Fortunes of France 4: League of Spies

by Robert Merle

  “Monsieur,” he said panting, “they’ve just killed Mérigot and his wench! I saw three rascals running from his shop by the front door when I came in the back. They surprised them and cut their throats. Ah, Monsieur, I would have pursued these miscreants like a hunting dog if they hadn’t taken the arquebuses with them.”

  “My Miroul,” I gasped, my throat suddenly parched, “sit down and drink a glass of this wine. I’ve never seen you so overwhelmed!”

  “Well, Monsieur,” he replied, the colour gradually returning to his cheeks as he drank, “the poor couple were still panting when I came in, and what a horrible scene: their throats were slit from ear to ear! I could hardly keep from throwing up at the sight of so much blood! You would have thought you were in a slaughterhouse! I’ve never seen anything this cruel except during the St Bartholomew’s day massacre! I can’t understand what led poor Mérigot to unlock his door to these murderers. He usually fortifies his house at dusk!”

  “Perhaps he knew these fellows from his work on the river, fellows who were, as he was, on the lam, or maybe they were old drinking companions—who knows? All those poor workers are so ignorant and hungry they can be bought for a few coins. These mercenaries fight the wars, Miroul, while Madame de Montpensier is stuffing herself with dragées and prunes on her silk cushions.”

  I told him about the letter from La Vasselière and my conversation with Franz.

  “Ah, Monsieur,” he said resolutely, “it’s all very clear. They sent for you to visit them at Madame Limp’s hotel in order to ambush you on the way, and, once you were dead, they could attack the house and massacre your family, which is why they killed Mérigot, to have their way clear here. Monsieur, we’ve gone back fifteen years! Another St Bartholomew’s day massacre is being prepared and these murderers are the first buds. And what else can we do except what we did in ’72—flee? Monsieur, we’re the wandering Jews in this kingdom!”

  “You’re right, Miroul! Go wake Silvio, who’s sleeping like a log, and pack our bags, if you’ve already unpacked them. I’m going to warn Giacomi of our predicament.”

  Very luckily, I found him at home, along with Larissa, and informed him of the situation. If he hadn’t had to worry about Larissa, he might have accompanied me, but I urged him to stay and allow these thugs to eviscerate and pillage my house in order to remain hidden himself, and so that he would be able, should we need it, to offer us a refuge or hiding place, since his house was so close to the Louvre. He ended up consenting to this plan, at which point Miroul observed that we’d need our horses (who had already proved themselves in Sedan), and so we decided to lead them from our stables, passing through the secret door, and take them down one floor to stable them in Giacomi’s courtyard. This was not an easy task, since, as one can imagine, horses have a particular antipathy to stairs, especially when they have to go down, and are terrified by the void they see deepening beneath them.

  The next difficulty was to gain admission to Alizon’s workshop, given the late hour and the very dark night, but as soon as the door was opened and our horses stabled, my “little fly from hell” led Miroul and Florine with their baggage into a tiny room and left them, saying:

  “Truly, the bed’s not very wide, but given the way you look at each other, I think you’ll manage to accommodate yourselves to it!”

  And, laughing, she gave Florine a kiss, and presented her hand to Miroul as if she were a royal princess; then, taking me by the arm, she dragged me, almost running, to her room, where, having closed the door behind us, she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me passionately (and I confess I gave as good as I got).

  “My Pierre,” she explained, “you’re going to be very upset given your Huguenot morals, since the only room I might have given you is the one I’ve just given Miroul and Florine. Of course, I could have taken Florine with me, like certain high-born ladies do who like to sleep with their chambermaids, but how could I in good conscience”—and she laughed as she pronounced this word—“separate Florine from her husband? It would be too cruel! The only other room is Baragran’s, who loves sleeping there since the chimney passes through one of the walls and gives out enough heat to comfort his poor twisted bones. My Pierre, do you think I should kick Baragran out of his room and throw him into the damp eaves so you can have it? Is that what you want?”

