by Robert Merle
“Will I really be a baronne?” she cooed, her eyes alight. “It’s not so much the title that dazzles me,” she explained with a return to her usual haughtiness, “Mespech being what it is and my mother descended from such noble blood. But the baron is so amiable! My brother, may I give you a goodnight kiss?”
“Do you have to ask?” I smiled.
But instead of a kiss, she put her arms around my neck and nestled her head against my shoulder, her blonde tresses all unbraided for the night, and just stayed that way for a moment, all dreamy and thoughtful, her eyelids half closed. “All right,” she said with a sigh, “it’s off to bed. Pierre, these wicked Poles won’t kill our king if they catch up with him on the road to France, will they?”
“Are you serious? Lay a hand on the person of the king?!”
“Or on his retinue?”
“Not on them either. Now, Catherine, go to bed and sleep well! The baron will be here by mid-August, I’ll wager it on my doctor’s bonnet! And who could he ever marry but you, the most beautiful daughter of any baron in France?”
At this she smiled a candid and confident smile, pursing her lips in contentment—still such a child and yet already fully a woman, an arithmetic puzzle of the first order!
And so for Catherine, a long period of waiting set in that ran exactly parallel to mine, each of us with our sights set on our respective lovers. And isn’t it amazing what sway the future holds over the present, whether we await it with intense ardour or tremble in apprehension at what it will bring? And isn’t it a strange form of madness to stop living fully the few days of our brief life because of the hope or the fear of what’s coming?
My poor Little Sissy could no longer dream of the eternal happiness and glory—and easy life—that bearing my heir would have provided her at Mespech. She struggled hard against death, who wanted to steal her away, and when she had finally triumphed over the fever and was able to rise from her bed, she was so pale and faltering, the flesh having fallen away from her bones and all colour so absent from her face, that she looked like a ghost. She appeared so frightening that la Maligou actually screamed on seeing her emerge from her cavern in her white nightgown that first morning, and cried in a terrified stammer, her eyes wide in fright, “Ah, poor soul, why do you come here to torment me? I never did you any harm when you were alive!”
Little Sissy was alive, but now a mere shadow of her former self: raw-boned, eating little (and little enjoying what she did eat), haggard, slow in her movements, distant towards others, speaking only when spoken to—and then answering in such tenuous, almost benign tones that you would have said her sickness had wiped out her ability to secrete her customary venom. She wished me to return immediately to her bedroom to take up our former relations, but I couldn’t. I told myself she was too weakened to be able to tolerate such activity, but the truth is that my appetite had been replaced by mere compassion, and I also thought that if Heaven granted my wishes regarding Monsieur de Montcalm’s confessor, it would be better not to risk fathering a son or daughter with Little Sissy, whom Angelina would obviously resent.
In the middle of August, we received a long letter from Dame Gertrude du Luc accompanied by two notes addressed to my father, one from Samson, the other from Zara, both of these written in such a horrible hand that you would have thought a cat had arbitrarily made scratch marks on them. My father laboured a good hour attempting to decipher them, but, in the end, was happy with what he’d read—though for very different reasons. Gertrude, who wrote a longer letter and beautifully formed characters, brought us happy news of her marriage to Samson, their move to Montfort-l’Amaury and the prosperity of the apothecary’s shop—despite the absence in the town of a doctor who could prescribe remedies that would need to be purchased there. For this reason, Samson had written to our friend and colleague the venerable doctor Merdanson, who had been my co-conspirator in the exhumation and dissection of two bodies buried in the cemetery of Saint-Denis, near Montpellier. (The reader may also remember that I’d had a disastrous encounter there with the beautiful sorceress Mangane.) This Merdanson, who was a jolly, strapping fellow, had a strange sort of mania: from his lips there flew a continuous scatological stream—the solid sort outweighing the liquid kind—such that I’d once told him, before we became friends, that his anatomy must have been scrambled at birth since he seemed to confuse his mouth with his anus.
