Heretic Dawn

by Robert Merle

  He obeyed, but towards the middle of the night when I had to get up to relieve myself, I saw by the light of the moon that he was sleeping on the floor as he’d told me he would.

  *

  I slept very fitfully on that hard bed, dreaming that I was being chased down the grand’rue Saint-Denis by a hoard of monks who, brandishing their cutlasses, were making ear-splitting cries: “Kill the heretic, kill him!”—while I struggled through the mud, my head the target of buckets of piss that the housewives were emptying into the street. When I opened my eyes, I was soaked in sweat, and through the open window I could see pink clouds announcing the new day. As I got up, I gave Miroul a tap with my foot and he immediately seized the knife in his belt (for he’d slept with his clothes on), and cried, “What’s this? Who dares attack my master?”

  His dream was so much the brother of mine that I couldn’t help laughing, which helped chase away my phantoms and improve my spirits. And feeling refreshed and full of renewed energy, I went over to the washstand to tip the mini-pot into the washbasin which I had to call the micro-basin in Recroche’s language, it was so small, and poured out enough of this expensive liquid to sprinkle my face, hands, armpits and chest. After which, donning my leggings, chemise and doublet, I said to Miroul, “Miroul, go saddle our horses. As we say in Périgord, he who rises early gets to piss where he wants. As the sun rises, we’ll have the streets to ourselves and we can find an inn where we can eat some bread and meat, for I’m hungry as a bear!”

  “And what about your brothers? Should I wake them as well?”

  “No, no. Bene dormit qui non sentit quam male dormiat.** Let’s let these dormice laze about in their nest and we’ll sally forth by ourselves. I’ll wait for you in the workshop downstairs.”

  I went down and found Baragran, Alizon and Coquillon, all sitting on the floor, their arms and legs akimbo, all three deep in sleep—but my footsteps awakened Alizon, who opened one eye and only one quarter of her mouth when she spoke. There were no bonnets visible, and so I surmised that Maître Recroche had gone to deliver them to the Baronne des Tourelles. As I looked around for my candle and found no evidence of it, I concluded that the miser had put it under lock and key before leaving.

  “Oh, Monsieur,” moaned Alizon, “is it you? I’m dead tired and my eyes are blurry. How would I have managed without your candle?”

  “Go back to sleep, sweet Alizon,” I soothed, “I’m going out to find something to eat, since I’m hungry as a dog who hasn’t eaten for days. Where can I find something to eat around here?”

  “There are several inns, but not one will be open yet,” she said, looking out of the window. “It’s too early. You might try one of the street vendors as you go along, since some will be selling leftovers, or a baker his pies, but for God’s sake, Monsieur, be careful not to drink a drop of the Seine water that’s hawked by these merchants! It’s poison for anyone not from here, though for us Parisians from Paris, there’s no danger.” (And, exhausted as she was, you would have thought, to hear her claim with such pride that she was a “Parisian from Paris”, that she was of noble birth.)

  “I’m very grateful for the warning, Alizon!”

  But her eyes had already closed and she fell back into a sleep that I knew, alas, would be interrupted by the return of Maître Recroche. I thought to myself how wonderful it would be if her master were to encounter some unfortunate accident that would delay his return until after the noon hour. Happily, as I learnt later, Providence had heard my prayer.

  Once we were mounted and on our way, my valet asked me for the translation of the Latin phrase that I’d cited regarding my brothers’ sleep. I provided it and he found the sentence so much to his liking that he repeated it over and over to himself until he’d learnt it by heart. My gentle Miroul was so enamoured of languages, whether Italian (he was constantly asking questions of Giacomi), French, which he spoke moderately well, or Cicero’s tongue, with which he’d gained some familiarity from hearing me discuss medicine with my colleagues in Montpellier.

  And from all these crumbs, which he gathered and put into piles, and from which he’d constructed a smattering of knowledge, my Miroul managed to understand some Latin phrases, such as the one my father used when he’d given me Little Sissy, saying, “Ne sit ancillae formosae amor pudori.”††

  And so, reader, if you’re wondering to what use he put these bits of language, I’d say that he used them in the same way—mutatis mutandis—that, as students of medicine, we used them to impress our patients. And so Miroul loved to strut his linguistic stuff in front of various chambermaids he was courting, hoping to appear well educated to advance his cause. I often enjoyed, at one inn or another, hearing one of the maids whisper in the corner angle of a staircase, “What, Miroul, you speak Latin?”