  “Well, my friend,” I replied, seeing where all this merciful generosity was leading, and finding myself too tired (and too softened by her kisses) to resist, as I should have, “you have put yourself out so much in order to hide us that I could not possibly displace poor Baragran from the warmth of his room after his day of labour. No, no, I’ll sleep in the loft and won’t notice the cold and damp there once I’m asleep.”

  “Blessed Virgin!” cried Alizon, redoubling her kisses since the idea of my sleeping in the loft provoked in her even greater compassion. “Do you think I could ever agree to lodge you in such a dark, damp and malodorous place as that loft, where I wouldn’t even put a scullery maid? You, a noble gentleman and great venerable doctor! Really! I can’t imagine it! I would die of shame! My Pierre, if you can’t bear sharing my little bed,” she said with a sigh that would have rekindled a forge, “I shall suffer in the loft and leave you this room—”

  “You’re not serious, my little chick!” I said, giving her delicate soft neck a grateful kiss.

  “Not content to invade your house with Miroul and Florine, would I rob you of your room and your bed? Fie then! Do you think me so shameless as to put my good hostess in such discomfort? And to set up camp as though I were in a conquered country, stretching out comfortably in your bed while banishing you to shiver in the loft? Zounds! It’s out of the question! I’ll sleep on the floor at the foot of your bed, if perchance you have a blanket to give me.”

  “Alas, I have none!” Alizon replied, without missing a beat. “And I cannot bear the thought of having you bruise your bones on the parquet. But, my Pierre, enough squabbling. Let’s eat a morsel and drink a pitcher or two of my Bordeaux and leave the decision to the inspiration of the moment.”

  Which we did. But before I went to bed, Mosca, whom Miroul had been able to contact a second time at the Grand Châtelet earlier in the evening, came knocking on Alizon’s door, accompanied by a large escort, and spent more than an hour talking with me. Some very disturbing things concerned with peace in our kingdom were discussed during that hour’s talk, which I’ll recount later, since I had to repeat the substance of it to the king the next day. For this meeting, I sent Florine to tell Quéribus that he should admit into the palace, by a discreet door, not the Chevalier de Siorac (who’d apparently left Paris), but a master bonnet-maker named Baragran. This was accomplished by means of a token bearing the royal seal, which I was able to present at the Porte Neuve, which gives on to the Tuileries Garden, and from there gain admission to the Louvre by a secret door—both gate and door being heavily guarded so that the king’s envoys could enter and leave the palace without having to pass through the streets of Paris, which, even had they not been in a state of rebellion, were seething with the League’s spies and so full of carts and carriages during the day that one could scarcely make one’s way through them. Thus, thanks to the Porte Neuve, the speed and security of these secret messengers of the king were assured, and the king himself could, if and when he judged it useful, reach the farmland around the city without having to pass through its streets. This wise and prudent disposition will be shown to have had the greatest consequence as this story unfolds.

  As for me, there were obvious advantages to this itinerary, which I followed more than once to go to provide the king with information. Leaving Paris with Miroul (who had dyed his hair and put a patch over one eye, just as I had adopted the dress of a master bonnet-maker) through the Porte Saint-Honoré, we directed our horses through the faubourg of the same name and out into the countryside, where on either side we could enjoy the sight of charming windmills; next we crossed the Seine to the left of a pretty village
called Roule and then, riding along the river, crossed back at the foot of the Chaillot hill (from the name of the village that sits atop it)—a place that we sadly remembered as the part of the Seine where, fifteen years before, we’d seen the bodies of the Huguenots, victims of the St Bartholomew’s day massacre, lying everywhere among the tall grasses and reeds along its banks.

  Heading back up to Paris, we re-entered the capital through the Tuileries Garden by the Porte Neuve (carefully watched by the king’s guards and avoiding the Milice gate, which was infested with partisans of the League). There, having shown our royal passports, we dismounted, leaving our horses in the king’s stables, and were led to a secret door by a sergeant. Miroul followed behind with a basketful of clothes and accessories that we were supposedly selling, and these were carefully searched by a detachment of the Forty-five Guardsmen, the personal guards of the king, who watched this entrance day and night, and had never left the Louvre since things had become so tense between His Majesty and his Parisian subjects.