This is not at all to say that he wasn’t a good man, quite the contrary—and he was an excellent doctor: well informed and devoted to his patients day and night—so I wholly approved of Samson’s wish to join forces with him if he could get him to come to Montfort, since it was against the rules (not to mention quite dangerous) for an apothecary to distribute medicines without a doctor’s prescription.
We were just sitting down to our evening meal on 29th August when Escorgol, preceded by his enormous paunch, arrived all out of breath to announce that there was a large escort outside the gates asking that the Baron de Quéribus be allowed entry.
“What! The baron?” cried Catherine, half rising from her seat, but down she fell in a dead faint, which brought la Maligou, Barberine and Franchou running to her side, each believing that her distress was a “woman’s matter”, but since none of them knew what to do, they scratched around her like hens in dust.
“Enough of your chatter!” yelled my father, suspecting that this loss of consciousness was a malady that a healthy and vigorous girl was in no danger of dying from. “Loosen her bodice and give her some spirits of wine. If that doesn’t help, put her to bed for two days.”
These last words and the spirits did wonders. Catherine quickly regained consciousness and her colour, and, as Barberine was attempting to loosen her bodice, she told her maid in no uncertain terms to desist and leave her as she was—though this wasn’t exactly what she intended, since she then asked permission from my father to withdraw to her room to prepare herself and asked Franchou to follow her to give her a hand.
When my father gave his consent, Catherine stood up without any help whatsoever, turned with a great whoosh of skirts, ran to the stairs and disappeared. I exchanged a quick smile with my father, knowing full well that the “preparation” was not a matter of catching her breath, but of arranging her hair and changing her clothes.
“But, Escorgol,” my father said, turning to his porter, “you know the Baron de Quéribus well—you’ve seen him a thousand times! And how did one with hearing as sharp as yours not recognize his voice?”
“Well, of course I thought it was him. But it’s dark outside and he has a large escort. I didn’t want to raise the portcullis until I received permission to do so!”
“My son,” said the Baron de Mespech to me, “will you go and see?”
Well, I did better than “go and see”—I rushed out of the hall and was at the gate in the blink of an eye! And, leaning out of the little window of the tower, I called:
“Quéribus, is it really you, my friend?”
“’Tis I, Pierre, and no doubt about it! I nearly killed my horses getting here! And how is…” He was going to say Catherine, but stopped himself; then, after hesitating, he said, “…the Baron de Mespech?”
“In excellent health, as is his daughter!”
“Ah, my brother!” was all he could say in answer.
“The Devil take this portcullis and this door!” I cried. “I can’t raise the one and unlock the other without Escorgol, who’s dragging his arse back here like a snail on its stomach. By the belly of St Anthony, Escorgol!” I shouted. “Get over here!”
“Ah, Monsieur!” panted the poor porter, completely winded, having never run this fast before, and carrying such a load of flesh that it was a wonder he didn’t trip over it on his way. “Ah, Monsieur! Be patient! Where’s the fire?”
“The fire?” I replied, but in French so he wouldn’t be insulted. “I’m going to light one in your drawers to catapult you here faster!”
Quéribus broke into gales of laughter and, a
fter a great grinding of metal, unlockings and unboltings, we exchanged a hearty embrace and much back-slapping.
I told Escorgol to stable their horses and, with Quéribus, set off at a run towards the great hall, where, after a deep bow to my father, he couldn’t help betraying his confusion at not seeing the object of his affections. He was able to mask this confusion, however, when, enquiring after Monsieur de Sauveterre, he learnt of my uncle’s death. My father asked the baron to take a seat on his right, ordered that a silver plate be brought for his supper, and proceeded to recount our bitter combat with the brigands at Marcuays, and the mortal wound his brother had received there. Quéribus listened to this tale courteously while swallowing his food without even looking at it, his attention divided between my father’s narrative and the door by which he believed Catherine would enter the hall. But Catherine didn’t appear during the entire meal, whether because her toilette took so long or because she wanted to whet the baron’s appetite to see her—an appetite she must have been aware of, since her own desires were growing more intense every minute she delayed (the Creator must have provided the gentle sex with this calculating ability as a compensation for their lesser physical strength).
