Félicité's forehead was bathed in a cold sweat. Madame Simon sponged it with a cloth, telling herself that one day she would go the same way.
The noise of the crowd gradually increased, at one point becoming very loud and then fading away.
A sudden burst of gunfire rattled the window panes. The postilions were saluting the monstrance. Félicité rolled her eyes and, trying to raise her voice above a whisper, she asked, ‘Is he all right?’ She was still worrying about the parrot.
Félicité was now entering her final moments. Her breath came in short raucous gasps, making her sides heave. Beads of froth gathered in the corners of her mouth and her whole body began to shake.
From the street outside came the blaring of ophicleides,27 the high-pitched voices of the children and the deeper voices of the men. There were moments when all was quiet and all that could be heard was the tread of feet, cushioned by the scattered petals and sounding like a flock of sheep crossing a field.
The group of clergy entered the courtyard. Madame Simon climbed up on to a chair to look out of the little window and was able to see the altar directly below.
It was hung with green garlands and covered with a flounce in English point lace. Standing in the centre was a little square frame containing some relics and at each end there was an orange tree. Along the length of the altar there was a row of silver candlesticks and china vases containing a vivid display of sunflowers, lilies, peonies, foxgloves and bunches of hydrangea. A cascade of bright colours fell from the top of the altar down to the carpet spread out on the cobblestones beneath it. In amongst the flowers could be seen a number of other treasured ornaments: a silver-gilt sugar-bowl decorated with a ring of violets, a set of pendants cut from Alençon gemstones glittering on a little carpet of moss, two Chinese screens with painted landscapes. Loulou lay hidden beneath some roses and all that could be seen of him was the spot of blue on the top of his head, like a disc of lapis lazuli.
The churchwardens, the choristers and the children took up their places around three sides of the courtyard. The priest slowly walked up the steps and placed his great shining orb on the lace altar cloth. Everyone fell to their knees. There was a deep silence in which all that could be heard was the sound of the censers sliding on their chains as they were swung backwards and forwards.
A blue haze of incense floated up into Félicité's room. She opened her nostrils wide to breathe it in, savouring it with mystical fervour. Her eyes closed and a smile played on her lips. One by one her heartbeats became slower, growing successively weaker and fainter like a fountain running dry, an echo fading away. With her dying breath she imagined she saw a huge parrot hovering above her head as the heavens parted to receive her.
THE LEGEND OF SAINT JULIAN HOSPITATOR
1
Julian's father and mother lived in a castle in the middle of a forest, on the slope of a hill.
The four towers at the corners had pointed roofs with lead cladding, and the base of the walls was built on outcrops of rock which fell steeply to the bottom of the moat.
The paving in the courtyard was spotlessly clean like the stone floor of a church. Projecting from the roof were gargoyles, in the shape of dragons with their mouths pointing downwards, which spat rainwater into the cistern below. Every window sill from the top to the bottom of the castle carried a painted earthenware flowerpot planted with either basil or heliotrope.
An outer enclosure, surrounded by wooden stakes, contained an orchard of fruit trees, a flower garden with different varieties of plants arranged in patterns, an arbour with covered walks for taking the air and an alley where the pageboys could enjoy a game of mall.1 In the other half of this enclosure were the kennels, the stables, the bakery, the winepress and the barns. Surrounding it all was a lush green meadow, which was itself enclosed by a thick hedge of thorn.
There had been such a prolonged period of peace that the portcullis could no longer be lowered, grass grew in the moat, swallows made their nests in the loopholes of the battlements and the archer who patrolled the castle walls during the daytime retired to his watchtower the minute the sun became too hot and dropped off to sleep like a monk.
Inside the castle, all the metal fittings gleamed, the bedchambers were hung with tapestries as protection against the cold, the cupboards were crammed with linen, the cellars were piled high with casks of wine and the oak coffers groaned beneath the weight of moneybags.
The walls of the armoury were lined with military trophies and the heads of wild beasts, and in between them were displayed weapons of every age and every nation, from Amalekite slings and Garamantian spears to Saracen brackmards and Norman coats of mail.
The great roasting-spit in the kitchen could carry a whole ox and the chapel was as richly furnished as the oratory of a king. In one secluded corner of the castle there was even a Roman-style bath, but the noble lord refrained from using it, as he considered bathing to be a heathen practice.
He was always to be seen wrapped in a cloak of fox-skin, striding about his domain, dispensing justice to his vassals2 or settling the disputes of his neighbours. In winter he would sit watching the snowflakes fall or have stories read to him. At the first sign of fine weather, he would ride out on his mule along the lanes beside the ripening corn, talking with the peasants and offering them advice. After many adventures, he had taken as his wife a damsel of noble birth.
She was very fair of skin, rather haughty and demure. As she moved about the castle, the tip of her headdress brushed against the lintel of the doorways and the train of her linen dress stretched three full paces behind her. The running of her household was as carefully regulated as that of a monastery. Every morning she would issue tasks to her servants, supervise the making of jams and ointments, spin at her wheel or embroider altar-cloths. After much praying to God, she bore a son.