  One of the more pleasant reasons for taking this journey, which had us leave Paris through the Porte Saint-Honoré and return to the Louvre through the Porte Neuve, a long and leisurely ride that allowed us to enjoy the roads, villages and windmills of the countryside before returning to the city, was that it allowed us to ascertain whether we were being followed. We took the particular precaution, when we rode through the village of Roule, of going round the church (which was some distance from the road) so that we could see whether there was anyone behind us who followed us off the road to spy on us.

  *

  I hadn’t seen the king since the month of August 1587, and when Du Halde showed me into his chambers early one morning (followed by Miroul with his basket, who was thrilled to be invited into the king’s intimate rooms) I was surprised by the enormous changes in his appearance in a few short months: his cheeks looked hollow, his hair whitened at his temples. As for his body, his back was bent, his chest sunken and his shoulders sagging, and he seemed thinner on top but swollen lower down—despite the fact that His Majesty had been eating so little, which greatly worried Du Halde. His skin and colouring were ample witness to his excessive pleasures (which L’Étoile had denounced, forgetting his own), the lack of fresh air and exercise, and the terrible worries of fourteen years of exercising power in conditions that could not have been more vexatious and unstable, bearing the weight on his shoulders of a kingdom that was torn by factionalism, plots and fratricidal wars.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw how much my beloved sovereign had aged—though he was the same age as me, he looked at least twenty years older. And yet I didn’t allow myself to get overly alarmed, knowing as I did that his corporeal form responded to his moods and that a bit of good news or a new hope could suddenly transform him, so that twenty minutes later his eyes might be shining, his head held high and his posture straight as a board; he could recover, if not the rosebuds of his youth, at least the green leaves of his maturity.

  “Well, my son!” he said, holding out his hand. “Seeing you here is like Fortune smiling again on this court, whose ranks have so thinned as so many ingrates have fled, their hearts following their heads, which turn whichever way the wind is blowing. But,” he said, observing my disguise, “how oddly you are dressed, my Siorac!”

  “Sire,” I explained as I knelt before him, “may it please Your Majesty to remember that Siorac is gone, having fled the many attempts on his life by the League, and that you have before you the master bonnet-maker Baragran. As for the one-eyed assistant you see there with his basket of goods, that’s my secretary, Miroul, who is the most faithful servant of the kingdom.”

  “Like master, like servant,” observed the king; and, in his great benignity and condescension, he made a welcoming sign with his hand towards Miroul, who blushed with pleasure. “Baragran,” he said, turning back to me, “what account has Mosca given you? Blue or black?”

  “Black, with the blackest ink, sire. The great Pig was secretly in Paris the day before yesterday, and was accompanied by a swarm of the biggest shit-eating flies in the League.”

  “Ah, Bloodletter!” laughed Chicot, his nose running as usual. “I’ve always thought so, but now I’m sure: you’re a poet.”

  “Silence, Chicot!” snarled the king. “So, Siorac, the Duc de Guise’s brother, Mayenne, was in Paris the day before yesterday.”

  “Yes, sire. And this Mayenne was proclaiming his great exploits and the sublime victories he’d won in Guyenne against the heretics.”

  “In truth,” broke in Chicot, “the Pig killed a tiny little rabbit that happened to be running under his backside, and that, in his retelling of it, has become an entire pack of wolves.”

  “To please our good Paris sermonizers, that’s the way you have to tell it—a massacre. No one is appreciated or accepted by the League unless he uses this language. But go on, Siorac. And not a word out of you, Chicot!”

  “Henri,” objected Chicot, “what’s the use of listening to the Bloodletter and his one-eyed assistant when I know the A to Z of what the Pig and his Leaguers are plotting?”

  “And that is?” asked the king.

  “To take your city!”

  “But I need details of this plan!” cried the king.

