Heretic Dawn

by Robert Merle

“Please, Fogacer!” I cried. “Enough! As much as I love you I hate your blasphemies!”

  “What?” said Fogacer with his slow, sinuous smile. “My blasphemies! No, no! I’m a person of infinite tolerance, and would never demand the death, in the name of religion, of any Guillaume or Gautier, were he papist or reformist! Siorac, did you hear Maillard? A Huguenot lends me 100 écus. I meet him in the street. He asks for what is owed him. So I kill him. My dagger thereby becomes ‘the most sacred of swords’. And I’m automatically spared the noose, absolved, promised salvation without Purgatory and sent to heaven with the happy few! Do you think Maillard is the only one preaching this doctrine? In truth, the Huguenot has replaced the Jew as the object of hatred of our Holy Church. ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ That’s what’s being said—no, shouted!—in every church in the kingdom, and your side isn’t any better!”

  “My side!”

  “Oh, come, Siorac! The Michelade massacre! And I don’t know how many other Huguenot atrocities! Listen to this, mi fili: each religion can’t help being tyrannical, and, as a result, cruel, since each pretends to speak in the name of an absolute truth, which cannot be rejected without capital offence.”

  “Now, Fogacer,” I objected, “you’re talking only of the fanatics and not the good and honest people!”

  “But who are these good and honest people?” asked Fogacer, his eyes suddenly narrowing. “The late La Boétie, Montaigne, Ambroise Paré, Ramus, our poor Maître Rondelet, Pierre de L’Étoile, Michael Servetus, who was burnt by Calvin in Geneva, you, me—all of us people who want to inject a little bit of reason into men’s minds and advance secular knowledge. Mi fili, answer! Would you sacrifice the life of a single papist to help your Church triumph?”

  “Of course not!” I cried without hesitating, as if my answer were already waiting inside me, and, without my having been aware of it, deliberated at length.

  At this Fogacer looked at me, his eyes shining, and a smile on his sinuous lips, but this time not sardonic, but friendly, and he said in a quiet and almost muffled voice: “Then you are less of a believer than you thought, Siorac, since you reject the victory of your faith bought at the price of a single human life.”

  “But I believe!” I said, as though shaken by his explanation, which suddenly entered my understanding with a novelty that greatly magnified its power.

  “I’m not sure,” replied Fogacer. “I’m not sure whether you believe, or only believe you believe. Or rather, if you aren’t a member of a party much more than of a Church, that is, of the party of your father, whom you cherish with such great love.”

  To this, which moved me greatly and set me thinking, I had no answer, but decided to consider it at my leisure—a leisure I didn’t have and, indeed, we never seem to have, since existence rides us and spurs us along so constantly and with such appetites, an appetite for love, another for ambition, that we arrive at the end of our path without ever having resolved, in our intimate struggles, where truth lies. And this is true today, as I write this, the ribbon of my life having been unwound so far, still as uncertain and confused as I was on that day, back in 1572, when I debated with Fogacer the connection between cruelty and our beliefs.

  “Fogacer,” I answered after a moment, “I am, as you know, very beset with this question of my petition to the king for a pardon. Do you think that, through Anjou, I could get to the queen mother and, through her, dispose the king in my favour?”

  “Ah! The queen mother!” said Fogacer. “The queen mother thinks only of herself and fears only for herself. Imagine, Siorac, the humiliations of her reign, given that she played second to Diane de Poitiers in Henri II’s bed. When he died, she dressed herself in black so as never to leave him. And she dressed herself in power as well. Now Catherine is regent, first under François II and now under Charles IX, dominating her sons through her manipulations, her cajolery and her tears. She reigns, but must share her power perilously, since she’s threatened on the right by Guise, and on the left by the Huguenots. She’s a strong woman, but for the last thirteen years of her power, she’s never ceased trembling, and trembles today more than ever.”

  “What does she fear?”