This was the occasion of great rejoicing and a feast which lasted for three days and four nights. The castle was lit by torchlight and echoed to the sound of harps. The floors were strewn with greenery. There were the very rarest of spices and fowls as fat as sheep. To everyone's great amusement, out of one of the pies there suddenly popped a dwarf. The crowd of guests grew bigger and bigger until there were no longer enough drinking bowls and they had to drink from hunting horns and helmets.
The young mother did not take part in these festivities and lay quietly in her bed. One night she woke up and in a shaft of moonlight that came streaming through the window she saw a shadowy figure moving. It was an old man dressed in a rough smock with a rosary hanging at his side and a beggar's scrip slung over his shoulder. Everything about him seemed to suggest he was a hermit. He approached her bed and without opening his lips said:
‘Mother, rejoice! Your son is born to be a saint!’
She was about to cry out when, as if he were gliding on the moonbeam, he rose gently into the air and disappeared. The singing from the banquet broke out with renewed vigour. She heard the whisper of angels' voices; her head fell back on to the pillow, over which there hung a martyr's bone set in a frame of garnets.
The next day, the servants were questioned but they all swore that they had not seen a hermit. Whether it were a dream or reality, she was convinced it was a sign from heaven. However, she took care to say nothing about it, lest she be accused of pride.
The guests left at daybreak. Julian's father was standing outside the postern-gate, where he had come to bid farewell to the last of them, when a beggar suddenly appeared out of the morning mist and stood in front of him. He was a gypsy with a plaited beard, silver bangles on his arms and blazing eyes. As if inspired from above, he stammered these incoherent words:
‘Ah! Ah! Your son!… Much bloodshed!… Much glory!… Always blessed by fortune! The family of an emperor.’
As he stooped to pick up his alms, he melted into the grass and vanished from sight. The noble lord looked to his right and to his left and called out as loudly as he could. But there was nobody there. All that could be hear
d was the sighing of the wind as it blew away the morning mists.
He put this vision down to mental fatigue, having had precious little sleep. ‘If I tell anyone about it, they will just laugh at me,’ he thought. And yet the idea that his son was destined for a life of splendour captivated him, even though the gypsy's prophecy was not clear and he even doubted having heard it.
Both he and his wife kept their secrets from each other. But they continued to dote on their son and, as they now thought of him as someone specially chosen by God, they looked after him with all the care that was possible. His cradle was lined with the finest down; above it was a lamp shaped like a dove, which was kept alight at all times; three nurses rocked him to sleep. To see him snugly wrapped in his swaddling clothes, with his little pink face and blue eyes, his mantle of brocade and his bonnet covered in pearls, he looked like an Infant Jesus. He cut all his teeth without crying once.
When he was seven, his mother taught him to sing. His father sat him on the back of one of his biggest horses to teach him to be brave. The child beamed with delight and wasted no time in finding out everything he possibly could about warhorses.
A learned old monk taught him Holy Scripture, the Arabic numerals, the Latin alphabet and how to paint miniatures on vellum. They would work together at the top of a tower, well away from the noise.
When the lesson was over, they would come back down into the garden and slowly walk round it, studying the flowers as they went.
Sometimes, they would notice a line of packhorses, led by a foot traveller in Eastern dress, wending its way across the valley below. The lord of the castle, recognizing that this was a merchant, would dispatch one of his servants to speak with him. Once persuaded of the lord's good intentions, the traveller would interrupt his journey and come up to the castle. He would be shown into the parlour, and from his chests he would take pieces of velvet and silk, fine jewellery, aromatic spices and other strange objects whose use no one could imagine. Eventually, the fellow would continue on his way, having made a huge profit and having come to no harm. At other times a group of pilgrims would come knocking on the castle door. Their wet clothes would steam in front of the fire. Having eaten their fill, they would tell tales about their travels: voyages on the storm-tossed sea, long treks across burning deserts, fierce encounters with heathens, the deep caves of Syria, the Manger and the Holy Sepulchre. And then they would present the young lord with some of the scallop-shells3 that they wore on their cloaks.
Often the lord of the castle would entertain his old companions in arms. As they caroused, they would recall the wars they had fought, the attacks on fortresses, the thunder of the siege engines and the terrible wounds of the soldiers. Julian would give cries of delight as he sat listening to these tales, which convinced his father that he was destined to be a great conqueror. But in the evening, as he came out from the angelus and walked between the lines of paupers bowing their heads before him, he would dip into his purse4 with such modesty and nobility of spirit that his mother felt sure that he would one day become an archbishop.
In chapel, he always sat beside his parents, and, no matter how long the service, he would remain kneeling at his stool with his cap on the floor and his hands joined in prayer.
One day, during mass, as he raised his head, he saw a little white mouse emerge from a hole in the wall. It scampered up on to the first of the altar-steps, ran backwards and forwards a few times and then scurried back into its hole. On the following Sunday, he was disturbed by the thought that he might see the mouse again. Sure enough, the mouse came back. Every Sunday he would wait for it to appear; it irritated him and he came to resent it. He decided that he must get rid of it.
