by Robert Merle
As for me, I wasn’t immediately completely won over, for as I looked back at him with all the respect in the world, it seemed to me that his physiognomy tended less towards happiness and compliance—qualities that are always reassuring in a king—than towards bitterness and melancholy, for I could just detect in the turn of his mouth something that allowed me to see that this man, however young and favoured by the gods, was not at ease in his own skin.
I also observed that Anjou wore a thin and fine moustache, falling down at the corners of his mouth (which only emphasized the slight pout that I just mentioned), a little bunch of hairs under his lower lip that connected with a trim beard that encircled his chin, all of which were the most beautiful black, as was his hair, which emerged from under his cap, and fell in places over his forehead, which was high, wide and luminous.
“Monsieur de Siorac,” he said in a deep voice, his eyes serious but not angry, “is it true that you entered into a quarrel in the courtyard of the Louvre with Monsieur de Quéribus?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” I replied, making a deep bow.
“And which of the two of you began this dispute?”
This question embarrassed me not a little, and all the more so because Quéribus, whom I’d not seen as I entered the gallery, since I had my eyes on Anjou, suddenly appeared on my right, still flanked by the Marquis d’O and Maugiron, but no longer looking the least bit haughty, but instead quite pale, ashamed and more confused than I was myself, evidently very fearful of losing the good graces of his master. And I suddenly realized that I myself had nothing of the kind to fear, being a Huguenot, and so, since I was already out of favour, I resolved to take the burden of the baron’s responsibility.
“Monseigneur,” I answered, “the fault lies neither with him nor with me, but with my doublet, which Monsieur de Quéribus could not look at without surprise, and his unhappy reaction produced a like reaction in me, and so looks passed to words and we exchanged a few of these that were prickly enough to cause a dispute, though the occasion hardly warranted such a difference since it derived entirely from his despising a despicable doublet.”
At this, His Highness deigned to smile, since he enjoyed giochi di parole,* as I discovered after our conversation.
“Quéribus,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “what think you of the account Monsieur de Siorac has given of your encounter?”
“That it is far too generous and absolves me of far too much blame.” And saying this, he bowed graciously to me, a bow I instantly returned.
“Quéribus the Quarreller,” said the duc (who seemed very happy with his own alliteration, which the courtiers greeted with a delighted murmur), “do you have any additional grievances or complaints concerning Monsieur de Siorac’s person or sartorial choices?”
“None whatsoever, Your Highness.”
“Do you hate him?”
“Quite the contrary,” said Quéribus with some heat. “You’d have to be very valiant to dare cross swords with me, and equally good-natured not to resent me for my insolent treatment of him. I’ve only known Monsieur de Siorac since yesterday, but already I like and esteem him greatly.”
“And yet you were ready to cut his throat!” said Anjou with a sudden frown and raising his voice. “And not just you, but your seconds and your thirds! Oh, my friends,” he continued, now addressing the entire assembly, “isn’t this madness, all these quarrels that start up daily among you and in this very chateau? And near the person of the king—which is a capital crime according to the laws of the kingdom! And quarrels over what? Over things as unimportant and empty as this doublet. You’d think that killing each other were a kind of sport for you that needed no more justification than does a tennis match! Beware this monster, called a quarrel, which has been gaining popularity among the nobility, doesn’t little by little devour you all! If you were to count up all the people in France who lose their lives every year in these duels, you’d discover that there have been battles, both in foreign and civil wars, at which there were fewer losses of such young and valiant lords—who might, with time, have attained to greatness, instead of dying uselessly in a field in the bloom of their youth. My bonny lads,” continued Anjou (who was exactly our age, and was only our elder by reason of his rank), “can you imagine anything crazier than that a gentleman, with no hatred in his heart for his adversary, nay, having an obligation of friendship with him, should kill him in the name of some duty of false gallantry and false sense of honour?”