  “She fears losing her great love: the sceptre. Your Coligny has confused the king with this dream of conducting an expedition into Flanders. Charles IX wants it, then doesn’t want it five minutes later. And if Coligny wins on this matter, Catherine imagines she’ll be sent off into exile in Florence. Now, Catherine, who is a woman of infinite cunning, but narrow views, has only one idea: to stay in power. So do you really think that, in the predicament she’s in, she’ll dare confront Charles with some favour for a Huguenot whom he already hates because he thinks he’s his brother’s man?”

  “Ah, Fogacer!” I said, shaking my head sadly, “I understand that I don’t count more than a speck of dust in the great winds that are rising across France, but, my friend, from what you’re telling me, Coligny is in the greatest peril.”

  “My son, do you think he doesn’t know it?”

  And, pivoting on his heels, Fogacer began to stride back and forth across the atelier on his long spidery legs, casting his glance now at the fireplace, but keeping an eye on the window, now at the staircase that led up to the floor above, and then, stopping suddenly, he crossed his arms and gave me a knowing and happy smile.

  “Mi fili,” he laughed, “if, as they claim, amare est gaudere felicitate alterius,‡‡‡ then I love you a lot, for I’m very happy that I can flood your soul with joy.”

  “Oh, Fogacer,” I exclaimed, “if there’s any happiness in my situation, tell me! I could use a dose of merriment! Ever since I arrived in Paris, I’ve encountered nothing but misadventures and difficulties. Nothing is working out for me, not even my women!”

  “Siorac,” he answered, his cheeks swollen with his good news as with a good wine that he didn’t want to swallow too quickly, “do you remember the judge who was my friend in Montpellier, thanks to whom I could warn you to flee before the tribunal could put you in prison?”

  “Of course! I’m infinitely grateful to him! And to you as well!”

  “You will be now! My friend, who left Montpellier when I did, is presently living in the capital, and though he’s given up his official position, is a good friend of a judge here in Paris. Asinus asinum fricat.§§§ Though I really shouldn’t call them asses since they’re both very intelligent.”

  “Monsieur,” broke in Miroul, who had rushed into the room and was unaware of Fogacer’s presence, “shall I saddle your horse or will we go on foot?”

  “Saddle it, Miroul!” cried Fogacer, gesturing with his long arms. “And yours as well, and put wings on them too, like Pegasus, to run with the wind! You’ll need them straightaway!”

  “What about this judge?” I asked, amazed that Fogacer was giving orders to my valet, who didn’t move a muscle, but just stood there, eyes wide in surprise, as though nailed to the spot.

  “This judge has just delivered his verdict in a case involving a mill where a certain lord was the plaintiff, and the verdict went in his favour. But, the Devil take me, I can’t remember the name of this gentleman! Please, Siorac, help me!”

  “How can I, when I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Well, perhaps you’ve heard tell of this mill, which is situated in a village just to the north of Paris, very famous for its good flour and the excellent breads that are baked there and that are sold in the capital. But, the Devil take me, I can’t remember the name of this village!”

  “You’re teasing me, Fogacer,” I cried, becoming increasingly impatient with his delays. “Why should I know anything about this mill? How does this relate to me?”

  “Very closely, my friend! Especially since this gentleman I was mentioning, and who, I believe, has a chateau in the southern provinces, inherited this mill from a cousin, an inheritance that was hotly contested by the cousin, hence this interminable suit—and now it’s a happy outcome for your friend.”

 
; “My friend! What friend? Ah, Fogacer, you’re driving me mad! Are you just playing with me?”

  “Wait!” muttered Fogacer. “It’s coming back to me little by little: the village where this mill turns its beautiful sails, such apt symbols of your own hopes, is named Gonesse.”

  “Gonesse?” I gasped. “Gonesse? I know that name!”

  “Monsieur,” said Miroul, “I believe that was the mill you told me someone was trying to sue Monsieur de Montcalm for.”

  “Montcalm!” I cried, suddenly beside myself. “Fogacer! You know where he lives in Paris! And you’re not telling me!”

  “I knew it once,” smiled Fogacer, arching his diabolical eyebrows, “but the Devil take me if I can remember the name of the street! My memory just isn’t what it used to be!”

  “Dammit, Fogacer!” I yelled, throwing myself at him and grabbing him by the shoulders. “You’re toying with me! Tell me, for God’s sake! Speak!”

