by Robert Merle
At which, without another word, I threw on my doublet and followed Téligny, who was running at full speed up the rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain, across the rue de l’Arbre Sec, and finally reached the rue de Béthisy, where the admiral had rented a house that belonged to the Du Bourg family, descendants of a Huguenot martyr who’d been tortured to death by Henri II.
There was a great crowd of gentlemen of our party in front of the house, loudly expressing their indignation and fury at this attempt on Coligny’s life—most of them from the south and speaking in langue d’oc—swearing to take their revenge on the assassins. Téligny had a very hard time attempting to get through this angry crowd, and I was stopped by one fellow, who furiously demanded who I was and what I wanted. When I explained that I was a doctor, he shouted at me: “The admiral doesn’t want any papist doctors!”
“But,” I explained, “I’m one of you!”
On which Téligny turned back to confirm this, so the fellow let go of me, but continued to grumble.
Still forging ahead, with me at his heels, Téligny rushed upstairs to the admiral’s room on the first floor. Coligny, looking very pale, was seated in an armchair, holding his right arm up in the air, and you could see his right index finger had been badly slashed. His left arm had a bloody wound just above the elbow. I asked the people there if they would bring me some spirits as quickly as possible, along with some bandages, and, as I waited, someone else thrust a pair of scissors into my hand and I began cutting back his left sleeve, having removed my doublet so as not to stain it with all of this blood. Even though I went very slowly with my cutting, I couldn’t help shaking his arm a bit, and with each movement the admiral blinked, but continued looking at me, his lips pressed firmly together with sweat flowing down his face, and said not a word.
I’d just finished cutting off the left sleeve when, to my immense relief, Ambroise Paré arrived, accompanied by Monsieur de Mazille, who was one of the king’s physicians. Just as they entered, someone—I think it was Coligny’s orderly, Cornaton—handed me the bandages and spirits. Ambroise Paré poured some of this into a goblet he’d appropriated and applied some to the wounded index finger, and some to the scissors.
“Monsieur,” he said, “this is going to hurt.”
“I shall be patient,” said Coligny. And with his face pale and sweating but marvellously calm, he watched Ambroise Paré while the surgeon, working with this pair of bad scissors as adroitly as if he had the finest scalpel in his hand, removed the first two joints of the index finger. This done, he bandaged up what remained, while Madame de Téligny, on her knees in front of her father, sobbed miserably.
“And now for the arm!” said Coligny in a firm voice.
“What, Monsieur?” said Paré. “You want us to cut it off too?”
“Of course!”
“What do you think, Monsieur de Mazille?” Paré said.
“I think we should cut at the elbow,” replied Mazille. “The wound is very extensive and the bones have been damaged.”
“But wounds can heal and bones as well,” said Paré, shaking his head. “The problem is the risk of infection. I see an entrance to the wound but no exit. So I believe the ball is inside. What’s your opinion, Monsieur de Siorac?”
“That we should first try to extract the bullet,” I concurred, very surprised that the famous surgeon would ask for my opinion. I added, “We shouldn’t amputate so as to avoid infection and gangrene.”
Monsieur de Mazille acquiesced without further arguing the point, so widely respected was Paré’s experience and talent in the matter of bullet wounds—and this despite the fact that he wasn’t a doctor, and had only recently been awarded a master’s degree in medicine. Paré then asked if anyone there could recount the attempted murder so that he could get an idea of the trajectory of the bullet before making any attempt to extract it.
“I can,” said Monsieur de Guerchy, who had only recently benefitted from the admiral’s intervention in a dispute with Monsieur de Thiange.
“Speak, Guerchy,” said the admiral, who was watching Madame de Téligny on her knees, sobbing, in front of him; he added in a gentle voice, “Madame, my daughter, why are you crying? Not even a passing sparrow dies except that God wills it, and isn’t it marvellous that God judges me worthy of suffering for His faith?”
“Monsieur surgeon of the king,” stammered Guerchy, who was crying hot tears, like everyone else who was there, and simply couldn’t find his voice to continue.