  “It’s my duty! Am I not the aide and assistant of a venerable doctor of medicine, or, so to speak, il suo braccio destro?”‡‡

  “What’s that?”

  “Italian.”

  “Oh, Miroul, you speak Italian too?”

  “Passably well,” Miroul would answer, with appropriate modesty, “and also a bit of Parisian French.”

  But this French would have served him only in Provence, for he could never have got away with it in Paris, where the girls would have mercilessly mocked his awkward attempts to speak their beautiful language. And yet he wasn’t in the capital more than two weeks before he was impressing me, given the progress his ear for languages and his ready tongue had made, with his remarkable successes with the fairer sex, bearing in mind how much sweet nothings open the way to more physical expressions of love.

  But I would be unfair to my good valet if I led you to believe that his only interest in language was for the uses I’ve just mentioned. He was naturally given to learning, and possessed a ready mind that quickly absorbed both language and the rudiments of science and dissection.

  But to continue my tale: as we left Maître Recroche’s lodgings at daybreak, I had brought along a letter addressed to Monsieur de Nançay, captain of the royal guards, with whom my father had served at Calais under the Duc de Guise, requesting his help in gaining admission to the Louvre in order to present my petition to the king that had been drafted by Monsieur de Montaigne. But it was much too early in the morning to visit this gentleman, who lodged on the Île de la Cité and, since the cathedral of Notre-Dame was also situated on this island, I resolved, after breaking our fast, to go to visit this marvel.

  And so we headed down towards the Seine on the grand’rue Saint-Denis, which, early as it was, was not yet encumbered by wagons, but was nevertheless as noisy as a carnival, for a countless number of peddlers went about, crying their wares in the grand’rue and the adjoining streets, wearing baskets at their waists that were suspended from their necks and contained all the necessities of their shops, each one chanting simple verses to attract the housewives who, still bleary-eyed from sleep, their hair barely done up, a wrap thrown hastily over their shoulders, were half-opening their doors to call to them. “Isn’t it amazing,” I mused, “that in Paris there’s a whole range of commodities and in such plenty that you don’t even need to go outside your house to buy them, but they’re brought practically to your bedside, as if these common folk of Paris were so many princes that were being zealously served?”

  For the entire month that I was in Paris, I heard these lively, babbling peddlers hawking water, milk, matches, scouring pads for your dishes, bottle brushes, boot polish, chalk to wash your linen, needles, brooms of holly, kettles, rat traps, flint and guns, salt, baskets, new almanacs (containing “good predictions”), “nice red wine”, “beautiful glasses”, straw, anise, wooden stools, kitchen knives, and, no doubt, anything that can be eaten on this wide earth—including large condiments for your too-small cucumber and whale blubber to enhance your potency, whose crier advertised prudently:

  “Here’s sweet meat for Lent,

  Helps love’s merriment!”

  And on this morning,
as giddy as I felt from all of these chants, which made such a great chorus on all sides, I was brought up short by the sight of a convoy approaching us, bearing a body to the Cimetière des Innocents, and led by a fellow dressed in black, who was called the “ringer of the bodies” in Paris, and went ahead of the priest, ringing his bell and crying:

  “Now say your prayers, my friend,

  When you hear me ring my bell.

  This brother was most honourable

  Whose life has reached its end.”

  Miroul and I both made the sign of the cross as they passed, very happy to feel so alive and so happy as we rode along on this Parisian morning. And yet I said sotto voce a paternoster for this “brother”, however papistical he may have been in his blind life.

  “Amen for this poor idolater,” echoed Miroul when the convoy had passed, “and may God take pity on his errors. Monsieur, with your permission, I’m hungry! I have such a strident hunger that a mere crust would satisfy me! Jejunus raro stomachus vulgaria temnet.”§§

  “Temnit, Miroul.”

  “Temnit. Thank you, Monsieur, for correcting me. That’s a very useful quotation. I can say it at least twice a day in our current lodgings!”

  I laughed to have such a worthy valet, who was so silly and so diverting, but I had to keep my ears open to the various street cries so as not to miss a peddler of meat. Seeing me listening so attentively, a water carrier bearing a leathern bottle on his back and a collection of shining tin goblets attached to his belt, came up chanting:

  “Who wants some water, who craves a sip?

  It’s one of four elements you cannot pass by.

  No one can do without a drop or a drip!

  Believe me, for surely I dare not tell a lie!”

  “Good gentleman,” said this exceptionally portly fellow, whose stomach stuck as far out in front as his water skin stretched out behind, “will you have some of my water? You can drink it without peril: I don’t get it from the place Maubert or from the Pont Saint-Michel.”

  “And why not in either of those places?”

  “Because there it’s stagnant, foul and dank.”

  “So where do you get it?”

  “Opposite the Île Louviers, which is to say outside of Paris and upstream from the city.”

  I suspect that he was lying, but even if he’d spoken the truth I would have refused. I excused myself by saying that I drank only wine, but for his poem I threw him a small coin, which he received with barely a word of thanks, so put out was he that I disdained his water.

  “Monsieur,” cried Miroul, “here comes a more substantial meal!” And he pointed to a fellow emerging from the rue des Lavandières, who was wearing a white cap, from under which there protruded a head of flame-red hair, and who, opening a mouth as wide as an oven, cried:

  “See me for it’s the finest pastries I’ve got,

  For Gautier, Michaud or Guillaume;

  Every morning I’m out selling some,

  So get your pastries and your pies while they’re hot!”

  “Friend,” I cried, reining in Pompée, “come over here! For we’re some of the patrons you’re seeking, though we’re not named Gautier, Michaud or Guillaume! But why these names, good man?”

  “’Sfor the rhyme,” said the peddler, heading over to us, but being unusually careful since on the flat basket that hung from a cord around his neck and was supported by both hands, he carried a stack of his merchandise covered by a clean napkin that he suddenly pulled away to reveal a bewitching assortment of golden baked pastries that were still smoking hot and smelt heavenly.

  “’Sblood, Monsieur!” gushed Miroul. “I can scarcely keep from drooling!”

  “Shush, Miroul!” I hissed in langue d’oc. “If you go talking about drooling, he’ll charge us double.”

  “Noble gentleman,” said our pieman, whose face was as round and golden from his oven fires as his wares, “if you are very hungry, as I guess you are from your looks, I’d like to recommend my hot pies.”

  “Well, I’m not Michaud, but how much?”

  “Nor a Jew must you be, Monseigneur, for these are pork pies!”

  “I am a Christian. How much is one of your pies for a poor Christian?”

  “Three deniers.”

  “What! Three deniers for a meat pie?”

  “No bargaining! Though you’re from Provence, if my ear is right, I’m giving you the Parisian price.”

  “Nay! What would you say to four pies for eight deniers?”

  “I’d say no! Fie, then, Monsieur! A gentleman bargaining like a Lombard!”

  “And how do you know I’m a gentleman?”

  “By your horse, Monsieur, who is very beautiful.”

  “You’re mistaken, I’m on my way to sell it to buy some hay.”

  “Monsieur, you jest! But just to oblige you, I’ll give you four pies for ten deniers. Take it, it’s my last offer.”

  “Sold. Here are some nice clean coins.”

  “And here are your hot pies. Monseigneur, be careful that no one steals your horse while you’re visiting Paris!”

  “My valet will guard it for me!”

  “He looks pretty skinny to me.”

  “I’ll be less so,” said Miroul, “when I’ve eaten your pies! By the belly of St Anthony, I’m drooling all over my doublet!”

  I gave him two of the pies and began devouring two of the others, which had delicious thick crusts and whose succulent contents did very well at calming my vehement hunger.

  “Well!” laughed the pieman. “Don’t you have sharp teeth! Eat up! Eat up! You can only get pies like this in Paris and in Paris mine are the best! My good gentleman, I wish you good day with all my heart, and may the Blessed Virgin watch over you—unless, being from the south, you’re a heretic.”

  “No more than you, good pieman!” I said as clearly as my full mouth would allow.

  And off he went down the grand’rue Saint-Denis.

  “No doubt,” I said, trying not to devour too quickly but to taste all the hot unctuousness of the crust and innards of my pie, “no doubt I’m only one of thousands of hungry people served by this pieman, but Miroul, did you hear that scoundrel? Being from the south, we’re immediately suspected of heresy and just as quickly scorned. ’Sblood! He’s the heretic!”

  “Monsieur,” spluttered Miroul through his mouthfuls of pie, “the stronger and more numerous decide who’s the heretic. Us in Nîmes, the papists in Paris.”

  “You speak with golden tongue, Miroul!” I joked. “I’ll have you promoted to ‘doctor of good sense’. Hail that buxom girl peddling milk I see over there. Call her! I’ve got no voice left!”

  “Dairy maid!” yelled Miroul though a mouthful of pie. “Over here, I beg you!”

  At which the blonde girl turned round and headed our way carrying her two pots, each hanging from a kind of yoke she bore, which forced her to stand very straight, a posture that was much to her advantage! She danced towards us, despite the shouldered dairy, with a light step, chanting in her warbling voice:

  “Every morn, when light comes streaming,

  I cry out ‘Milk!’ for all the nurses

  Whose babes are now awake and screaming,

  Saying: ‘Quick! Give ’em a pot, you nurses!’”

  And, on a higher note, she would repeat “Give ’em a pot!” her tremulous voice emphasizing the o in pot. The little chant wasn’t very sophisticated, the poet finding only “nurses” to rhyme with “nurses”, but I was enchanted both by the voice and by the maid.

  “My friend,” I called, “even though I’m no longer in swaddling clothes, will you give me some of your milk?”

  “Good gentleman, I cannot,” she replied, with a saucy eye, “I have pots but no goblets since I sell direct to people’s lodgings and not to passers-by.”

  “Oh, good dairy maid, if only you were a young mother, I know where I’d get my milk!”

  She laughed, pretending to be shocked, but couldn’t help looking at her
bosom with evident pride.

  “Well, Monsieur,” she answered, “clearly they’ll take it hot or cold in the provinces where you come from, but here we behave like civilized folk!”

  “I’d mind my manners better,” I replied, “if I weren’t so thirsty. But who wouldn’t pardon an old drunk who drinks directly from his flask?”

  Just then, someone hailed her from one of the nearby houses and off she went with her dancing step, balancing her shop on her shoulders, but she threw me a look that told me to wait and that she’d come back. I couldn’t help admiring her beauty as she went, warbling her street cry in such pure and sweet tones: “Quick! Give ’em a pot, you nurses!”

  “Monsieur,” Miroul asked, “what did she mean by ‘They’ll take it hot or cold’?”

  “That they don’t fear anything or anyone, I suppose. These Parisians have their own jargon, just as we do.”

  “But it’s very nice to listen to, coming from her! Monsieur, shall I ask her to meet us somewhere?”

  “Wait a bit. You haven’t seen anything yet, Miroul. Quod coelom stellas, tot habet tua Roma puellas.”¶¶

  Of course I translated this Latin verse for him, whose meaning and words pleased him enormously.

  Meanwhile, our blonde milkmaid danced back to us, holding in her right hand a goblet she’d borrowed from one of her regulars, for which I offered my profuse thanks and compliments. I drank two servings, and Miroul as well, all of which cost only one denier. I gave her two, and with a smile she said, “My gentlemen, if you want to find me again, I’ll be in this street every day at the same time.” And, saying this, she was off again, chanting in her clear voice, “Quick! Give ’em a pot, you nurses!”

  Ah, reader, I never saw this pretty country lass again, who so lightly danced along the muddy streets of Paris selling her milk for a few sols—a small profit for so long a trek from her village to our Babylon—but in my memory I can see her just as clearly and with the same pleasure as on that day: her bright eyes, her blonde curls, her pretty bosom and, more than anything, that marvellously delectable smile by which she seemed to open both body and soul to the unquenchable joy of being alive among the living. Indeed, I cannot think of Paris, which was to fix indelibly in my memory of those days of late August such gruesome impressions, without recalling that sweet milkmaid with her nimble step and her sunny smile.