As soon as Quéribus had eaten his fill, my father led him off to the library, leaving the hall to the baron’s retinue, who, now that they had unsaddled and brushed down their horses, must have had some pretty dry throats and sharp teeth after their forced march. La Maligou and Barberine bustled about these men, very enticed by such handsome and vigorous fellows, who must have excited the jealousy of some of the men at Mespech. But, thankfully—for them and also for our economy—they were due to depart the next day and be lodged with Puymartin, Quéribus’s cousin, who would have been offended if the baron had not accepted his hospitality.
My poor Quéribus sat down in the library at my father’s right, in the straight-backed chair that Sauveterre had occupied for so many years, trying to put a good face on his despair at seeing Catherine’s absence prolonged ever longer, wondering, no doubt, if his place in her heart had been taken by some gentleman from Sarlat during his long, wintry exile. Indeed, my father had made no firm promises to the gentleman, as you will recall, since he had no idea how long Quéribus would remain in Poland. Meanwhile, my father was deriving great amusement from the baron’s suffering, since he knew that it was to be relieved at any moment, and not at all sorry that this handsome courtier had fallen under the spell of a damsel of such rustic origins. Indeed, he pressed his guest to continue the narrative of the king’s adventurous escape from Warsaw, but Quéribus, at the limit of his anxiety and impatience, demurred, pleading fatigue from his long ride.
“Monsieur,” laughed my father, “you astonish me! I understand your backside is tired, but not your tongue! And here”—he interrupted himself—“is Franchou with a pitcher of hot wine to comfort you!”
But Quéribus, whose eyes had lit up when the library door opened only to go dark again when Franchou appeared, allowed the chambermaid to fill his goblet without a murmur of thanks or a sip of the contents, unaware, I’ll warrant, of what he was holding in his right hand.
Meanwhile, Franchou had stepped over to the Baron de Mespech and slipped a note into his hand, which he unfolded and read to himself, a smile playing along his lips. The good wench was, meanwhile, watching her master avidly, hardly able to contain her delight.
“My dear Quéribus,” ventured my father, half in jest and half choked with emotion, “my daughter requests, in this note, the honour of coming in to greet you. Would this meet your fancy? Or are you so exhausted from your travels that you’d prefer to retire?”
“Oh, not at all! Not at all!” stammered Quéribus, who was unable to say more, for all the colour drained from his face and he looked like he too might faint away, and would certainly have fallen had he not been seated. Seeing this, I seized the goblet that was now at such risk in his trembling fingers, applied it to his mouth and had him down it in one swig. The brew did marvels. And you might have thought that, instead of a modest local wine from our grapes, Quéribus had imbibed a magic potion, so sudden was his return to his usual liveliness and vigour. He sat upright in his seat, squared his shoulders, raised his head and, eyes afire, glanced over at the door through which Franchou had just disappeared. On the other side of the door, she was now joyfully preparing to tell Catherine how pitiable the baron had looked a minute earlier, before introducing her young mistress into the library.
Back in her chambers, there is no doubt that Catherine had gone through some very anxious moments deciding whether she should reappear before the baron in the gown she’d worn at Puymartin’s ball on 10th November, when she’d won the heart of this gentleman—or whether she should appear in her fresh and natural grace, wearing a simpler and more common dress. Would the former not be too obvious an attempt to court him? And mightn’t it risk comparisons with all the stylishly clad ladies of the court?
Finally she had the sense to choose the latter, and appeared in the library clothed in a pink cotton dress without lace collar, but with a very virginal neckline set off by a few modest pearls, and without any make-up, her beautiful face washed with clear water, her golden hair combed and tied with a pink ribbon. To add to her stature, she was wearing tall heels, which were hidden by the low hemline of her dress. There was, in short, so little in her clothing to distract from her native beauty that the baron could not but admire her young body and her beautiful face, graced with those large, blue, shining eyes—artfully illuminated by Franchou, who preceded her carrying a candelabrum with four candles, the only excess that Catherine permitted herself.
She stepped forward and made a deep bow to my father and another to the baron, who leapt to his feet with the speed of an arrow leaving a crossbow, his eyes wide with the excitement he felt at seeing her. He stammered that she should take his chair, as she would be more comfortable there, and that a stool would suffice for him. He then sat down, but so abruptly that he grimaced in pain, his backside still very tender from so many days on horseback, furiously traversing hill and dale at a gallop in the excitement of seeing her again after his wintry exile in Poland. And here she was, finally! He’d envisioned her day after day as he rode towards her, since our mental images can never be fully satisfied once love gets hold of us.
But of words, once Quéribus had been able to balance himself gingerly on the stool, not a one! And by my faith, I thought that this silence was going to last a century, so absorbed was he in his contemplation of the object of his affections; and so happy was the object herself to be contemplated that she remained silent as well, her complexion rosy with excitement, her bosom heaving with emotion and her eyelashes fluttering modestly, secretly stealing looks at the baron to make sure that he was as lovable as her dreams had painted him.
“My dear Quéribus,” my father said, breaking in, thinking that this mutual bewitching had lasted long enough, “now that I see you’re restored by the glass of claret, I wonder if I could hear the story of the king’s escape from Poland?”
“Ah, Monsieur,” cried Quéribus, rising, “I’m mortally ashamed not to have told it already! My fatigue must have gone to my brain for me to have so thoroughly failed in the courtesy due my host! I beg you, Monsieur, to accept my humble apology!”
This said, he made another deep bow to my father, but this bow could not be accomplished without another grimace, so he decided to remain standing throughout the recital of his adventures, marching back and forth in the library, a position that allowed him more secret glances at Catherine, who, for her part, followed his movements back and forth, all eyes and ears.
“’Tis said,” prompted my father, “that these Poles did not want to allow their king to leave since they’d taken so much trouble to elect him.”
“Well, it’s also said,” laughed Quéribus, “that they believe the kingdom of Poland to be every bit the equal of France and that they felt that their king should name a viceroy to serve in Paris so that he could r
emain king in Warsaw.”
“A pretty good bargain that was!” said my father, laughing in turn. “Not that the kingdom of Poland isn’t a large and noble country, but France is much richer, and the sun shines here more often. And what city in the world is more glorious than Paris?”
“Assuredly so,” said Quéribus, “but the palatines were quite resolved to keep their king, so we had to find a clever ruse to escape them.”
“Who are these palatines, Monsieur?” asked Catherine.
“The most important nobles, governors of their provinces, Madame,” replied Quéribus, making a deep bow to her, “who, when they meet in their assemblies, have more power than the king himself in this strange country. But, to continue: on the eighteenth of June, a very hot night, the king—having promised to remain in his country of Poland—gave a huge Pantagruelian banquet in his palace with lots of good French wine for all the palatines. These gentlemen, being great womanizers and drinkers, drank themselves silly and fell under the table by midnight. Seeing this, the king withdrew to his chambers and pretended to go to bed, while Count Tęczyński, who could scarcely stay on his feet, drew the curtains over him.”
“What was the name of this count?” asked my father.
“Tęczyński. He was the marshal of the palace, a man with a copious beard and proud of his gigantic proportions. In short, after he’d staggered out of the room, the king arose, put on his valet’s clothes and headed for the postern, followed by Du Halde, Villequier, Du Guast, Soubré, Quélus, Pibrac, Miron, Fogacer and me.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “Fogacer!”
“And me,” added Quéribus, with a meaningful glance at Catherine.
“Ah, Monsieur, please continue!” begged Catherine. “I’m all atremble for these fugitives!”
“So you should be, Madame!” he replied with another bow. “For scarcely had we passed through the palace gates when a cook recognized the king and ran to tell Tęczyński, who managed to rouse himself from his stupor, sound the alarm, leap into his saddle, drunk as he was, and set off after us with a group of fierce Tartars! Ah, my friends, what a ride that was! A few leagues from the Austrian border, as dawn was breaking, we saw them behind us, galloping at full speed to catch us. Heavens! If they’d succeeded, they would have taken the king prisoner, of course, but the rest of us would have lost our heads!”