This powerful and beautiful remonstrance, eloquently delivered in fluid French, quieted our lordlings so completely that you could have heard a pin drop on a rug, each of them holding his breath in proportion to his sins, which must have been many and great judging by the expressions on many of their faces, though doubtless there were none here who’d pushed their excesses to killing a man in a private duel.
The Duc d’Anjou, meanwhile, fell silent, sitting on his high-backed chair, in his most elegant pose, his beautiful hands (which, I learnt later from Fogacer, he kept soft by applying all manner of fancy pastes and ointments) placed lightly on the arms of his chair, his beautiful, black, angry eyes fixed on Quéribus’s as though he expected him to speak in a certain way but without explaining what he wanted.
“What should I do, Monseigneur?” asked Quéribus, who, pale and almost trembling, appeared to be in despair to have displeased his master. “Shall I straightaway make my peace with Monsieur de Siorac and ask his forgiveness?”
Still, His Royal Highness, head held high, looked him in the eye but said not a word, remaining majestically still as stone.
“Well, then, since I must,” said Quéribus, flushing with anger at being forced to apologize to a man of inferior rank. “Monsieur de Siorac, I beg you—”
But I didn’t let him finish, since things were not at all going the way I wanted. Pulling the baron suddenly to me, I embraced him warmly saying loudly: “Ah, Monsieur de Quéribus! It’s not an apology I want, it’s your friendship and only that!”
At this, he reddened, laughed, paled, laughed again and, suddenly dropping all his defences, embraced me in turn and kissed me several times on both cheeks, to which I responded in kind, finding this exchange infinitely more pleasurable than I would have found the clash of our swords. For, to tell the truth, he was so skilled in swordplay that, in the blink of an eye, he would have laid me out cold in the field, if our duel had taken place.
However, releasing me from his fond embrace, Quéribus, his face still red from pleasure, with tears in his eyes, and his face radiant, said to me, “Siorac, I confess here and now that you are no more rustic than I.”
“Nor you more of a rat than I.”
“Nor is your doublet any more shabby than mine.”
“What?” cried Anjou suddenly. “Do you really believe that, Quéribus?”
“Assuredly so, Monseigneur,” replied Quéribus with a bow.
“Well, I’m very glad,” laughed Anjou, “for, looking at you, I see that you’re the same height and build, and I had the idea that, as a gauge of your new friendship, you could exchange doublets!”
At this suggestion (which was really an order) there was a burst of laughter from the entire assembly that died down the minute Anjou looked up disapprovingly. I leave you to imagine the discomfort displayed by Quéribus as he exchanged doublets with me, and to guess how hard it was for me not to look too happy at my rich spoils, my double’s displeasure touching me deeply, given the new feelings I had for him. And though the lordlings who were watching were struggling to contain their mirth, their cheeks so swelled they looked like frogs, such was the sovereign control that Anjou maintained over them that not one burst out laughing, and those whose eyes were too full of mockery immediately cast them down when they thought he was watching them.
“Well, this looks like an excellent fit,” said the Duc d’Anjou, maintaining his gravity, “and also looks good on each of these sworn friends! Quéribus,” he continued, “I am grateful for your compliance a
nd would be even more so if you were to consent to spend the next hour, dressed as you are, walking about the Louvre with Monsieur de Siorac.”
“Ah, Monseigneur!” cried Quéribus, turning ashen. “Must you submit me to such torment?”
“Monsieur,” replied His Highness, “would you be ashamed in front of us, who order you thus, to appear in this doublet?”
“In front of you, Monseigneur, not in the least! But in front of the others!”
“The others are nothing, where we are not present,” replied the Duc d’Anjou, with such majesty that I suspected that he sometimes forgot that he wasn’t the king of France.
“Baron de Quéribus,” he continued, “I shall see you here in an hour. Monsieur de Siorac as well.”
