by A L Berridge
I said ‘You’re being publicly cleared now, no one will say anything.’
‘Say!’ he said, and slashed the sword the other way. ‘They can say what they like, I just don’t want them looking.’
I saw it again in my head, André barefoot in his shirt and that mob of people staring. I said ‘I know. I was there, I know.’
‘You don’t,’ he said, and began prodding the grass with the point of his sword. ‘You weren’t there for the journey.’
I’d always tried not to think about that. Anne told me the state he’d been in just going in the carriage to Lucheux, and I’d sort of guessed the rest.
‘They threw things,’ he said casually. ‘Mud and – things. The carriage shook with it. People pressed up to the windows to look at me, some even thrust their heads inside. One spat.’
To be spat at and not allowed to retaliate. André de Roland. I squeezed my eyes shut, but it was no good, I’d started to picture it.
‘Then the gate,’ he said. ‘The Porte Saint-Martin. The carriage is theirs, so you have to leave it at the gate and let the guards push you out. Or kick you, if they want. They can, you know, you don’t exist any more, they can do anything they like.’
You, he said. But it wasn’t me, was it, I’d been the one floating around thinking myself big and heroic while they were doing all this to my younger brother. I said ‘André …’
‘Oh, I’ll go,’ he said. ‘It’ll be all right at the court, the King will be there, and if anyone stares I’ll bloody challenge them. But it’s the streets, Jacques, do you see? The ordinary people. How the hell can I challenge a crowd?’
I thought of an answer. ‘They won’t see you. We’ll take the carriage for Anne and Bernadette, you can just go in it too. No one will know you’re there.’
‘I suppose,’ he said unhappily, spiking the grass again. ‘But you know what the real trouble is, don’t you?’
I didn’t.
He sighed, stood upright and sheathed his sword. ‘It’s that I don’t blame them. They supported me at first, but then I told those lies and let them all down, everyone who’d ever believed in me or my family or anything we ever did.’
I said ‘You had to, you were ordered. You did it for all of us.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But who’s going to understand that, Jacques? Even more now they know I’m innocent. Who the hell is going to understand?’
I remembered that man at Lucheux saying ‘All the more shameful,’ and couldn’t think of an answer. He knew it, he just put his arm through mine and we walked home in silence.
We left early next morning. The women travelled in the carriage, but the boy didn’t want to be confined yet so we went in front on horseback. I remember how it felt riding out of the Dax Gate and seeing the beech forest on the horizon, just like that day in 1640 when we’d set out together hopeful and excited to our new life in Paris. That was June too, but then it had been sunny, the fields green and the sky blue, but today was overcast and heavy, the sky a dull grey.
It was much slower travelling with the carriage, but we still reached the Faubourg Saint-Martin on the fourth night. The gate was shut, but we weren’t expected till morning so we spent the night at the farm instead. I thought it would do the boy good to remember there were ordinary people who loved him, but he couldn’t relax even with the Porchiers. Paris was just too near.
We went out in the dark to look at it together, and it did look pretty horrid, the walls tall and forbidding like an evil castle in a poem. It still stunk too, but when I offered him the vinaigrette he waved it away and said ‘I have to get used to it, don’t I?’
A voice behind us said ‘Yes, it smells, Chevalier, and always has. But it is the smell of people, that is all, and you will have little trouble with them, I think.’
I turned to see Bernadette in a thick travel cloak, smiling at us like we were children who didn’t see.
André said ‘I’m afraid there’s more to it than that.’
‘Is there so?’ she said. ‘The last time I stood here I made a promise for us all, and tomorrow is the day it will come true.’
André said softly ‘What did you promise?’
She wrapped the cloak tighter round her and glared at the city as if it were a monster waiting to be defeated. ‘I said you were coming back. And so you are, Chevalier, you have beaten everything it had to throw at you, and tomorrow you will enter it with your head held high. Do not tell me you are now to let me down.’
Silence, the three of us in the dark, the night air brushing gently through the leaves, and behind us from the farmhouse Mme Porchier yelling at someone about warming pans.