  “’Sblood! What kind of behaviour is this?” And seizing my wrists, he laughingly broke my grip on him with a suppleness and force I wouldn’t have expected in him. “Lovers can be so ungrateful! Ingratis servire nefas!”¶¶¶

  “Their lodgings! Fogacer, where do they live?”

  “But how, my ungrateful Pollux, can I fill up the gaps in my memory, which is more riddled with holes than a cheese full of mice? All I can remember,” he laughed, keeping the table between us for protection, “is that the door knocker of their lodgings is in the figure of a giant Atlas bearing the world on his shoulders.”

  “The street, Fogacer, the street!”

  “Miroul,” cried Fogacer, “saddle the horses! And make it snappy, my son! Let’s be off!”

  “The street, Fogacer!”

  “Ah, yes! The street bears the name of those bronze figurines that are used as door knockers and that we call here marmousets.”

  “The rue des Marmousets!” I shouted. “On the Île de la Cité? In l’Université?”

  “On the Île de la Cité! But where are you running to, Siorac?”

  “To help Miroul!”

  “I’m right behind you, Siorac!” he cried, on my heels. “A horse! A horse for me as well! By all the good devils in the impossible hell,” he shouted, his voice sounding loud and clear behind me, “I insist on showing you the shortest route to your Eden, which should be all the dearer to you, since there isn’t any other! On this I’d wager my perishable soul!”

  * “Word games.”

  † “Alas! How difficult is the custody of glory!”

  ‡ “Fortune is like glass. When it shines most brightly it breaks.”

  § “It’s a question of fact and not of principle.”

  ¶ “Wait until tomorrow.”

  || “The patient will triumph.”

  ** “Sow your peas in April. You’ll be eating them all summer.”

  †† “To the greatest glory of God.”

  ‡‡ “A goddess from the machinery [i.e. from heaven].”

  §§ “The sole cause of all this evil was woman.”

  ¶¶ “Do not censure the many for the crimes of the few.”

  |||| “Who can avoid women, should do so.”

  *** “There’s a difference between someone who does not wish to sin and someone who does not know how to.”

  ††† “To each his pleasure.”

  ‡‡‡ “To love is to rejoice in the other’s happiness.”

  §§§ “One donkey scratches another.”

  ¶¶¶ “It is an offence to serve the ungrateful.”

  8

  OH HEAVEN! What happiness filled my heart as I trotted down the grand’rue Saint-Denis on Pompée, with Fogacer leading the way and Miroul on my right. On this Sunday, every shop was closed and not a cart did we see as we crossed the deserted Pont Notre-Dame to the Île de la Cité and found ourselves in the rue des Marmousets. Given the oppressive heat, most of the Parisians had withdrawn into their homes, but as clear as our passage was, it nevertheless seemed to take for ever, given the sting of my impatience.

  “Fogacer,” I stuttered, trying vainly to control the terrible beating of my heart in my chest, “have you spied the house yet whose door has the knocker you described?”

  He turned to me, his mouth wide open, but as I heard no word issue from it, I galloped up to his side and repeated my question.

  “I was just there, before visiting you, and it’s precisely this house where you spy that coach onto which the group of valets you see is loading all manner of trunks and packages.”

  At the sight of this I thought I would faint from my sudden apprehension. I dismounted and, tossing my reins to Miroul, staggered towards the open door on legs that trembled so violently I thought I would fall. The group of valets passed busily in and out, under the watchful eyes of a major-domo, who commanded them gruffly in Provençal. I approached this fellow, who looked familiar to me, and asked him to announce my arrival to the master of the lodgings.

  “Ah, Monsieur de Siorac!” he replied. “I remember you well from having seen you once or twice at Barbentane five years ago, and am well aware of what infinite obligations we all owe you, having heard Madame often exclaim that, without you, not a soul, animal or stone would still be standing today! I’ll go and tell Monsieur de Montcalm you’re here.”

  “But,” I replied as courteously as I could through my knotted throat, “will I not be a bother? Are you not preparing your departure?”