So, calmly and firmly, and despite the fact that he was now pale as wax, the admiral repeated:
“Speak, Guerchy.”
And so great was the authority of the admiral over his gentlemen—who venerated him as their guide sent by God to lead their side to victory—that these two words were enough to make Guerchy get a hold on himself and stop sobbing.
“I saw the attempt from very close,” he reported in a firm voice. “I was walking on the admiral’s right and, to show him my respect, was a little way behind him. Which was a mistake,” he groaned, “since if I’d been right next to him I could have covered him with my body.”
“Go on, Guerchy,” urged Coligny.
“As he walked, the admiral was reading a letter, and one of his shoes kept slipping off his foot, so every once in a while he’d push it with his heel to make it go back on, taking a step backwards each time, and this movement saved his life, for the shot was fired from his right a few yards from a house that stands next to the cloister of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.”
“From where was the shot fired?” said Paré.
“From a lattice window that was covered by a curtain. After the shot, we saw the smoke and rushed in, but found the room empty and the arquebus still hot, leaning up against the window.”
“And where was the window?”
“On the first floor.”
“So,” deduced the surgeon, “the shot was fired from above and obliquely, since the assassin wouldn’t have waited until the admiral presented his profile before shooting. The admiral had his two hands out in front of him to read his letter, and since he suddenly took a step backwards to adjust his shoes, the ball struck the index of his right hand and subsequently, lower down and obliquely, the base of the left forearm. So it is my opinion, taking account of the position of the wound, that the ball must be situated between the radius and the cubitus, just above the elbow.”
I must confess that in the very teeth of the misfortune that was striking our leader, and devastated as I was, as much as the others, I heard this diagnosis with delight, the doctor in me carrying the day over the Huguenot. Not that I didn’t understand the importance Ambroise Paré attached to the position of the body in his research on projectiles, having diligently read his famous treatise on arquebus wounds, wherein he wrote that, at the siege of Perpignan, when Marshal de Brissac was suffering from a ball lodged in his shoulder blade, only one of the doctors present thought of placing the patient in the position in which he’d received the wound, and could then infer the trajectory of the bullet, and, by palpation, discover it. I saw here another example of this marvellous method, which allowed him to make a very limited incision, sparing the wounded man great pain and loss of blood.
“Operate, Monsieur Paré,” said Coligny through clenched teeth, but with the same heroic serenity he’d displayed thus far, doubtless derived in part from the faith he had that his present trials were divinely ordained and thus constituted a badge of honour. He later communicated this certainty to his minister, Merlin, who confirmed his idea—one that virtually all of those surrounding him here shared. I admired his faith, though I didn’t share it, and was convinced that it was at the root of the admirable strength and constancy he displayed as he was dying.
“Monsieur,” Paré explained, “I’ve sent my aide to fetch my surgical instruments, since I cannot operate with sufficient delicacy with these wretched scissors.”
And scarcely had he said this before his aide arrived, panting like a pair of bellows, having dashed li
ke a madman to the surgeon’s lodgings in the rue de Béthisy and back.
Paré asked Captain de Monins to place himself behind the admiral and to hold him firmly by the shoulders; then he requested the orderly, Cornaton, to elevate his left arm, and ordered me to hold his left hand. He then palpated the place he’d indicated, and opened it with his scalpel with the help of a small clip, the tips of whose branches were shaped like spatulas. He got hold of the bullet, but had to make three tries before he could extract it completely, because it had so tightly lodged between the radius and cubitus. The admiral underwent all of this without a sound and without fainting, though his face was very pale and dripping with sweat. The bullet having been removed with marvellous dexterity, Ambroise Paré bandaged the wound, and the admiral, having solemnly thanked us, asked in a feeble voice that he be undressed and placed in his bed, which we did.
I’d observed that, before he bandaged the patient, Paré had spread some quicksilver ointment on the wound, which Monsieur de Mazille had handed him without saying a word. As soon as the admiral was comfortably established behind his bed curtains, I asked them in a whisper why they’d done this. They looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then Mazille whispered:
“It’s an antidote. We have to assume that they poisoned the bullet.”