  “There’s no lack of them, sire,” I said. “Here’s what I learnt from Mosca, who was present at the meeting between Mayenne and the League. First off, in order to take the Bastille, about a hundred or so of our good Leaguers will knock on the door at night, and if no one opens up to them, a guard in their pay will slit the throat of the nightwatchman and open the doors. If the nightwatchman opens it himself he’ll be dispatched along with all the men who are with him who are known to be ‘political’. While they’re doing this, other detachments will go to the houses of the first president, the chancellor, the attorney general and other major officers of the crown, and kill each of them, their reward being the pillaging of their houses. As for the Arsenal, the League has men working inside who will kill the provost; for the Grand and the Petit Châtelet, the League intends to gain entry by disguising some of its men as sergeants bringing prisoners in during the night; and for the Palais-Royal, the Temple and the Hôtel de Ville, the League foresees no trouble in taking them, probably in the morning after they open their doors. And, as for the Louvre—”

  “Yes, what about my Louvre?” said the king with a glint in his eye.

  “The League intends to occupy it, seize Your Majesty and kill your council and all the officers who have remained faithful to you, and replace them with its own men, sparing your person on condition that you do nothing to oppose it.”

  “I find them most evangelical!” laughed the king.

  “But by what means will they occupy it?” asked Du Halde, who, up until that moment, hadn’t said a word.

  “Once the League has seized the Bastille, the Arsenal, the Châtelet, the Temple, the Palais-Royal and the Hôtel de Ville, its emissaries will spread out through the city shouting ‘Long live the Mass! The city is taken!’, and call all good Catholics to arms and send them to the Louvre, where all the doors will be blocked. This done, they’ll simply starve out the king’s guards until they surrender.”

  “But anyone can see,” said Henri, “that the minute they hear this appeal to the people, thousands of thieves and lowlifes will run into the streets and begin murdering and pillaging in every quarter of Paris!”

  “Sire,” I replied, “the League has understood the ruin and confusion that would reign for all the inhabitants of the city, and they’ve thought of a way to combat that eventuality.”

  “And what is this way?” asked the king.

  “Barricades.”

  “Barricades?” frowned the king quizzically. “What are you talking about? What novelty is this? What do they mean by this word ‘barricade’? Du Halde, have you heard of such a thing?”

  “No, sire,” replied Du Halde. “But we talk about ‘barring the way’ when one wants to keep pe
ople from entering a passage. From which, I suppose, you get the word ‘barricade’, meaning a way of keeping people from entering.”

  “That’s true and false, my dear Du Halde,” I replied. “Certainly, the idea is to block the way, but it’s not, as you suggested, from the verb ‘to bar’, but from the word ‘barrel’—when filled with dirt, barrels are placed across the street to obstruct passage, and the space between them is filled with paving stones that have been dug up. Thus, no one can pass these ‘barricades’ without presenting a badge that has been distributed by the League. In this way, they can prevent, on the one hand, the beggars from leaving the slum districts of the Cour des Miracles and spreading throughout the city, and, on the other, gentlemen and ‘politicals’ from travelling from their various houses in Paris to help the king in the Louvre. Of course, these faithful servants will immediately be accused of heresy and their throats will be cut wherever they appear.”

  “’Sblood!” cried Chicot. “People are breathing blood and snorting massacre in this Paris that surrounds us!”

  “So,” said the king, chin in hand, and looking vacantly across the room with a thoughtful and dreamy air, “that’s what they call a ‘barricade’! È ben trovato!† It goes without saying that a dozen or so rascals fortified behind these barricades with arquebuses could hold off two or three companies or squadrons of seasoned guards, especially if the adjoining houses were held by their partisans, which would obviously be the case.”

  The king’s words struck me powerfully, and the events that were to follow proved his clairvoyance. In them I recognized the acute military genius of the warrior prince of Jarnac and Moncontour; he had certainly not fallen so deeply asleep “lying on a stretcher”, as L’Étoile had put it, that he wasn’t still able to evaluate the pitfalls and advantages of a given situation. Indeed, his observation comforted me a great deal, however pessimistic it was, since it reconfirmed the trust I had in his subtlety, in his lucidity and in his supple talent for escaping from the most dangerous setbacks.