by Robert Merle
She asked me, feeling her legs weak with desire, to carry her to her bed, where, stretching out beside me, she looked at me with her soft black eyes, the most beautiful in the universe, and told me that she’d been devastated to learn from Giacomi, who’d written to her, that our lodgings in Paris had been invaded and pillaged by the Leaguers to the point that there remained no furniture or tapestries that those holy people had not carried off in their zeal. Seeing me once again preparing to depart, she confessed that she was afraid she’d never see me again… And I, wishing to divert her from such morbid thoughts—and, I confess, wishing to divert myself as well—followed my natural inclination, which was to caress her insatiably as soon as I held her in my arms, and, in our present troubles, with so much more ardour and melancholic joy, because of this sudden realization that I could indeed die in the service of my country.
Our tumults at an end, she nestled her blonde head in the hollow of my shoulder and said with a sigh:
“Monsieur my husband, do you really have to join the king in Blois? What will you do in this Estates-General to which you’ve not been elected? Haven’t you done enough? And haven’t we paid dearly enough with the pillaging of our house in Paris? Do you have to risk the well-being of your wife and children, your estate and your own life in such perilous service? Can’t they do without you?”
“Can any timepiece work without even its tiniest cog? Did I have any effect on the events in Guyenne? In Boulogne? In London? Or at Sedan? Would the League harbour such great hatred for me if I weren’t so useful to the king? Did you know that Guise demanded His Majesty disgrace the venerable Dr Marc Miron simply because he served as a go-between for them in the drafting of the Edict of Union and Guise found him too zealously invested in the cause of his master? Did you know Guise is pressing the king to get rid of Chicot?”
“What! His fool?”
“Yes! Quéribus told me about it. And if even a fool is so useful to the king in Guise’s view, wouldn’t I be even more so? Could I be so cowardly as to quit his service when so many of his faithful subjects are disappearing?”
“Ah,” sobbed Angelina, “you love your king more than me, more than our children!”
“My friend,” I said somewhat stiffly, “I’m surprised at you! Can you imagine what would happen to you, to them and to me if Guise were to triumph? You must understand that the reality of the situation is not that I serve my king, but that in serving him I serve my nation and my family—”
“And your Church!” she said, not without some bitterness, which was softened by her voice.
“No, no and no!” I cried, now feeling really indignant. “I serve no Church to the detriment of another! I work to ensure that they coexist and that everyone be free to choose the religion he wants!”
Seeing that my mind was made up, and that she wouldn’t be able to change it, and perhaps shaken by my justifications for my decision—though she pretended never to give in to my decisions, since being convinced felt too much like a defeat—she fell silent, wiped away her tears and spoke no more of matters of any consequence, but instead of things “baseless and bumbling”, as Quéribus might put it. And during the next month, which was September, Quéribus leaving on the 2nd and returning on the 30th to present the king’s request that I accompany him to Blois, Angelina displayed a Roman—or should I say a Montcalm-like—degree of calm, nobility and strength of spirit, overcoming her tears, complaints, sighs and frowns and displaying a united front with me, entirely persuaded, as she would say later, that she would never see me again, and, for this reason, wishing me to be happy for the last month of my life.
As we passed through the gates of my little estate and on into the forest of Montfort-l’Amaury, Quéribus seemed so jubilant and excited about the future that I pulled my horse alongside his and asked what was making him look so happy.
“Hardly had the king arrived in Blois,” he answered, “when he dismissed several of his ministers!”
“Which ones?”
“Can’t you guess? The Leaguers and Guisards. In short, the ones his mother had placed in his entourage and thanks to whom he couldn’t flip an egg without her knowing.”
“That would be Cheverny, Villeroi, Pinard, Brulard…”
“And Bellièvre.”
“Yes, I saw him at work in London. In addition to being the biggest hypocrite in creation, he exuded Spain out of every pore in his body. So exit the Pompous Pomponne and exeunt all the other idiots who take their orders from a Lorraine duc, a king in Spain or a Pope in Italy—in short, from anyone in the world except the king of France. And whom did he replace them with?”
“With a group of good, honest and obscure men who have the advantage of knowing nothing of the court, who are amazed to be so honoured, who will be mute as tombs and who will be obedient in all things to His Majesty.”
“Finally! And thank God! Do I know any of them?”
“You know Montholon. He’s the uncle of your friend L’Étoile. And Revol, who was Épernon’s bursar.”
“Well, that shows,” I laughed, “how thoroughly Épernon has been disgraced!”
“Well, my brother,” asked Quéribus after a moment and squinting at me sideways, “what do you think of this shake-up?”
“That it’s a sea change to have brought in all these new players to replace those self-satisfied creatures of the queen mother, who are now cast into darkness.”
“So what do you think will come of it?”
“The same as you,” I replied with a smile.
“Which is?”
“I think that the king is about to make some great decisions that he wishes to keep secret.”
“May the Lord God hear you!” answered Quéribus with a gravity that was unusual for him and that quite surprised me. “Did you know,” he continued, “that the king has exiled Chicot for three months?”
“What!” I cried. “He gave in to Guise’s demands?”