‘No,’ said André. ‘I won’t let you down.’
I heard the rustle of her curtsey as she left us, but all I could see just then was the boy. He stood up straighter as he said ‘Sod the carriage, Jacques. We’ll ride in together, you and I, and if anyone wants to look let them bloody look.’
I said ‘If you’re sure …’
He actually laughed. ‘I’d better be. I’ve just been called out by a woman, and God help me if I lose.’
The morning was still cloudy, but the air felt tingly and fresh. André had made an effort to look the part, he was dressed in black and silver and had even given himself a shave. His face was still pale and the skin under his eyes dark from lack of sleep, but he had the fighting look on him and I felt my own rise to meet it. Anne suggested we might like to go through a different gate this time, but André squeezed her hand and said ‘No, Madame, we shall go through the Porte Saint-Martin and damn it every inch of the way.’ Bernadette watched him and suppressed a smile.
Wagons were rumbling over the bridge as we approached, just like the day we came to the Porte Saint-Denis and the porter jerked his thumb to signal us in. That didn’t happen this morning. We were with a smart carriage bearing the Roland arms, the porter took one look and bawled at a fish cart to let us cross first. We rode sedately over the bridge, totally ignored the bowing guards, and swept through the thick walls into Paris.
For a second the noise was just how I remembered it, an insane tumult of wheels and horses and bells and voices that hit us like a second wall, but this seemed less random, it had more of a purpose, and it took me a full second to realize it was us. Carts were trundling aside to clear our passage, horses protesting with indignant neighing as they were reined back, but people were swarming into the gaps and their yelling began to clarify into words. ‘De Roland!’ people shouted and the boy flinched beside me, but others cried just ‘André!’ and some called ‘Chevalier, Chevalier,’ as if they only wanted him to notice them.
André’s alarm faded into confusion. ‘But they can’t have … How did they …?’
‘The Comtesse,’ I said. ‘She must have told people. And our friends.’
I could see one right in front of me, Gaspard lounging in a sedan chair by the side of the road and waving beautifully. He’d a bunch of other people round him, and a glint of eyeglasses drew my eyes to a beaming Henne.
‘That’s it,’ said André. ‘She’s asked people to do this, she’s got the servants to …’
A window opened above us, and out fell a shower of petals, lilies and roses, white and pink fluttering down like snow. A red-faced woman shook her basket empty and gave us a smile that was broader than Henne’s.
I said ‘No one’s been told to do this, André. They’re here to welcome you home.’
The strain dissolved from the boy’s face as we began to recognize faces. There were servants from inns we knew, a cavalry officer I recognized as Danthan, a sergeant I’d seen at Rocroi, a Cardinal’s Guard I remembered from the duel by Notre-Dame, a fat woman with a loud voice from the baggage train at La Marfée. There were strangers too, old men and women, beggars and soldiers, women and children, some in grand clothing, others in rags, but all cheering and waving and saying ‘Chevalier,’ over and over again, ‘Chevalier.’
They were lining the road, leaning out of t
he windows, the buildings alive with movement and ringing with human voices. They were as much part of the city as the bells I was hearing, clanging wildly and gloriously, near and far. Saint-Martin, Saint-Sepulchre, Saint-Denis, even Saint-Sulpice were all ringing together, and my eyes followed the sound to the great towers and spires of the skyline of Paris. I’d seen it so many times, I’d been awed by it, frightened by it, I’d even hated and despised it, but never till that moment had I seen that it was beautiful.
The crowd quietened as André leaned down to a little boy tugging at his stirrup. I guessed what was being asked, because André sat back looking oddly self-conscious, then reached down and drew his sword. The shouting died to an expectant murmur as I heard the soft ring of the blade sliding out of the scabbard. André looked at me, his face alight with sudden wickedness, and hefted the sword in his hand.
I said ‘You’d better not bloody drop it.’
‘I won’t,’ he said.
