Heretic Dawn

by Robert Merle

  Throwing myself on my bed, I kissed this letter as I would have kissed the hand of the woman who’d written it, and bathed it with the tears I simply couldn’t hold back. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked me, so cruel was this wound, and all the more so since it would have only been a week’s forced march to reach Barbentane, and I was already imagining how warm and sweet her body would feel in my arms when suddenly she’d been snatched away and sequestered in an inaccessible place on the other side of the kingdom. Now the many months that separated us felt like the ocean that stretches limitless away in front of a shipwrecked man on a raft. What an arid desert my life now seemed! After this reversal, everything seemed vain, dry, rocky, uninteresting, absent of any comfort whatsoever—not even my recent appointment as a venerable doctor of medicine, which now seemed like a hollow victory in the teeth of my suffering.

  Oh the folly, the dreams, the fond insatiability of a lover! I held Angelina’s letter close to my heart and, but a minute later, wiping away my tears, pulled it from my doublet and wanted more than anything to reread it. What a haven of grace! I reread it more than a hundred times, each time comforted by the sound of her voice (since her letter was as lively and as petulant), and I believed I could see her standing there, looking at me with her infinitely tender doe’s eyes. But alas! What a high price I paid for these imaginary pleasures, since the more they made her present to me, the more they rendered her absence acutely painful.

  For three days I almost never left my left my room, but lay on my bed suffering a thousand deaths, crying and groaning, descending to the great hall only to eat a few morsels of the stingy repasts at Maître Sanche’s table. In the end, Madame de Joyeuse sent her valet to enquire after me and I sent him back with the message that I had taken to my bed and had, for the nonce, to remain there. Would you believe it? This noble lady, as crazy as I was, but for a different reason, had the audacity to come to visit me at nightfall, it’s true, and in a rented carriage so that no one would see her coat of arms outside my lodgings, and, in addition, wearing a mask, veil and dress that she thought would look bourgeois (but which, in my view, were hardly that).

  She stayed three long hours, locked in my room, consoling me (since I told her all about Angelina) and gradually her comforts slipped, by insensible degrees, onto an emotional slope that gradually brought me to comfort her. Which I did out of gratitude and good breeding, and, yes, because the seclusion of the past three days had done nothing to temper my vigour, a fact I observed with astonishment, having believed myself dead to the world.

  In any case, the next morning I felt well enough to begin my fencing lessons with Giacomi, though not for very long this first time, yet long enough for me to realize that I had to unlearn everything I’d learnt with Cabusse, since, without moving his body at all, or even, it seemed his arm, Giacomi managed to keep my point from ever touching him, whereas his, if he’d wanted to, could have opened buttonholes in all my vital parts.

  I can still see my Giacomi at this first lesson (Miroul sitting on a stool, not missing a single detail), standing so tall and graceful in his precise and perfect positions, seeming to be a spider in the physical distribution of his body and a bird in his vivacity, his black eyes protruding, on his face an expression of courteous civility, while ceremoniously he parried my awkward thrusts and touched me, but held back just as his blade made the touch.

  “Pierre,” he said, finally taking two steps back as lightly as if he were dancing, “hold on tight! I’m going to have the honour of disarming you!”

  So saying, he lowered his sword in an ample and noble salute. I couldn’t believe that I was hearing such quiet assurance, but before I could react, my right hand was empty, my sword leaping from its grasp and hurtling itself to the other end of the room.

  “Ah! My brother!” I cried. “What magic is this?”

  “Magic?” cried Giacomi, who seemed insulted by this word. “Say, rather, art! Art and knowledge! A technique honed through study and mastered through unceasing practice!”

  The next day I received a letter from my father, which ordered me, since I’d received my promotion to doctor, and Samson had been promoted to master apothecary a year ago already, to say farewell to Montpellier and return to Mespech where, though we were not “prodigal sons”, he would kill the fatted calf for us and in honour of Giacomi, who had saved my life, and of Miroul, whom he respected well above his condition.

