the election bureau, who was indeed his right-hand man. Monsieur de Boufflers was absent. Impatient as he was to get the job done, he had taken a battalion of dragoons on a preliminary excursion to convert surrounding towns and villages from Albias to Realville and Caussade to Negrepelisse.
The intendant continued in his measured style. ‘But we have made progress, gentlemen. Indeed, may I venture to say that we all agree that we are all on the same side. We are all of Christian faith who believe in Jesus Christ our Saviour. Are we not?’
; The intendant again punctuated his irrefutable statement with a pause to take in the nods from the handpicked delegation. He had invited about thirty leading Huguenots – two aristocrats, eleven lawyers, seven bourgeois and a handful of merchants – to a conciliatory debate at the town hall after lunch. This was always a good time to negotiate with the local population, so thought the intendant. However today, despite the drowsy heat of the closed room and the organic mixture of sweat and fading perfume, his guests had kept up their guard with gravity. They demanded more time for deliberation, and to enlarge the assembly to embrace more of their fellow Huguenots.
De la Berchère knew they were now expecting a few words in his closing speech on the regiments of soldiers quartered throughout the town. However, he was not going to oblige. Instead, with a certain satisfaction, he said: ‘I invite you all to examine your conscience, to weigh the reasons that have driven you from your natural church, the church of your King and country. I would like you to see if the minor differences proclaimed by a minority of reformists are truly worth the risk of losing your livelihood. I pray the night will bring good council, that tomorrow we shall be united once again here for the common good. I propose we meet tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. That will be all.’
An instant of immobility fell upon the assembly. It was broken when, as the intendant turned to the bureau president to close the session, an incredulous voice rose up from the Huguenot ranks.
‘But, my Lord, what of the soldiers in our homes?’
A rumble of ‘here heres’ and shuffling feet on the polished parquet seconded Maître Pierre Satur’s objection.
De la Berchère turned back to face the assembly, and in all simplicity he said: ‘As I stated earlier, let us hope we can reach a satisfactory conclusion tomorrow.’
‘With all due respect, your honour,’ said one merchant standing a few yards to the side of Satur, ‘my home is like a pigsty, and my poor wife is about to go into labour. The men go about the place with no regard whatsoever for her privacy. I found one of them urinating in a vase this morning. There was another, in full view in the dining-room trying to burst a boil on his posterior. I pray you make this cease, that common sense will prevail!’
‘What is your name, sir,’ said de la Berchère above the mutterings of empathy and remonstration.
‘Delpech, my Lord. Jacob Delpech.’
‘Well, Monsieur Delpech, I unfortunately cannot vouch for every one of the four thousand men of arms billeted around town. And no doubt they lack your refinement.’ He left a beat for the complaisant chuckling from his sympathisers, then continued. ‘But they are warriors after all, battle-hardened through years of protecting the King’s subjects from the enemy. However, our Most Reverend Bishop here will, I am sure, be only too glad to offer you absolution and your hardships will cease. It is as simple as that, Monsieur Delpech.’
The bishop stepped up to speak – his fine voice resounding high and sober above the remonstrations of the errant flock.
‘Indeed, gentlemen, if you would rather rid your homes of the King’s men today, you only need to come and see the intendant or myself directly after this meeting.’
Intendant de la Berchère then turned to the bureau president who closed the session. All in all it had gone better than expected.
*
Urbain Le Goux de La Berchère found himself, if not alarmed, surprised at his own lack of feeling toward the suffering of his fellow citizens. Indeed he would be the first to admit he would not make a very sympathetic Samaritan, he simply had neither the patience nor the disposition. However, as the assembly evacuated the bureau, he found comfort in the knowledge that every character type serves a purpose in God’s design, and that he had been put on earth to administer, and there was nothing wrong in that. There had to be unemotional types otherwise who else would be able to make amends in a crisis?
He recalled once in his younger days seeing an old woman collapse in a Parisian thoroughfare after being brushed by his coach. Instead of advising his driver to find a physician, he had thought it more appropriate to summon a priest and an undertaker directly. Anyone with a clear head could see that the old lady’s goose was cooked, for she did not look very well at all. A short time after the incident he received a letter from the son who thanked him for his presence of mind and for not incurring unnecessary expense on the family. Thanks to the then young Urbain’s detached demeanour, the old lady was saved from being laid to rest in the communal grave through lack of coinage.
The whole incident had since given Urbain Le Goux de La Berchère the courage to be his natural self. After all, was it not thanks to people of his fibre that humanity had been able to forge ahead in the face of adversity? Such was the tenor of his thoughts when, as the last of the Huguenots evacuated the room, he turned to the bishop and said, ‘How much longer do you think?’