That was our invitation to take our leave. We had to bend to it, and leave the hall, I in his splendour, he in my rags. Samson followed along behind, very glad, I’m sure, to see me safe and quieter than a log. Quéribus was also mute and blushing deeply in his excessive debasement, shaking like a leaf and looking entirely crestfallen, submitting to the despair of a punishment that for him was as cruel as death itself, so immense is the vanity of our courtiers—how different from our Huguenot sense of nobility, which prefers to be rather than to appear, and inclines more to the possession of wealth than to the display of it.
“Ah, Monsieur,” I said, taking his arm and speaking quietly to him, “don’t put on such a long face. People will laugh at you if they think you’ve been humiliated. Instead, put on a smile! Look happy! And when people look surprised to see you thus, simply say, ‘Siorac and I have made a bet, and I’m going to be the winner!’”
“Heavens, Siorac,” laughed Quéribus, “you’ve got as much wit as courage! That’s excellent advice, and I’m going to follow it. It won’t be said that people here who don’t like me too much will have the pleasure of seeing me with my tail between my legs!”
And he stood up straight, squared his shoulders, held his head high and sallied forth into the courtyard of the Louvre, his lips opened in a smile (even if it was a bit jaundiced and forced). And I, seeing him in this disposition and hoping to fortify it, decided to recount my experience with the sorceress in Montpellier, who had fornicated with me on a grave in the cemetery because she believed I was Beelzebub, but then, seeing me in the street later, threw a curse on me which, for the next ten days, left me completely impotent. My story got Quéribus laughing out loud till he had tears in his eyes and was holding his sides.
“Ah, Siorac,” he cried, “you’re too funny! And when you think that Monsieur de Montaigne’s sachet of herbs helped you regain your virility, but turned out to be empty—I mean the sachet not your virility.”
And he laughed even louder at his own wit, and I along with him until we were bent over with mirth. Seeing this, several of the courtiers (which must come from the Old French word “courre”—to hunt—rather than from “court”, since they seem always to be out of breath from chasing the higher-ups, begging favours), their attention attracted by our hilarity, came up to ask Quéribus the reason for his strange attire, and, obtaining no response because he was laughing so hard, decided they simply had to know the secret that had us prey to such mirth. Plus, when the crowd saw that we were followed by the dreamy Samson, by Giacomi, on his way back from his fencing, by Miroul, all amazed, and by Montesquiou (who, no doubt, had been told to follow us to ensure that we didn’t hide for the hour of the punishment), their curiosity was so whetted that they fell in behind us and we soon had an impressive following, since there are as many gapers at court as there are in the city, who were bent on solving the mystery of why one of Anjou’s lordlings would go about in such a decrepit costume.
Our procession, as you might imagine, put us in a very merry mood, but suddenly Quéribus, squeezing my arm, whispered in my ear, in the most sportive tones, “Siorac, I suspect you of being of the same religion as the Grand Prieur of France.”
“And who is this great person?” I asked, secretly alarmed that he was talking about religion with a Huguenot.
“The bâtard—the Chevalier d’Angoulême. And thank God he has only the title and the revenues from the position, for, if he had to bless or absolve any of the ladies, the Devil knows what sprinkler he’d use, since there’s no crazier petticoat-chaser in the kingdom!”
We both laughed at this, and I even harder than he, since, looking back at our sheep-like following, I saw that many of them were laughing as well, without having heard a word of our conversation, simply to give the impression that they were in on the joke.
“Ah, good God, Siorac,” said Quéribus, “what a good companion you make! What a pity it would have been to kill you, since you possess all the talents it takes to make a gallant gentleman. What’s more,” he continued without a trace of vanity, “the more I look at you the more I think you look a bit like me.”
“Quéribus,” I said, pretending a sigh, “you flatter me. I have blonde hair and yours is golden. My eyes are grey-blue and yours are azure. I have pale skin and yours is white. My nose is straight enough, but yours is as though delicately chiselled and your lips as well, so that the ladies must go crazy over you. In a word, Monsieur, I think I’m the sketch and you’re the finished work.”