  I gave myself a week to say goodbye to Thomassine, to Cossolat and to Madame de Joyeuse, who wept to break my heart and held me so tight I thought she’d never let go. She made me swear to come back as soon as I could without offending the Brethren, and out of her incredible generosity gave me enough money to allow us to buy new clothes—not just Samson and me, but also Giacomi, whose doublet was on its last stitches, and even Miroul, so that he would be dressed as befitted a servant of my father’s barony.

  * “The question is very debatable.”

  † “Trust me, for I have the requisite experience!”

  ‡ “We raise to the heavens ancient wisdom and turn our backs on what is modern.”

  § “There is no greater grief than to remember good times in the midst of unhappiness.”

  ¶ “Woman is as fickle as a feather in the wind.”

  || “From one example we cannot claim to know all of them.”

  ** “Excellent! Most excellent! It’s all to your advantage!”

  †† “What will be, will be.”

  ‡‡ “You will be my leader, my lord and my master.”

  §§ “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

  3

  AFTER THE EDICT OF SAINT-GERMAIN, a kind of uneasy peace reigned in France between papists and Huguenots, much like those that had preceded it, begrudging and unstable—especially since the offences against our side were so frequent here and there that we hadn’t returned to the throne the fortresses that the edict had specifically obliged us to surrender. In any case, I decided that we could risk taking the easy, longer route home through Carcassonne, Toulouse and Montauban rather than ride through the mountains of Cévennes and Auvergne, which would have slowed and fatigued our horses.

  It turned out to be the right decision, for we encountered no attacks or ambushes by the highwaymen of this region and had no adventures save for the non-warlike kind that one comes across in the inns along the way, where the chambermaids are required to see to the needs of their male clientele. But I did not abuse this privilege as the Baron de Caudebec was wont to do, remaining in each hostel only the time required to rest our horses. During each stay, Samson reasserted his inflexible virtue in Dame Gertrude de Luc’s absence, of course, but had no influence over mine, as you would guess, nor over Miroul’s or my brother Giacomi’s, decked out as he was in a scarlet velveteen doublet that I’d had sewn for him by Martinez, my tailor, before our departure.

  With the money Madame de Joyeuse had given me, I bought him a beautiful stallion (necessarily taller than our mares, since, given Giacomi’s height, his feet would have been dragging along the ground if he’d had to ride Accla). And thus ensconced in his saddle on this warhorse, being our senior by five or six years and a good head taller than any of the three of us, he looked like nothing so much as Mentor, keeping watch over Telemachus.

  When, after three weeks on the road, we arrived in Sarlat without any delay or misfortune of any kind, and believing we’d already reached our haven—Mespech being no more than five leagues hence—I asked the innkeeper of the Three Sheep to furnish us with a room where, divesting ourselves of our cuirasses and helmets, we donned our doublets so as to appear in all our finery when we greeted the Brethren and all our people in Mespech. This was pure vanity and Giacomi said as much—advising us not to disarm before we were safely within our walls.

  But I refused to heed his warning, thinking there was little risk, since I knew the road between Sarlat and Mespech so well I could have told you who tilled this field or that, or owned such and su
ch a farm or hut.

  I decided we should take the les Beunes road, which would be the least tiring for our weary mounts, though not the safest for us since it followed the river through a narrow dale, which was flanked on both sides by high slopes too steep for a horse to climb. Giacomi, immediately unhappy with the lay of the land, pointed out that we were entering a funnel trap that offered no escape other than by retracing our steps if we were attacked by a large group, and that put us in danger of being fired on from behind. We followed his advice, and stopped to load our pistols and unsheathe our swords, which we dangled from straps from our wrists—a thoroughly unnecessary precaution in my view, especially since we were but five or six stones’ throws from our mill at les Beunes, whose roof I could make out in the distance through the foliage.

  However, when we passed the turn-off for Taniès, we saw four horsemen there, mute and immobile, but who spurred on their steeds as soon as we’d passed, and came trotting along behind us.