“That’s what some people think.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
“Assuredly not,” he replied. “I’ve often heard the king complain of living constantly with him and that his fool knew too many things.”
“Where’s the danger? He’s loyal.”
“He is loyal,” Quéribus confirmed, “but perhaps a bit too garrulous. Sometimes he’ll sacrifice a secret to make a good joke. I heard that one day in the king’s chambers he scratched the stone floor with his knife and said, ‘J’ai… guise.’”†
“That’s correct, I was there.”
“The joke seems to have displeased the king,” explained Quéribus, “attributing to him as it did a thought that he had never put into words.”
At this he looked at me, and I returned his look, but judging that we’d said enough about this, we fell silent.
It took us five days to reach Blois, and, in truth, we would have arrived sooner if Quéribus had been less interested in pursuing his pleasures at each inn.
So as to avoid being identified by any Leaguer spies, we entered the city at nightfall and by a gate that was strictly watched by the French Guards, where Quéribus showed his royal pass. Despite the late hour, the streets were thronging with horses, carriages and sedan chairs; a host of torches and lanterns were held aloft to light their way. In addition to the 500 deputies assembled there for the Estates-General, hundreds of noblemen and -women, cardinals and bishops, each with a retinue, had also descended upon the city, such that there was barely room to lodge a pin anywhere in the town. I began to worry that, with this many people arriving en masse, I would struggle to find a spot in any of the inns in Blois, but Quéribus informed me that the king had reserved rooms for Miroul and me at the Two Pigeons Inn, where a whole wing of the place had been reserved to house a dozen of his Forty-five Guardsmen, since there wasn’t room for them in the chateau.
I was to share a room with two of them, who were to ensure my safety that night and take me to a barber the next morning to have my hair cut and my beard and m
oustache shaved and blackened; then they were to furnish me with uniforms similar to theirs in order to allow me to pass as one of them the next day when they returned to their duties at the king’s side. Evidently my blond hair would have been far too visible among the guardsmen, who were all from Gascony and thus very dark-skinned and dark-haired—as I saw when I joined their troop.
Other than Laugnac, who had rudely stopped and searched me when I returned to the king’s chambers after my return from Guyenne, I knew no one among the Forty-five, who’d been ordered by the king not to frequent anyone in the city or at court but to keep to themselves in order to prevent anyone from attacking them, poisoning them or, at the very least, picking a fight with them. For the same reason, and to prevent them from getting caught up in any intrigue against the king, the Duc d’Épernon—or, if not him, his intendant, Revol (when he wasn’t acting as one of the secretaries of state), or some assistant—furnished these men with whores, whom I saw, while I was at the Two Pigeons Inn, arrive every Monday at our wing of the inn in a large platoon. One of their number proffered her good offices to me, but I refused, having no appetite for such corrupt and rustic affairs—these wenches were girls from the surrounding villages who’d fallen into prostitution after a swelling of their bellies had seen them chased away by their parish priest.
The two Gascons who welcomed me into their room were named Messieurs de La Bastide and de Montseris, both very noble and very destitute, being young noblemen in a very poor province, and would not have been so hospitable to me had I not spoken Provençal, a language very similar to theirs. This immediately broke the ice and they happily accepted Miroul and me since they hated the people from the north of the Loire valley in exact proportion to the disdain their neighbours to the north heaped on them. The League and Guise hated them since they believed that the Gascons had built an inconvenient rampart between the king and their aspirations. Madame Limp and her preachers in Paris invented all kinds of lies about them, claiming, among many other horrible rumours spread about them, that at night they roamed the streets of Paris like tigers thirsting for blood, cutting the throats of passers-by and throwing them in the Seine. They covered the guards with insults, calling them “the king’s slicers”, his “ham-stringers” or else his “Gascon devils”.
Whether La Bastide and Montseris were demons I know not, but I found them good devils and very thankful to the king for treating them so well, as they received 1,200 écus a year and were fed for free. And, of course, here they were getting wenches for free as well, and as many as they wanted. They were quite happy with this life after their miserable existences in dilapidated Gascon chateaux.
Moreover, these two, La Bastide and Montseris, were good men, but simple, unwashed of the dirt from their native soil, smelling strongly of garlic and sweat, scarcely knowing how to read, understanding French, but speaking it very badly, and very focused on athletic exercises, on pistol shooting and fencing, which they practised in our room, almost from dawn to dusk, yelling at the top of their voices as if they were really going to cut each other’s throats, though they loved each other like brothers. This noise was extremely bothersome and was often worse at night, when their twin snores deafened us from dusk to dawn, one starting up just when the other miraculously ceased his racket. Not to mention Mondays, when the wenches arrived and, for reasons of security, we had to remain in the room, where we could not help witnessing their diabolical sarabands, which lasted the entire day, their activity and especially their noise passing imagination, since the guards polished off these poor wenches as if they were assaulting them, with cries of “Cap de Diou!” and “Mordi!” and other terrifying oaths; once done, however, they were not the least bit brutal or wicked, but held them sweetly in their arms and sang them some very delicate Provençal romances, which the poor girls couldn’t understand since they were from the Loire valley. Physically, La Bastide and Montseris weren’t very tall, but they were very vigorous and well built, with not an ounce of fat—despite the fact that they ate like ogres (perhaps to make up for the famine back at home). They were both agile and dexterous and were so alike in aspect that I could hardly tell them apart, especially since their thick black beards seemed almost to connect with their eyebrows and devour their faces, with the exception of their noses, which were large, and their eyes, which, set in the midst of this sombre underbrush, shot out dark but lively sparks. Their teeth were very white, and their smile, when it broke out, was naive and simple, like a child’s.