So, having closed the door behind him, he scattered some cake-crumbs on the altar-steps and stationed himself beside the hole with a stick in his hand.
After a very long wait, a little pink snout appeared, followed by the mouse itself. He gave it a quick tap with his stick and was amazed to see its little body lying motionless in front of him. There was a tiny bloodstain on the flagstone. He quickly wiped it clean with his sleeve, threw the mouse outside and said nothing to anyone.
The castle gardens were visited by all manner of fledglings that came to peck at the seeds. Julian devised a method of firing peas from a hollow reed. When he heard birds twittering in a tree, he would tiptoe towards it, take aim with his pipe and blow out his cheeks. The young birds would come showering down on top of him in such great numbers that he could not refrain from laughing out loud, delighted at his own mischief.
One morning, as he was walking back alongside the curtain wall, he saw a fat pigeon preening itself in the sun on top of the battlements. Julian stopped to look at it. There was a breach at this point in the castle wall and he found his hand resting on a chip of loose stone. His arm whisked round, the stone struck the bird and it plummeted into the moat below.
He scrambled down after it, scratching himself on the undergrowth and hunting everywhere with the agility of a young dog.
The pigeon had been caught in the branches of a privet bush; its wings were broken but its body was still quivering.
The child was exasperated by its stubborn refusal to die. He proceeded to wring its neck. The bird's convulsions made his heart beat faster and a flood of savage pleasure ran through his body. As the bird finally went stiff in his hands, he almost swooned.
That evening, as they were eating their supper, his father declared that Julian was now old enough to learn how to hunt and he went off to find an old copybook of his in which every aspect of hunting was explained in a series of questions and answers. In this book, a master demonstrated to his pupil the art of training dogs, taming falcons and setting traps; he explained how to recognize a stag by its droppings, a fox by its footprints or a wolf by the scratch-marks it leaves on the ground, how best to spot their tracks or make them break cover, where an animal is most likely to go to ground and what are the most favourable wind conditions. Finally, there was a list of all the different hunting calls and a set of rules for distributing the kill.
When Julian was able to recite all this by heart, his father presented him with a pack of hunting hounds.
The pack consisted of twenty-four Barbary greyhounds, swifter than gazelles but not always easy to keep to heel, and seventeen pairs of Breton retrievers, their russet coats flecked with white markings, full-chested dogs with an unerring hunting instinct and the most fearsome of barks. For tracking wild boar and for other particularly dangerous confrontations there were forty griffons with coats as shaggy as bears. A group of Tartary mastiffs, as tall as donkeys, the colour of fire, broad-backed and straight-limbed, were specially trained to hunt the wild ox. There were spaniels with black coats that gleamed like satin and talbots whose bark was as lusty as that of any beagle. In a separate enclosure, growling, shaking their chains and rolling their eyes, were eight Alani wolfhounds, huge beasts capable of savaging a man on horseback and quite fearless even in the face of lions.
All these dogs were fed on the finest wheat bread, drank from special stone water-troughs and each had its own sonorous name.
The falcons were, if anything, even more remarkable than the hounds. The noble lord had spared no expense and had managed to acquire tercel hawks from the Caucasus, sakers from Babylon, gerfalcons from Germany and peregrine falcons captured on high cliffs that brave the icy waters of far distant lands. They were housed in a shed with a thatched roof, each attached to its perch in order of size. In front of the shed was a small expanse of lawn on to which the birds were periodically released in order to give them some exercise.
Rabbit nets, hooks, wolf-traps and all manner of other hunting devices were constructed.
They would often set off into the countryside with a group of pointers. The dogs would quickly mark their prey and the huntsmen would creep forward and carefully spread a huge net over them as they lay motionless on the ground. At a word of command, the dogs would all start barking and flocks of startl
ed quail would fly up into the net. The ladies of the neighbourhood, invited to the hunt by their husbands, the children and the maidservants would all rush forward and the birds were caught with ease.
On other occasions, they would beat a drum to start hares, dig ditches to catch foxes or set traps which would spring shut to catch a wolf by its paw.
But Julian had little taste for such easy contrivances. He much preferred to go off hunting on his own, with just his horse and his falcon. The falcon he chose was nearly always a great Scythian tartaret, as white as snow. Its leather hood was topped with a plume of feathers and golden bells jingled at the tips of its blue feet. It would stand erect on its master's arm as the horse galloped onwards and the plains unfolded before them. Then suddenly, Julian would untie its jesses and release the bird into the air. The bird would soar fearlessly into the sky as straight as an arrow. Two specks of unequal size would be seen encircling each other, coming together and then disappearing into the haze of blue above. The falcon would soon reappear, tearing apart its prey as it flew back to settle with a flutter of its wings on the hunter's gauntlet.
In this way, Julian hunted heron, kite, crow and vulture.
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