As softly as he’d whispered this, Cornaton, the orderly, heard it, something that would have serious consequences, as we shall see. Not that Cornaton bore any malice whatsoever—quite the contrary. A young and very good-looking fellow, with black eyes and hair, an aquiline nose and beautiful mouth, he was a member of Coligny’s elite corps, and had already distinguished himself for his bravery, his staunch Huguenot faith and his devotion to the admiral. Which is to say that he was quite reserved, much as Samson was, and, like my brother, disposed to a dove-like simplicity, something that was not without its perils.
As the admiral was now comfortably settled, Ambroise Paré told me that I could go to dine, and that he’d stay with Coligny until I returned. Of course, I acquiesced, realizing that my care and presence were now required even though I’d never been consulted as to my availability, so obvious was it to all of them that, being a Huguenot, I could not but devote my days and nights to my admiral. So in this, my Church—despite my lack of zeal—had engaged me more deeply than I would have wished.
As I went downstairs to the lower room, I found a much larger group gathered there than before, and their grief and anger ten times as vehement. As Gascons, which most of them were, they tended to exaggerate things and so they were engaged in making terrible threats, not only against the Guise family—a nest of vipers that should be completely exterminated—but against the court, the queen mother, Anjou, Alençon and even the king. Their behaviour terrified me since I didn’t doubt that among this crowd mingled eyes and ears that belonged to the Medicis—a fear that later proved all too true.
Miroul was waiting for me outside, and as soon as we entered the rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain (since I’d decided to return to the Five Virgins to thank Maître Delay), he whispered urgently:
“Monsieur, this attempted murder has a very bad odour. You have your pardon in your pocket. Let’s get out of this stinking city right now!”
“Ah, Miroul,” I sighed, “I’d love to, but I cannot. I promised Ambroise Paré that I’d watch over the admiral, and how could I not fulfil this promise, since I’m a doctor?”
“Ah, Monsieur,” he insisted, his eyes clouded with apprehension, “please remember, I beg you, that your father made you promise to follow my advice in dangerous situations. This is as dangerous as it gets! These Parisians have tasted blood and they’re going to fall on us. All you have to do is walk the streets today to see how the papists confront and insult everyone they believe to be of the religion. Monsieur, we are caught in this web and completely exposed to our enemies. We must save ourselves while there’s still time!”
“Without our horses, Miroul? And without Dame Gertrude’s carriage, which is in Saint-Cloud, as you know.”
“Monsieur, we can rent horses. We can be in Montfort in a day and from there we can head home.”
“Well, Miroul,” I said after a moment’s thought, “I believe your advice is sound, but I cannot follow it. My honour forbids it.”
To this my good Miroul had no answer, but looked extremely unhappy, and I could see that he was not worried about himself, but about protecting my life, for which he felt himself to be the sole guarantor.
As soon as he saw me appear at the tennis courts, Delay came over to meet me, and before I had the chance to thank him for what he’d done, he pulled me over to one side and asked anxiously about Coligny’s condition. And, doubting whether his concern was entirely benevolent, I answered with extreme prudence, telling him that, while the wound was not in itself mortal, Coligny’s advanced years made him extremely susceptible to gangrene, so he was not out of danger.
“Well,” said Delay, in a whisper and as if he were distracted, but giving me a sharp look out of the corner of his eye, “it might have been better for him and his people if he’d been killed outright. Now his Huguenots are all buzzing and angry like a swarm of furious bees, and have been seditiously threatening the court, forgetting the respect they owe their princes. I wish to God,” he added with a sly smile, “that they could be as careful as you, Monsieur de Siorac, who never speak unguardedly, display little of the zealotry of your party and even go to hear Mass, from what I’ve heard.”
“Well, Maître Delay!” I laughed to hide my confusion. “What a nice drop shot and how beautifully you placed the ball! I was crazy to think that you wouldn’t know which side I was on, you, who know everything.”
“I knew it the first time I saw you,” confessed Delay with immense pride, “not so much from your comportment, but from your brother’s, who’s way too rigid, though he’s as beautiful as an angel. And Monsieur de Nançay told me the rest.”
“And yet,” I observed, “however little you sympathize with my side, you’ve nevertheless rendered me an enormous favour.”
He looked at me in silence for a moment, which surprised me in someone who was as loquacious as a roaring river, and then said gravely:
“I love your humanity, Monsieur de Siorac. I love the way that, despite your noble status, you don’t treat a commoner like me with disdain. And I am impressed that you studied to become a doctor, nobleman that you are.”
“Well,” I laughed, “I inherited from my father the belief that it’s study that makes a man, not birth.”
“Well said! Well said!” smiled Delay, whom my aphorism had pleased enormously. “It’s by study and hard work that I was able to manufacture the best tennis balls in Christendom, and to create the finest tennis courts in Paris, which our princes love to frequent.”
Delay’s pride in the Five Virgins made him swell up like a chickpea that’s been stewing for a week. And yet, as vainglorious as he was, I liked him well enough, preferring him and his kind, and the zeal that they devoted to their business, to the gallant lords who strutted around the Louvre, wasting on vain superfluities the money that their people sweated to produce back in their provinces.
Furthermore, I couldn’t help noticing that having made me beholden to him for the favour he’d done increased his affection for me, and so, since he believed I was less calculating than he, I decided to take his pulse to see how high this fever had risen that I could feel mounting around me.
“So, Delay,” I whispered, looking about me nervously, “help me understand something. Did the king of Paris do this thing all by himself?”
“He never would have dared do it alone,” replied Delay, casting in his turn a look about us. “More important men than he, including Charles, had a hand in it. And you can’t expect them to let it go at this. If necessary, they’ll go much further.” “But when the king learnt of the attempt during our game, he seemed genuinely angry.”
“He’s angry today,” replied Delay, who, after having hesitated a little,
took my arm and, whispering into my ear, added, “A child can wind up his top and spin it from left to right, but it can also be set spinning in the other direction by a different hand. Monsieur de Siorac, are you leaving today for the provinces?”
“Alas! I cannot. Ambroise Paré committed me to help him take care of the patient.”
“This is most unfortunate,” said Delay, giving me a brief but meaningful look. “I predict this story is going to turn out badly, after having read the preface.”
And at this, having said enough, or perhaps more than he’d wanted to or judged prudent, he took his leave of me, though not before I thanked him profusely for having obtained my pardon. But this compliment caused him to change his expression completely, and he listened to my thanks with a frigid expression, as if to let me know that, since things were taking the turn he’d intimated, he wouldn’t be able to offer me his good offices again, should I need them.
Miroul and I went off to dinner in the rue de la Truanderie at Guillaume Gautier’s tavern, and there we met Giacomi, who’d been waiting for us for a full hour, unable to take a bite he was so frightfully worried about our safety. When he caught sight of me, he reddened with pleasure and embraced me tightly, posing a hundred questions, which I answered in whispers by recounting the events we’d just experienced, including my discussions with Miroul and Maître Delay.
Giacomi agreed that I couldn’t honourably abandon the patient who’d been placed in my care, but that this was a most grievous turn of events, given how much the danger was increasing hourly. He told us that, as he’d walked through the streets, he’d seen groups of men confronting Huguenots or anyone they took to be of the religion, and that some were shouting, “To the cause! To Madame la Cause!”—injurious words by which the people designated our Church; he added that, because he was dressed in black, he himself had been stopped by a dozen ruffians, who would have torn him to pieces had it not been for his Italian accent, Italy being known to the Parisians for having crushed the embryo of heretical reformism while it was still in its shell. In short, everywhere he went he saw nasty looks, hushed conversations, comings and goings, the bourgeoisie armed to the teeth, bloodthirsty threats—all of which were signs of a growing wave of violent feelings we were sure to be prey to. For a moment, all we could do was look at each other in silence, thinking about what awaited us.