The barber, who arrived at dawn, did wonders for my hair, turning it jet black, but could do nothing for the colour of my eyes, which remained steadfastly blue, which was why La Bastide (unless it was Montseris?) advised me to keep my hat pulled down over my eyes and to walk in the middle of the troop—which I did, keeping my eyelids practically closed until we got to the chateau, where Laugnac, captain of the Forty-five, seeing that I was there, took me to see my master. He led me up a little staircase to the second floor, and then to a room that he informed me was called the “old cabinet”, which opened by one door onto the king’s chambers and, by another, onto the council’s meeting room. This door—and I emphasize this detail because it will end up being of the greatest consequence later—had been walled up, by order of the king, as soon as he’d arrived at the chateau, so that one couldn’t pass from the council’s meeting room to the “old cabinet” without passing through His Majesty’s chamber.
Laugnac, who was a very tall and handsome gentleman with the skin and beard of a Saracen, was very welcoming, all honey and smiles, and yet looked me over very carefully; he was, I imagine, reassured to discover that I was not too young, being as he was one of the little favourites of the king, convinced that there were rivals everywhere and extremely jealous of Bellegarde—and even of the Duc d’Épernon, who’d had him appointed. But there was something desperately hungry in his look that I didn’t like, and even made me question the confidence the king had placed in him.
“Monsieur,” he laughed when he saw me, “they should have dyed your skin walnut colour since it looks so pale in the middle of this black hair!”
“Laugnac,” I joked in return, “aren’t there any blue-eyed blonds among your Gascons?”
“Indeed there are,” he conceded, “five or six of them, I believe, but they stand out and are all well known to the League’s spies, which is why we had to disguise you with the dominant colour. Usher! This is the Chevalier de Siorac. Please announce him to the king!”
I found His Majesty, after the several months we hadn’t seen each other, looking pale and thinner, but appearing very resolved, despite the almost ridiculous situation he found himself in—or perhaps because of that situation—as if all the resources of his soul had banded together for one last combat, having as he did his back to the wall and with very few in the kingdom betting on him. With him, as I entered, were Du Halde, Alphonse d’Ornano, known as the Corsican, and Revol, his new secretary of state.
“Siorac, my child,” said the king, looking very tense and yet his manner still majestic and suave as usual, “I’m very happy to see you, especially now that I need all my friends around me, protecting me with their swords, for this is the ultimate endgame—which, if we lose it, will signal not only the end of my throne and of my life, but of the kingdom as we know it.”
“Well, sire, I am all yours, you know very well, whatever you command and no matter how dangerous the mission I must undertake.”
“È meglio un buon amico che cento parenti,” laughed Henri, who added between clenched teeth, “o che una madre”‡ (proof that his conversation with his mother in Chartres was still very much on his mind). “Sweet Siorac,” he continued, “as my beloved sister Queen Elizabeth calls you, who has, thank God, conquered the Invincible Armada, leaving me to contend here with another group of galleons we have here in Blois, swelled with Spanish gold, stuffed with paternosters and followed, alas, by a besotted people, the present Estates-General being so partial to the League that they make m
y hair stand on end. Siorac, I haven’t been able to see Lord Stafford either in Chartres or in Blois. The League would have decried my connivance with the heretic, but he sent me a note, telling me that you were witness to a conversation he had with a certain lord who, if he’s not good on land or sea, is at least good on paving stones. So, my child, what can you tell me?”
And I, astonished that the king, in the very jaws of death, should take so much pleasure in his exquisite language, recounted, with as much humour as possible, the exchange that took place between Stafford and Brissac, and the king burst out laughing several times at Brissac’s hypocrisy, but also seemed very touched by the ambassador’s behaviour.
“The Englishman,” he observed when I’d done, “has an excellent sense of the necessity of dignity in his position. It’s a trait I admire in this valiant nation—perhaps even more so than its bravery. I will take from this a very good opinion of Elizabeth, and hope to convey it to her myself if I live long enough. But, Siorac, I didn’t tear you away from your estate simply to see your good and honest face, although I am truly comforted by your presence, as I must look at so many bigoted and sanctimonious faces every day. Siorac, in a word, here’s the target for your arrow. There is in the Magnificent’s retinue, not yet invited to his table, but certainly among his hangers-on, a Venetian actor by the name of Venetianelli, who from what I’ve heard is un gran birbone§—amusing, lively, but as unscrupulous as they come. Siorac, I’d like you to sound this rascal out to see whether, if you drop a pailful of gold into his well, it comes back full or empty. Do you get my drift?”