‘Not long now I hope, my Lord,’ said Bishop Jean-Baptiste-Michel as genuinely concerned as a father waiting for his new-born baby. ‘Deep down they are all desperate to convert but no one dares take the first step.’
The intendant said, ‘The fact is they have been living in denial. They know how much easier life would be if they embraced the will of our King.’
‘I pray the night will draw out their inhibitions,’ said the bishop.
‘Well put,’ said the intendant. ‘I dare say another night with the soldiers will work wonders.’
Then, turning to Lefranc de Lacary, the bureau president, he said, ‘However, it might be a good idea to send an agent to Monsieur Satur’s house to reiterate our proposition and comfort him that the others are simply waiting to follow his lead.’
‘As you wish, my Lord,’ said LeFranc with a bow.
‘Moreover,’ continued de la Berchère, glancing at the bishop, ‘to save time in the long run, it may well be worthwhile setting up a budget for the most prominent conversions.’
The bishop said, ‘A small price to pay to bring back the lost sheep into the fold.’
He was determined to embrace the wayward lambs with dignity and pardon, and lead them on dutifully as their spiritual father should. Abjuration certificates were indeed at that very moment being pressed in their thousands. With a secret zest of excitement, the bishop took his leave to continue preparations for the imminent absolutions of the multitude.
*
Lieutenant Ducamp had fallen asleep on the comfortable divan in the study. He dreamt of fields, sun, war, and of a frayed black cloak gradually falling over him, slowly blotting out the living light. This was the succession of visions that often came to haunt his dreams. Was the cloak the shadow of death? Did it mean he was struck off God’s list and would fall into nothingness?
He awoke.
A distinct smell filled his nostrils and in his confusion he sat bolt upright searching his body in case he was on fire. Still groggy-headed from drink and dejected by his dream, he scanned the floor near an empty bottle of red wine. Beside it a half-smoked cigar roll had burnt itself out leaving a black burn mark on the waxed parquet. Yet, the distinct smell was still very present and getting stronger. It was the smell of war.
Most of his men were lying around like barrels over the floor, snoring from excess booze. The lieutenant quickly pulled on his boots. He sniffed around the fireplace that had not been used since April, then climbed the stairway three steps at a time.
At the same time Jeanne Delpech, who had finally dozed after a sleepless night, awoke in her bedroom with a feeling of insecurity, a feeling worsened by concerns for the harvest at Verlhac. Had she known about the dragonnade she would have stayed behind, indeed she would have left the realm as her husband had once suggested. But then such worries were wiped away when she saw that two of her children were missing.
A knocking and rolling sound, accompanied by a burning smell seemed to be coming from the room across the corridor where her son Paul normally slept. She pushed herself up from the bed and, holding her bump, she hurried across the room.
; She opened her door and stepped into the corridor just as Lieutenant Ducamp appeared at the top of the stairs a dozen yards to her right. He stopped and stared at her as she swept across to the opposite room.
She burst in. Her son was squatting in front of the chimney where a soldier was pouring liquid lead into a mould to make musket balls. The boy held a clutch of them. The place looked like an army camp with a bedroll half-unfurled on the floor and the contents of a knapsack scattered all around. A tinder box, flint and steel, and a tin cup, spoon and bowl, lay around the hearth. In the fire the remains of the legs of a chair had burned into embers.
‘Come here, Paul!’ she said firmly but not in anger. She seized the boy, who rolled the lead balls into the green dragoon bonnet lying on the floor, and she pulled him out of the room.
Lieutenant Ducamp no longer focused on the familiar smell. Instead his attention turned to two voices counting alternately in German in the bedroom in front of him: ‘…funf, funf, sechs, sechs, sieben, sieben, acht, acht, nein, nein.’ One was the deep voice of a soldier, the other that of a child.
Ducamp opened the door and found the girl in her room bouncing on a German trooper’s knee. The soldier stopped. He looked frankly at the lieutenant, then back to the girl with a smile. He stroked her fair head and let her slide off his knee. Ducamp snatched her by the hand which made her squeal. He pulled her out of the room, then dragged her the length of the corridor to where her distraught-looking mother was standing with her son.
‘For Christ’s sake, keep ‘em out of sight!’
*
Jeanne sat upon the four-poster, her back cushioned with a bolster against the carved wooden headboard, and her two eldest children nestled around her. Lulu was asleep in the rocking cot which was almost too small for her now. It had been brought down from the storage room for her new brother or sister.
Merchants of Virtue Page 3