And even though my words were said a bit in jest, this beautiful speech so delighted Quéribus that he clasped me to him and gave me a dozen kisses, saying, “Ah, Siorac! Ah, my friend. I like you so well I don’t ever want us to part company. I open my house, my purse and my stables to you! Good God! I’m ready to give you anything I have, and more! And if there’s any lady in the court you desire, you have only to say her name and I’ll do everything in my power to make her yours!”
It seemed to me that Quéribus was overdoing it and was trying to impress me with his power. I was wrong. For when I’d got to know the court better, I discovered that everything was done to excess in Paris: be it friendship or hatred. A certain gentleman that I heard about, having been left for two weeks by his intimate companion, went into such mourning that he let his beard grow and gave up eating and drinking, taking only the minimum necessary to survive until the return of his absent friend.
I expressed my deep gratitude as fervently as I could to this friend who, only a hour previously, had wanted to cut my throat: it was my turn to embrace him and plant a dozen kisses on his cheeks, and I told him that the lady had already been selected, that she’d invited me that very evening for supper—to be followed by “dessert”—and that she lived in the rue Trouvevache. When I mentioned this street, Quéribus broke out laughing uncontrollably.
“Ah, Siorac,” he said, “I know the lady. It’s the Baronne des T.! There’s not a decent-looking gentleman at court who hasn’t also been invited to her little suppers, but caro mio, it’s very light fare! The lady is an arch-coquette: for soup you’ll have sweet nothings, and the little minx gives nothing away beyond her lips; she keeps you amused with little snacks but the pot roast never gets to the table.”
As he was explaining this, someone tapped him on the shoulder, and, turning round, we saw Monsieur de Montesquiou who, looking as austere as ever with the two bars, eyebrows and moustache, lining his face, told us the hour had now elapsed and that we were to return to the hall where His Highness was waiting for us.
Accordingly, we headed that way, followed, still, by our Panurgic procession, which Montesquiou halted with his raised hand at the entrance to the gallery, Quéribus and I still enjoying our various stories and witticisms, eyes shining and faces smiling, and our cheeks nearly worn out with all the kisses we’d exchanged.
I was so fascinated by the Duc d’Anjou and by the very Italian subtlety of his behaviour (but wasn’t he, after all, the son of a Medici mother and the heir of all the charm, cunning and appreciation of beauty of his Florentine family?) that I was looking forward to seeing him again and hearing him speak. And yet there was a scruple that was bothering me, scarcely larger than a pebble in a boot that, though it doesn’t prevent you from
walking, nevertheless reminds you constantly of its presence: how could I admire the sworn enemy of my party, the victor at Jarnac and Moncontour, the man who murdered Condé by means of the hand of this very grim Montesquiou who was escorting me to him? And if, however, as Delay had pointed out, there were really four kings in this war-torn kingdom—Charles IX, Coligny, the Duc d’Anjou and Guise—why should I be surprised that each of the four, feeling threatened by the others, should plot their rivals’ destruction, and that there should be a series of constantly shifting alliances in order for the four to keep each other in check? And in this present, strange and almost unnatural convergence, in which we saw Charles IX make Coligny his advisor—out of mistrust of his mother and hatred of his brother—Anjou might well enter into some understanding with Guise, though he should have worried more about Guise’s unquenchable ambitions to unseat the entire Valois family, as events later proved only too well. And so the papist party presently had two heads, like Janus, under one bonnet: Anjou and Guise, each of whom was unable to keep from hoping that the other would falter and leave the terrain open to him.
In the midst of such thoughts, I found myself very disappointed that, as we re-entered the hall, Anjou was not there, and nor was the crowd of his courtiers; instead there were only five or six people, among whom I recognized Fogacer, next to a very serious-looking character with an honest face that I liked well enough, and who must have been Dr Miron (who, in truth, did not turn out to be so stupid and ignorant in his practice as Fogacer had said; indeed, quite the contrary). As we came in, a tall, well-built gentleman with a high forehead and a bold look in his eye (who I discovered later was called Du Guast) stepped over to us and said: