by Robert Merle
* “To each his pleasure.”
10
“HURRY, MY MASTER,” Miroul urged, shaking me from the momentary paralysis the bells had cast on me, “we’ve got to get off this roof or they’ll start shooting at us like pigeons.”
’Sblood! He was right! We had to act quickly and wisely, though so often in perilous situations it turns out to be blind luck that turns stupidity into genius or wisdom into folly.
I saw, as I cast a glance behind me, that there was a building attached to this one that looked like a stable, and that overlooked a courtyard that contained a number of small gardens. Indeed, one of the surprises of Paris is that, in the street, you see only the urban facade, but behind it there is a little rural landscape, complete with wells, fruit trees and all the greenery a housekeeper would need.
Thinking we’d be better hidden in these gardens, away from the massacre, I began to climb down the roof on that side. Miroul quickly passed me, of course, and leapt, with his usual agility, onto the roof of the stable and from there onto the ground. But having landed on the ground, he made a sign to me not to follow, since the fall would be too hard for me, and, running to grab a rickety ladder that he’d spied in the garden, he brought it over and leant it up against the stable wall for us. As much of a help as it was to me, it was absolutely necessary for Fröhlich, who weighed so much that the last three rungs broke under his weight and he reached the ground much faster than he would have wished, though without injury. Miroul couldn’t help laughing, though quietly, so irrepressible was his natural gaiety, even in the most desperate situations.
There wasn’t so much as a cat in these gardens, our beautiful papist angels being wholly caught up in the pillaging of the house behind us. In all of the windows, which were lit up by the torches that were passing to and fro within, we could see the guards moving about in their frantic search for money, clothes, weapons, boots and silverware—such being the worldly rewards God was providing for their murder of the heretics, not to mention the heavenly reward of bypassing Purgatory on their way to Paradise. So taken were they by this glorious quest that not one of them thought, thank God, to cast a glance out of the window, otherwise they surely would have seen us by the light of the full moon.
“My friends,” I whispered, “let’s head for the gardens! Better trees than men!”
So we leapt into the first garden we came to, and from that to the next, and to the one after that, Miroul leaping over the fences like a rabbit, I clearing them with some effort and Fröhlich simply trampling them before him like an elephant. Seeing this, I invited him to go before me, since his work greatly eased my way. ’Tis true that he made an infernal racket as he crushed or ripped up everything in his path, but none of this noise could be heard over the deafening tolling of the bells, the echoes of arquebus shots in the streets and the general noise of the crowds that came from all sides.
Eventually, moving from garden to garden, we came out onto a street, which, as we learnt from Miroul, who now knew Paris like the back of his hand, was the rue Tirechappe.
“Monsieur,” said my gentle valet as we hid in the shadows of a doorway to get our bearings, “we’re but fifty yards from Alizon’s lodgings. Let’s ask for her help!”
“Not on your life!” I growled through clenched teeth. “We can’t. She’s been blinded by the sermons she’s heard, and considers me her mortal enemy.”
“But, Monsieur, she’s a good wench, who’s enjoyed your generosity and your caresses! There must be some love yet from what you’ve shared!”
“There is none, I tell you! Let’s move on!”
“Where?”
“Wherever fate takes us.”
This fate seemed to fall out of the sky on us in the form of a poor fellow who landed in the mud a few yards from us, having been defenestrated after his assailants had ripped his stomach open. Above us several women were screaming, and I hesitated, wondering whether we should rush to their aid. But suddenly I saw a man rushing towards us, pursued by half a dozen bourgeois armed with pikes. As he reached us, he suddenly turned to face them, sword in hand, wrapped his left arm in his cloak, and stood with his back to a house, clearly resolved to die fighting since he had no chance against his attackers, being clothed only in his doublet while they were in helmets and breastplates. One of his assailants raised his torch in order better to see his victim, and I couldn’t help yelling as I recognized Monsieur de Guerchy. He looked our way at this, and seeing the red and yellow colours of Fröhlich, yelled:
“Help me, Navarre!”
You can easily imagine that, hearing this appeal, we all drew our swords and had at these cowards, taking the wind out of their sails and managing to inflict enough wounds that they fled, shouting, “To arms! To the cause! To Madame la Cause!”
One of them dropped his sword in his panic, and Fröhlich immediately seized it, saying “Herrgott! This is a good!” for he’d been without a sword since the melee at the admiral’s house and had been feeling very vulnerable.
Poor Guerchy was staggering, and Miroul and I held him up, but blood was flowing from all parts of his body, especially a nasty wound in his chest. When I told him I’d examine his wounds, he replied in a very weak voice:
“Don’t waste your time, Siorac, I’m done for! But if you succeed in getting away, I beg you to tell others that my death was worthy of my life.”
“I promise.”
“And watch out for these scoundrels! They’re all wearing a white cloth on their arms and a cross on their caps to recognize each other.”
Then, his heart full of gall, he opened his mouth wide in a last attempt to breathe but could not, and gave up the ghost, honourably, as he had wanted, his face full of resolve and his sword in hand.
“Monsieur! We can’t stay here!” hissed Miroul as we withdrew into the shadow of a doorway, realizing that even there the moon was so bright that we could easily be seen. “Those scoundrels may return! Let’s keep moving!”