  “Ah,” I said, “I don’t like this a bit!” remembering a similar situation we’d encountered in the battle in the Corbières. “Let’s take pistols in hand and ask these rascals what they’re up to.”

  “My brother,” cautioned Giacomi, “listen to me! Let’s take but one pistol in hand and hide the other between saddle and leg. The best tactic is to conceal from your adversary the weapon you intend to use as a last resort.”

  At my command, we turned our horses abruptly and confronted our adversaries face to face, pulling up short a dozen paces from them. Of course, they pulled up short, surprised at the sight of our pistols and caught off-guard, the hunters suddenly become the hunted; so there we were, facing each other with no idea what to do next.

  The problem was that, though we were armed with pistols, we were not holding them at the ready, and though they looked like ruffians, they didn’t seem to be highwaymen and were wearing a sort of livery, as if belonging to some gentleman’s household.

  “Who do you work for?” I shouted with as mean an expression as I could muster.

  To this they made no reply, but looked at each other with the greatest discomfort. This forced me to repeat my question, but this time I drew my pistol and levelled it at the fellow opposite me, who looked like a Gypsy, with a lean and muscular body, lively, liquid eyes and his face dripping sweat as soon as he saw my weapon pointed at his heart.

  “Monsieur, we are Baron de Fontenac’s men.”

  “So! And do you know who I am?”

  To which the Gypsy answered, after some hesitation and as if he were confused as to how to answer, that I was unknown to him.

  “My brother,” whispered Giacomi, “the man is lying.”

  “So I believe,” I replied softly. “Shall we shoot them?”

  “No,” Giacomi counselled, “they’re not armed. ’Twould be murder.”

  “Let’s shoot them anyway!” said Miroul. “That’d make four fewer troublemakers for us to deal with.”

  “Oh, no! No, no!” Samson exclaimed, staring at us in all his azure innocence. “Are they not Christians, same as us?”

  “I know the measure of these Christians!” snarled Miroul, whose whole family had had their throats cut by such ruffians as these.

  “My good fellows,” I called, “what were you doing on the Taniès path?”

  “We were just returning from the village,” said the Gypsy leader. And certain it was that he was lying again.

  “So then why were you galloping up behind us?”

  “Just wanted to pass you by.”

  And right away, my finger started itching most urgently to dispatch this fellow without any more ado, but I remembered that Fontenac controlled the judges in Sarlat (so completely that Bouillac’s testimony about the raid on our les Beunes mill had gone unheeded) and I didn’t want to give our scourge of a neighbour the excuse to drag the Baron de Siorac before the Présidial for the murder of his men, and so resolved to solve this situation peacefully.

  “Well then, we’ll let you pass us unharmed,” I announced, “and may the God who judges us decided whether I’ve done the right thing.”

  “We thank you and thank God, Monsieur,” answered the Gypsy, who opened his mouth wide to take in a lungful of air in evident relief. “I will find a way to pay you back should the occasion arise.”

  We pulled our horses aside on the edge of the path and they rode by, very relieved to be alive, and their backs, I’ll wager, tingling with the fear of our bullets until they’d passed the bend in the road.

  “My brother,” Giacomi now asked, “where is Mespech?”

  “Just beyond that bend, you take a path to the left, cross a little bridge over the les Beunes river leading to our mill, and from there another path leads to the chateau.”

  “Is there no other way to get directly to the mill?”

  “I’m afraid not. The fields you see off to our left are too swampy to negotiate.”

  “Well then,” said Giacomi, “instead of flying like starlings into the nets they’ve set for us, I think it’d be wiser to return to Sarlat.”

  I thought about this for a minute. “I don’t agree. Our horses are exhausted. The Gypsies would surely catch up to us and then we’d be forced to fight far from Mespech without any hope of the help they’d surely be able to provide. What do you think, Samson?”

  “But who says these good people want to attack us?” he asked, his blue eyes opened wide in innocence.