  “Indeed we are,” he replied, raising his hands heavenward, “and God knows how happily! For this Paris,” he continued in langue d’oc, “is a dreadful place and its people are even worse. We would have been gone by eight o’clock if this coach had arrived on time. But you can’t trust anything these rascals tell you! But wait a bit, I beg you. I’ll let the master know you’re here.”

  “Lord,” I thought, “I’ve found my Angelina only to lose her! But I shouldn’t bewail my fortune completely, since, without the impertinence of this coachman, I would have missed her entirely.” As I attempted to console myself thus, the major-domo reappeared, but with less warmth, it seemed, than before, and, begging me politely to follow him, led me inside to a small cabinet, where he left me, quite unhappy with the change in his manner, which did not bode well. And, indeed, when the door opened, Monsieur de Montcalm approached me with a smile on his lips but a cold look in his eye, his manner hurried and brusque.

  “Well, well, Monsieur de Siorac, how happy I am to see you!” (But he bloody well didn’t look it!) “I haven’t forgotten how very much obliged we are to you” (but never was gratitude less gratefully expressed), “and had you not arrived just as I was leaving, having won my lawsuit, I would have loved to invite you to dine with me and to spend more time with you than I’m able to at this moment.”

  “Monsieur,” I replied, “I’d be most unhappy to delay you, but having just had the good fortune to learn of your whereabouts, I wanted to present my respects, having come to Paris only a month ago to ask for the king’s pardon.”

  “Yes, I learnt of your arrival from Nançay the first day I was at the Louvre, and, of course, communicated my sincere wishes that you be successful in your quest.”

  “Aha,” I thought, “these ‘sincere wishes’ didn’t go as far as making any attempt to find the lodgings of the man who, five years previously, had snatched him from the hands of the bloodthirsty brigands of the Barbentane woods, and saved the honour of his wife and daughter.” This thought so froze my tongue that all I could do was stand there and look at him in silence. He seemed to me to be extremely ill at ease, visibly torn by the manifest contradiction between his outward appearance, which was quite imposing, as he was a large man with bushy eyebrows, piercing eyes and a severe face, and his inward feelings, which must have been a good deal less assured than he would have wished—his conscience no doubt painfully pricked to have so badly recognized the obligations that he so loudly proclaimed he owed me. And thus, as he was unable to dismiss me outright—however much he must have wanted to
do so—and since I did not take my leave, being determined to see his daughter—a desire I gathered he did not intend to satisfy, since it was so contrary to his designs—we stood there, facing each other, mute but polite, each waiting for the other to make his move. And we would have remained standing there face to face like two statues if we’d not been interrupted by a richly clothed, somewhat portly young gentleman, smiling broadly, who entered the cabinet and proclaimed, “Good my father, it’s time to leave! Madame de Montcalm and Angelina have taken their places in the coach and are waiting for you.”

  “Monsieur de Siorac,” said Monsieur de Montcalm, “this gentleman is Monsieur de La Condomine, who will accompany us to Barbentane where he intends to marry my daughter.”

  I was speechless at this frightful news, so calmly announced, and felt myself so near to fainting from the shock that I bowed more deeply than would have been appropriate, just to get the blood flowing back to my face.

  “Monsieur,” I said, finally, trying to keep my voice steady, “I am at your service.”

  At that, Monsieur de La Condomine, who looked like a complete fop, and who doubtless knew of my connections to Angelina, said not a word, but made a deep bow of his own. And at this, looking Monsieur de Montcalm straight in the eye, I decided to burn my bridges, since it was obvious that I was being cast into the outer darkness, and said loudly but with such exaggerated courtesy that it was obviously a challenge:

  “Monsieur de Montcalm, I would be infinitely obliged if you would consent to allow me to present my respects to Madame de Montcalm and to your daughter before you leave.”

  Monsieur de Montcalm, who was of a naturally choleric complexion, reddened with rage at the idea that I would thus hold a knife to his throat, since he could not honourably refuse to grant to the man who had saved his life the courtesy of saying goodbye. But intending nevertheless to deny this courtesy, he behaved exactly as his future son-in-law had done, and refused to say another word. Instead, he simply turned away, took Monsieur de La Condomine by the arm and left me standing there in the cabinet.