Heretic Dawn

by Robert Merle

  Monsieur de Nançay lived in the rue des Sablons on the Île de la Cité, and though it was still too early to visit him, I asked directions from a Guillaume or a Gautier whom we happened to pass, to be sure to arrive there quickly after visiting Notre-Dame. This fellow, I deemed from his dress and his bumptious and stupid expression, must be a shop assistant, and he answered my request for directions with a yawn, and, though I was on horseback and he on foot, looked me up and down and said indignantly, “What, Monsieur! You don’t know the rue des Sablons?”

  “Would I be asking you if I did?”

  “But, Monsieur, everyone knows where the rue des Sablons is!”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve just arrived from Périgord.”

  “Périgord,” he said even more haughtily. “Never heard of such a country.”

  “That’s because it’s not a country but a province of our kingdom.”

  “A province, Monsieur?” cried this brazen-faced Gautier, with utter disdain. “You live in the provinces? Oh, heaven! How does one live in the provinces?”

  “Better than in Paris.”

  “But, Monsieur! That’s not possible! Only an ass would be content to live in the country!”

  “Monsieur,” whispered Miroul in langue d’oc, “should I give this rascal a good kick?”

  “What’s that?” cried this Guillaume. “What’s that gobbledygook you’re babbling? What did he say?”

  “He said,” I replied archly, “that he’s going to give you a good kick in the arse for your impertinence.”

  “Oh, Monsieur, no offence was intended!” the fellow cried, quite crestfallen. And he quickly added, “At the Grand Châtelet, turn to the left, and take the Port-au-Foin. Then cross the river on the Pont Notre-Dame and go straight on. The rue des Sablons will be on your left. You can’t miss it. The Hôtel-Dieu is there, and Notre-Dame.”

  “Thank you, good peasant,” I replied.

  “What!” he cried, as though wounded to the quick. “Why do you call me a peasant?”

  “Because,” I answered, “you’ve never left your village and you know nothing of what’s outside it.”

  Hearing this, and doubtless believing me to be some madman fallen from the moon, the fellow hurried off, casting terrified looks behind him. With a laugh, Miroul and I turned our horses in the direction he’d indicated and headed towards the Pont Notre-Dame.

  When I’d got to know Paris better, I realized a strange and absurd thing about this city that is traversed by a wide river. The right bank was lined with a quay that runs uninterrupted from the Louvre to the Célestins convent. The left bank had no quay except at the Tour de Nesle and at the Pont Saint-Michel, and the latter was only a dozen or so years old and replaced a plantation of willow trees which ran right down to the water. Everywhere else the banks were earthworks that sloped down to the river, which meant that at high tide the river occasionally burst its banks so far that, in 1571 for example—according to what I’ve been told—you had to take a boat to cross the place Maubert.

  As for the quay on the right bank along which we were riding, it was not much to behold. It was part masonry, part wood, but both parts looked to have been hastily and grossly thrown together, hardly worthy of the heavy traffic of hay, straw and wood that it supported. On the other hand, the Pont Notre-Dame, onto which we mounted, left me open-mouthed in admiration. It was so beautiful and so wide that three wagons could cross together, and it was lined, like the Pont Saint-Michel, with houses of matching heights, constructed of brick and stone, lined up evenly, and each having a number from one to sixty-eight, a novelty that should be extended throughout Paris since it’s so difficult, even when you know the name of the street, to find a friend’s particular lodging—especially at night, when everyone has withdrawn behind locked doors and is unwilling to open up or even to give directions. It’s even worse for the delivery of letters, for addresses can look like the following:

  MONSIEUR GUILLAUME DE MORMOULET

  Nobleman

  Rue de la Ferronnerie in Paris

  The house is situated four houses to the right of a house with hawthorn bushes opposite the Cimetière des Innocents.

  Isn’t it an incredible bore (and one that is a source of infinite indiscretions) to be obliged in broad daylight to ask a man’s neighbours where his dwelling might be, thereby exposing oneself to the unbridled gossip of the Parisians?—as I was to experience that morning in the rue des Sablons, where, having dismounted, I knocked on the door of a beautiful mansion to ask where Monsieur de Nançay might be found.

  A chambermaid opened the door, and, having heard my request, went straightaway to find a governess, who, having heard my query, disappeared in search of the daughter of the house, who, rather than answering any more than the first two, looked askance at me and said, “Monsieur, what strange French is this you’re speaking? And where did you acquire this bizarre doublet you’re wearing, which is so far from being in fashion here?”

  “Madame, I am from Périgord, and my doublet, which, I regret, is not to your liking, was made in Montpellier by Monsieur de Joyeuse’s tailor. Might I enquire, Madame, where I might find Monsieur de Nançay?”

  “Montpellier?” she replied, opening her beautiful eyes wide in surprise. “Where is this mountain, then?”

  “It’s a city, Madame, near the Mediterranean.”

  And whether she’d heard of the Mediterranean to this day I remain in doubt, for, making a profound reverence (which was sure to please), she told me that before she could answer my question, she must ask her mother, who appeared soon after on the threshold, all decked out in a pale-blue morning dress, which was constructed to display, as best it could, her more than ample proportions. Her face was overly made up and her hair too blonde to be honest.

  “Madame,” I said, bowing almost as low as the cobblestones, “I am your humble and obedient servant. May I ask you—”

  “Monsieur,” she cooed importantly, inspecting me from head to toe, and appearing satisfied with her inquisition, “if, despite your strange accent, which tells me you’re from the provinces, you are, as I believe, a gentleman, I’d like to know who you are.”

  “Madame,” I said, secretly grinding my teeth, but outwardly maintaining my most suave and beneficent manners, “my name is Pierre de Siorac, and I’m the second son of the Baron de Mespech in Périgord.”

  “Good,” she breathed in relief, “you’re not just any Guillaume or Gautier. But, Monsieur, she said with extraordinary eagerness, what business have you with Monsieur de Nançay?”

  “Madame,” I replied, “with all the respect in the world, should I not reveal my affairs to Monsieur de Nançay himself?”

  “Nay, Monsieur,” she assured me without the least sign of annoyance, “I am one of Monsieur de Nançay’s intimates, and I would be remiss if I allowed an intruder into our house.”

  “I am no intruder, Madame,” I replied, feeling somewhat prickly. “My father knows Monsieur de Nançay. They fought together at Calais under the command of the Duc de Guise.”

  “The Duc de Guise!” she cried, overcome with emotion, her breasts heaving. “Your father served with the Duc de Guise! Ah, Monsieur! He is my hero! The greatest, the handsomest, the holiest of gentlemen in France! The saviour of the kingdom! The shield of the Catholic faith! The true king of Paris! Monsieur, for the love of the Duc de Guise, ask me anything! There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you!”

  “But Madame,” I said, “I only want to know where Monsieur de Nançay lives.”

  “Ah, Monsieur, this is a very delicate question! I’m not at liberty to decide this by myself. I ask only your patience”—Holy God, I’d developed enough of that commodity to sell some off!—“and with your permission, I shall go straightaway to ask my husband.”

  And so off she went, and after so many repeated consultations, all Miroul could do was hide his head in Pompée’s mane to hide his laughter. The daughter had returned, her mother gone, and stood on the threshold, silently observing us,
as if we’d arrived from some other planet, which was all the more strange given the multitudes of Huguenots who had come to Paris from the farthest reaches of the kingdom to attend the wedding of Princesse Margot.

  The husband, who at length made his appearance, was a portly, bald man, with piercing eyes—a rich merchant I supposed—clothed in an austere brown doublet and ruff. He, too, felt compelled to ask me an endless series of questions, so that, in the end, so as not to offend a man who claimed, as his wife had done, that he was “a close friend of Monsieur de Nançay” (both of them lying), I was forced to tell my entire story, to which he listened with the greatest interest; he then called his wife in order to repeat it in its entirety to her, embroidering considerably the details of the duels, a subject that appeared to be dear to his heart.

  After this narrative, which lasted at least a quarter of an hour, he was willing to share with me the fact that Monsieur de Nançay lived in the house next to his. “Ah!” thought I. “If only I’d had the good fortune to knock on that door before this one!”

  “But,” he added, “you cannot visit Monsieur de Nançay now! It’s much too early!”

  “I thought so,” I replied. “So, instead, I shall head for the cathedral of Notre-Dame and spend an hour or so there.”

  “Ah! Monsieur!” he gushed, believing of course that I was going to hear Mass. “I’m so relieved to meet a pious and devout young man like you, given the invasion in Paris—and in the very court of the king—of the satanic heresy of Calvin!”

  Hearing this, I bowed silently and took my leave of the two of them—now three in number, since their daughter had returned with her mother, and was now throwing amorous looks in my direction, despite my unfashionable doublet—and mounted my horse. Miroul threw me such a mirthful look, with his brown eye shining, that it was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud in the faces of these good, though astonishingly annoying people.

  As for Notre-Dame, I was amazed and astonished when I saw it, but I won’t try to describe it here: you’d need an entire book. And although I was, in my Huguenot faith, repelled by so many idolatrous images, whether in stained glass or carved statues, I found them so beautiful that I would never have wanted them to be destroyed, as so many churches were by the most fanatical members of my party, but instead would have them preserved for the admiration of our children, though not as objects to be worshipped—which should be reserved for God alone. Moreover, if we were to consider them not as sacred objects, but as representations of man, it seemed to me we’d appreciate them more, the less we adored them.

  The most marvellous of all these idols, or at least the one that I found most pleasing, was a statue of the Virgin by the door of the cloister. She had a pretty, oval face and a small, straight nose, and her eyes were widened in surprise. It was so lifelike that I thought the sculptor must have had a Parisienne for his model—or, perhaps, even to share his bed! And he must have loved her enough to want to “revirginize” her in stone and to have left her gracious image for future generations.

  Miroul waited outside to guard our horses, and I was sorry that he couldn’t share these treasures with me, and even more sorry that Giacomi wasn’t here, who so loved the arts and spoke so knowledgeably about them. But I scarcely had time to look around a bit before a little dark-haired cleric, no more than seventeen years in age, I guessed, approached me and, looking at me with soft eyes, asked in fluting tones:

  “Monsieur, would you like to climb to the top of the towers of Notre-Dame? You can see all of Paris, since the cathedral is the tallest monument in the city.”

  “Monsieur priest,” I asked in the most benign tones, but inside feeling quite wary, having very little confidence in those who wore those robes, “I’d be interested if it’s not too much money.”

  “Won’t cost you much,” replied the priest, with a forced smile. “Five sols for the diocese. Three sols for the beadle, who will give us the key. And two for me, who will guide you to the top.”

  He said this with such a suave and soft voice, and touched me so caressingly as he did so, and displayed such an engaging smile, that I couldn’t tell whether my guide was a man or a woman. Zeus himself, if I dare invoke him in a Christian church, might have been mistaken, though such a mistake seemed of little consequence to him if I am to believe the rape of Ganymede.

  “Monsieur priest, agreed,” I said, backing away a bit with a cold look and without reaching for my purse.

  “Well, then,” said the little cleric, “let’s see your money.”

  “Oh, no! I’ll pay afterwards!”

  “Oh, Monsieur!” he laughed. “I, Aymotin, am an honourable man!”

  “Aymotin! That’s your name?”

  “Yes! But I’m not a priest yet! Monsieur, without money, the beadle won’t give me the key.”

  “All right. Here are three sols for the beadle. The five sols for the diocese will be paid once we’re at the top. And your two, Aymotin, when we’re back down here.”

  “Oh, mercy, Monsieur, you bargain like a Jew, a Lombard or a Huguenot!”

  “Which I’m not. Hurry, Aymotin, get me the key. I’ll gambol about a bit while I’m waiting for you.”

  “Monsieur,” said Aymotin with a sly smile, “in Paris we don’t say ‘gambol about’, which is very langue d’oc—we say ‘take a stroll’.”

  “So,” I said, “you speak langue d’oc too?”

  “No. I was born in Paris and have never left. But I have a very good friend who speaks with the same jargon as you, mixing langue d’oc and French.”

  And, giving me another of his sideways looks, and holding up his robe with both hands so as not to trip over it, he trotted off with surprising gracefulness.

  He was so long in returning that I believed my three sols were lost and gone, but eventually he returned, though I wasn’t sure whether his return was due to his probity or to the interest he’d taken in me.

  “Monsieur,” he said, “I have the key to the steps, but not the key to the bell tower: for that the beadle wanted three more sols.”

  “So we won’t see the bells. Let’s go!”

  The door unbolted—I had to lend him a hand, given the enormous weight and size of the key and the slenderness of his wrists—he climbed nimbly up ahead of me, frequently glancing back over his shoulder to give me a smile or an encouraging look.

  Oh, reader, how immense and beautiful is Paris when seen from the top of the towers of Notre-Dame! What a thrill to see it stretching out at my feet like a picture, the houses so tiny and the Seine curving gently through its middle.

  Meanwhile, Aymotin had become so winded from climbing the stairs that it was a pity seeing him gasping for breath.

  “Aymotin,” I told him, “you climbed too quickly, and didn’t allow your lungs to purify the blood coming to your heart.”

  “What?” cried Aymotin. “Are you a doctor too?”

  “Too?” I asked, suddenly pricking up my ears. “You know another doctor?”

  But Aymotin, reddening and shaking his black curls, replied evasively, “Oh, I know several doctors. There are no fewer than sixty-two doctors in Paris and you can see them from morning to night going to see their patients, wearing their square bonnets and astride their mules.”

  Then, turning away from me, he walked up to the balustrade and with a wide, very gracious gesture, showed me the capital, as if he were offering it to me as a gift. “Behold, Monsieur, the most beautiful city in the world!” And stretching out his arm, he showed me that the island we were on also housed the palace, and the Sainte-Chapelle; on the right bank were the wheat markets, the second-hand clothing markets, the sheet markets and, along the river, the Louvre, grandiose and almost menacing with its august white-marble exterior; just behind the Louvre was the wooden tower that marked the limit of the city, constructed as it was as part of the wall surrounding the capital. On the left bank there were numerous beautiful churches—too many to name; outside the walls was the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés,
whose three towers seemed so superb on this bright morning; within the walls, as if to mark the western edge of the city, the Tour de Nesle. Throughout the city we could see a web of turrets, clock towers, portcullises and gables that testified to the immeasurable riches of the lords and merchants who inhabit the capital. As I leant over, and while Aymotin continued his presentation, I could see below me on the place Notre-Dame the people walking, who looked like flies, and could even pick out my Pompée from her chestnut coat, though she looked no bigger than a mouse.

  “As you see,” said Aymotin, “Paris is divided into three cities by the Seine that flows through its middle. To the right, there is the most extensive part which is called la Ville…”

  “Like that, la ville?” I asked. “And the others?”

  “Ville with a capital v,” replied Aymotin, “because that’s where the king lives in his Louvre. But some call it the Saint-Denis quarter. Then there’s the part where we are which is called, as you know, the Île de la Cité.”

  “And to the left?”

  “That’s called l’Université because of all the students who live and study there, who annoy the night watch, make mischief with the monks of Saint-Germain, bother the bourgeois and commit a thousand other pranks that I couldn’t describe.”

  But Aymotin told me this without a trace of the morose severity that one would have expected of his robe, but rather with a somewhat malicious gleam in his eye.

  “Some people call l’Université the Hulepoix quarter, just as they call la Ville the Saint-Denis quarter.”

  “Hulepoix!” I laughed. “What a bizarre name! Hulepoix! I like it! But what are the names of the two little islands so full of greenery that I see in front of the Île de la Cité and are parallel to each other?”