  “Ah, Samson!” I said, smiling to mask the pain I felt at this impasse. “You really don’t live in this world! You read too much of the Gospels and not enough of Machiavelli!”

  “Too much of the Gospels? That’s no way to talk!”

  But before I could answer, Miroul said, “Monsieur, may I tell you what I think?”

  “Speak, Miroul.”

  “Well then, primo, as you said at your triduanes, let’s fire a shot into the air to alert Coulondre Iron-arm at the mill so he can send Jacotte through the underground passage to Mespech. Secundo, let’s send one among us, and I volunteer to do it, to the bend in the road to reconnoitre.”

  “Miroul! You speak with a golden tongue! Only I’m going to flip your suggestion on end and put the secundo first. Go, Miroul, and see if you can see how many they are and what arms these good people are carrying.”

  And so Miroul, carefully hiding his pistol in his boot, dismounted in the blink of an eye, and throwing Giacomi his packhorse’s lead, and to me his gelding’s reins, he headed off, light as a feather, his feet barely touching the ground, to where the road turned, and there, instead of poking his head out by degrees to see what lay ahead, I saw him scale a steep rock that stood at the bend in the road, reach the top and creep along its crest so as to survey the length of the road ahead.

  “What enviable agility!” remarked Giacomi in such quiet and serene tones that I couldn’t help but admire his coolness in the heat of our present predicament. “With your permission, my brother,” he added, “I’d like to instruct Miroul in my art. Although he is not of sufficient birth to warrant it, he has earned this consideration.”

  “I think so, too. And don’t you think it’s a pity that this honest fellow, as frank as an unbitten écu, valiant, loyal, possessed of good and unfettered intelligence and great dexterity and skill, cannot aspire to a state higher than valet simply because he happened to be born of lowly parents in a farmhouse?”

  “He could advance to a higher position if he joined the Church, since he can read and write—or better yet seek his fortune through arms. But in either case he’d have to leave you and he’d never do that. He nurtures too great a love of you for that.”

  “And how could I bear it if he left me?” I replied with great feeling. “He’s very dear to me, as well, valet though he may be.”

  However, while I was saying this, affecting a tranquil tone with Giacomi, despite the anxiety of the moment, which had, so to speak, sunk to some subterranean level in me, it didn’t escape me that I had put my own convenience ahea
d of Miroul’s advancement. This thought made me angry with myself, and as he was just then returning, I said to him, “You took a long time. What were you doing up that rock?”

  “Monsieur,” said Miroul (his brown eye growing sad while his blue eye remained cold as a sign that he was very hurt at my reproaches), “I wanted to get high enough above them to see whether they had pistols stuck in their saddlebags, which, I must say, looked quite empty of any firearms. On the other hand, at the tail of this little band of no more than seven men, I saw two riderless horses, which may well mean that there are two rascals waiting to ambush us from atop the bluff at Taniès and pick us off like pigeons.”

  “I thank you, Miroul,” I said, thoroughly ashamed at my impatience. “I couldn’t have done so well. Did you see the traitor Fontenac?”

  “Indeed I did!” he replied. “Wearing a crimson doublet and cap, and sitting very straight atop a proud white horse that’s trying to make us believe that the soul of his master is of the same colour.”

  And although I didn’t find this joke much to my liking, I laughed out loud at it to soothe the wounded feelings I’d inflicted on my gentle valet.

  “Miroul,” I said, “tie the packhorse to the bough of yonder fig tree that’s growing out between the rocks of the bluff here, remount your horse and fire a shot into the air, as you suggested, and then reload.”

  While Miroul did as I ordered, Giacomi took his cape from his shoulders, and, having placed one of his pistols underneath his thigh, threw the cape over his knees.

  “Samson,” I cautioned, “don’t be so dreamy and thoughtful. I know you’re valiant—be quick and decisive. And remember to fire right away if fire you must. This Fontenac is the scourge of Mespech, as we’ve told you a hundred times.”