He wouldn’t, I knew it as if I’d already seen it falling back into his hand. I remembered describing it to Praslin and the way his eyes had followed my hand into the air, I remembered the crowd outside Chagny willing him to do it again and their disappointment when he didn’t. I said ‘Throw it, André,’ and urged Tonnerre back to give the crowd a better view.
His eyes met mine and he nodded, just once and just for me. Then he drew back his arm once, twice, then thrust it hard upwards as he threw.
We all gazed after it, up, up, up into the clean air above the city where the smell and the smoke never reached, where everything was fresh and corruption never came. A little gleam of sunlight pierced the greyness overhead, fringing the Paris spires with gold, and sparkling on a sword that shone with the brightness of silver as it spun in the summer sky.
Historical Note
History has never recognized André de Roland. In the surviving records of his time only these documents of the Abbé Fleuriot mention his name or those of his close friends and most intimate enemies. The events through which they lived, however, are extremely well documented, and these may require some explanation for the lay reader.
The years 1640–3 were a convulsion in the history of France. Still heavily embroiled in the Thirty Years War against the forces of Spain and the Holy Roman Empire, she faced two near-successful coups from within, followed by the deaths in rapid succession of the two men who had done most to define her role on the international stage: Cardinal Richelieu and King Louis XIII. Within days of this last blow she endured yet another Spanish invasion, and stunned the world by turning it into her greatest victory at the decisive Battle of Rocroi.
The importance of this last has been much debated in recent years, with the historian Juan Luis Sanchez Martin leading the way in debunking the ‘myth’ of Rocroi as a great turning point in European history. His arguments have considerable validity, and the testimony of Carlos Corvacho supports his assertion that the primary purpose of the Spanish invasion was to deflect French troops from the assault in Catalonia and avert a threatened invasion of the Franche-Comté, in which light it can be seen only as a resounding success. It is difficult, however, to dismiss as entirely meaningless the victory of an untried twenty-one-year-old commander against the most seasoned fighting troops in the world, or to overestimate its effect on French morale.
The account of the battle in these pages matches closely those of other primary sources, including the eyewitness testimony of Albuquerque and Sirot themselves, but also throws light on some of the darker corners. The role of d’Arsy, for instance, may explain why the mysterious figure who told d’Enghien both of the planned ambush in the woods and also of the imminence of Beck’s arrival has never been identified as de Roland. This man is described in various sources as a deserter, a Spaniard named Francisco Bernáldez (Ragel in El sombrero de Rocroi), and most significantly as ‘a French gentleman fighting on the Spanish side but overcome with remorse’ (Gerrer/Petit/Sanchez-Martin in Rocroy 1643). It is unsurprising that none of the sources name d’Arsy, whose identity would naturally be withheld out of consideration to his family.
Perhaps most enlightening, however, is Corvacho’s assertion that the tercio of Albuquerque made no official surrender, and that the men inside the square must have acted independently. This would explain the disagreement of witnesses and historians on the event, some insisting that the tercio never capitulated at all, others aggrieved at the apparent treachery of the Spaniards in firing on the Duc d’Enghien when he came to accept a capitulation believed to have been given in good faith. If Corvacho is right then both sides acted honourably, and that is what I choose to believe. Few would deny the heroism of the tercio of Albuquerque (now known as La Fidèle) or the magnanimity of d’Enghien in his attempts to stop the final butchery. On the field that day was shown the very finest qualities of both nations, and if Rocroi is now remembered for nothing else, then let it be for this.
The Battle of La Marfée is viewed very differently. Disastrous to both sides, such few eyewitness accounts that remain are riddled with contradictions in the furious struggle to evade blame. In none have I found any mention of the Aubéry or the role it supposedly played on this day, but since the name is not to be found in regimental lists it seems likely its memory has been thoroughly expunged from history. The lists do, however, clarify one memory of Jacques’. The Scottish regiment who behaved with such courage under fire was the Douglas, previously the Hepburn, and better known to us today as the Royal Scots.
Other facts we know are confirmed by the narrative of Jacques. The preliminary movements of the armies are as he states here, as was the completeness of the rout, and the heroism of Fabert. The Duc de Bouillon’s cavalry did indeed take the baggage train and war chest, and the Duc himself ordered his men to stop the carnage. The Marquis de Praslin did save the advance guard at the Pont-de-Douzy, and apparently died in just such circumstances as Jacques describes, for Tallemant des Réaux relates the rumour that he received ‘a hundred blows after death’ for breaking his word to the Comte. The nature of this promise is unknown, but Jacques’ suspicions of a previously treacherous attachment are consistent with Puységur’s own account, which relates the offer of quarter as recorded here and adds coyly that Praslin refused it ‘for reasons I will not mention’. It is Puységur also who gives us the detail of the deserting cavalry saying ‘That’s for your 50 écus!’ repeated here by Jacques, but it is Grimauld who offers an explanation when he speaks of a recruitment bounty that had not been paid.
Possibly most revealing is the light shed by both Jacques and Ravel on the death of the Comte de Soissons, which explains many of the contradictions in other sources. Châtillon’s claim that he was killed in the battle might be explained by Fabert’s slaying the Sedanaise officer on a white horse, while Jacques’ presence among the cavalry of the Orléans may explain Roussillon’s belief he was killed by a ‘gendarme of Monsieur’. Bouillon’s assertion that he accidentally killed himself by lifting his visor with his pistol accords with Jacques’ description, while Montrésor’s suggestion that he was murdered by an agent of Richelieu might have risen from the presence of André himself. Personally I am inclined to believe that while Ravel did indeed fire at Soissons, the bullet that killed him came from his own pistol. Bouillon claims the paper of the cartridge was actually embedded in the Comte’s forehead, which would not have been possible from the distance Ravel fired.
On the conspiracies themselves the Abbé’s accounts have less to offer, for there is clearly a great deal our characters never knew. In the Soissons conspiracy, for instance, only Corvacho mentions the important role of Gondi, later Cardinal de Retz, with whom André is to have more dealings in the future, while in the Cinq-Mars affair only Ravel mentions de Thou. André’s companions were clearly only involved with the smallest fry of the intrigues, and I have found no mention of Bouchard or his companions in any other history.
The accounts here are still in accord with what is generally known, particularly concerning the role
of Fontrailles and his disguise as a Capuchin monk. It seems likely Richelieu made more use of this information than even Anne was aware, for Fontrailles’ own ‘Relation’ tells us he was followed part of the way back from Madrid with the signed Spanish treaty in his possession. Since Fontrailles was already on this journey at the time of André’s trial it is easy to understand why the fear of the conspirators was so acute.
Possibly the most startling revelation in the Abbé’s manuscripts is the explanation of how Richelieu finally came to lay hands on this treaty. The official story was that it had been retrieved from a shipwreck, but this gained little credence even at the time, and several authorities have even suspected the hand of the Queen herself. That she knew about it is almost certain, and Anne’s account of Bouchard’s ‘carte blanche’ gives vital support to the claim made in the memoirs of the Comte de Brienne that he had obtained from the Queen blank sheets of paper with her signature for the purposes of the conspirators.
The nature of the relationship between the King and Cinq-Mars himself must remain a mystery. The Abbé’s manuscripts certainly echo the rumours and anecdotes current at the time, but provide no new evidence. That Cinq-Mars enjoyed sufficient influence to cause the King to shout at Richelieu is also already known, and we can thus put a date on Jacques’ visit to Fontainebleau of 2 February 1642, since that is when the famous row occurred, after which Gassion specifically observed Richelieu’s pallor.
The various places mentioned also generally correspond with documents of the time, with the major exception of the Gardens of the Luxembourg. In 1640 this would have still been in the original layout devised by Jacques Boyceau de la Barauderie for Marie de Medici, but I have been unable to discover any record of a maze in his design. It is, of course, possible that it was simply never replanted after the fire, and certainly John Evelyn’s account of a visit to the Gardens in 1643 makes no mention of a maze at all.