“All right, but not before Fröhlich removes his red and yellow colours that will give us away.”
“Ach! Mein Herr!” said Fröhlich, his voice constricted with emotion. “Ask one of Navarre’s Swiss to hide his uniform! Schelme! Schelme!”
“You have to, Fröhlich,” I said stiffly. “You put all three of us at risk!”
“Ach!” he objected. “Taking off my uniform would break my oath as a Swiss guard!”
“Then break it, Fröhlich,” I said, “or by God you must leave us!”
“Was?” he cried, tears streaming down his large red face. “Leave you? Where would I go without you, Monsieur? What would I do? Who would command me?”
“I command you, for the present, Fröhlich, and my orders are to disrobe this second and leave your uniform here.”
Which, finally, he did, amid copious tears and great sighs, and not without carefully folding his tunic and placing it lovingly on a windowsill nearby, as if he thought he’d come back to collect it after the massacre. Then, he sheathed his sword in his belt, which seemed to comfort him a bit. As for me, all lathered from our encounter with these rascals, I felt so sweaty that I unbuttoned by doublet and my chemise, which, as it turned out, was a very good thing.
“Now!” I said. “Let’s head towards the Seine! Maybe we can get across despite the chains!”
But we hadn’t gone more than twenty yards before we met a large band of papists, who, seeing us, began shouting “To the cause!” and looked as though they’d surround us, a manoeuvre we frustrated by standing with our backs to a wall and drawing our swords, which seemed to slow their charge.
“Brothers!” I shouted, trying to affect as Parisian an accent as I could. “What’s going on? Did you take us for heretical dogs?”
“Assuredly so!” said a tall, fat man, whom the others called “captain”, and who must have been the quartenier or the dizenier. He looked, from his clothes, to be a master artisan, and was now, by choice, a master assassin and pillager, but one who I supposed was ha
ppier pillaging than fighting. “You’re heretical scum,” he yelled, brandishing a pistol, “and we’re going to crush you without further ado!”
“Blessed Virgin!” I cried, and, seizing the medallion of Mary I wore around my neck, I brought it to my lips, crying: “Blessed Virgin, protect me from this terrible mistake! I’m a good Catholic, my brother, and as zealous and assiduous in my obedience to the good priest Maillard’s teaching as any man, and I can recite the Ave Maria as well as any man, forwards and backwards, as I’ve heard His Holiness the Pope do!”
“Backwards!” said one of the scoundrels, visibly impressed.
“Torchbearer!” snarled the quartenier stiffly, without taking a step nearer. “Go and see what’s with this medallion!”
“It’s really the Blessed Virgin,” said the man without daring to get too close, seeing my sword and dagger at the ready. “The medallion’s made of gold, Captain!”
“Gold!” said the captain with a greedy air, raising his pistol, a movement that made Miroul, on my left, coil like a snake and slip his right hand down to the dagger that was hidden in his boot.
“It’s only bronze, my brother,” I corrected quickly. “I’m not well heeled enough to afford a gold one.”
“It’s my opinion,” said one of these knaves, putting on airs, “that this is one of those Genevans who wants to throw us off the scent with his lies! He’s a nobleman, he is! Look at his fancy doublet and all his pearls!”
“My good man!” I laughed (though somewhat hollowly, knowing how the people of Paris hold the nobility in low esteem). “You’ve just ennobled me! I’m just an honest man of the people, like you, an apothecary from Montfort-l’Amaury, and I just acquired this doublet from my pillaging, though it was hardly worth it. These stones are plaster copies from Lyons, that’s all.”
“Knave,” shouted the captain, “if you’re one of us, how come you’re not wearing a white armband?”
“My serving girl sewed it on so badly it came undone during the first brawl.”
“And who are these two?”
“They’re my assistants in the shop,” said I, taking this tack to amuse them. “This one” (pointing to Fröhlich, whom I wanted to silence because his German accent would have been a certain sign of his reformist views) “is as mute as a carp. The other one’s got mismatched eyes.”
“Why, so he does!” said the torchbearer in surprise.
And these Parisians, who think they know everything, were in fact so credulous that they immediately thought that Miroul’s eyes were some sort of divine miracle from the Blessed Virgin, since they’d never heard of anything like this.
“What’s more,” I continued, “he can throw a knife better than any mother’s son in France! If you please, Captain, step back a few paces and he’ll sink his knife into the ring of that door knocker that you see over there.”
“Torchbearer,” cried Miroul, “shine some light on that door!”
And scarcely had the captain taken a step backwards before Miroul launched his knife and planted it quivering in the board of the door, exactly in the centre of the ring of the knocker. The quartenier appeared quite discomposed to feel the wind of the blade as it whistled by his fat nose, and seemed to have visibly lost his swagger, no longer assured that, even with their pistols, they held an advantage over us—and especially when he saw Miroul bend quickly and seize a second knife from his other boot.
“That’s enough, my brother,” said the quartenier, softening his tone considerably, “you’ve persuaded me. I’m now convinced of your zeal to perform pious works on this holy feast day of St Bartholomew! But take my advice! Get your brassard sewn back on quickly. Who can see a grey cat at night? My lads! Let’s be off, we have better things to do elsewhere!”
And off they went, quitting the field, perhaps convinced, perhaps not wishing to risk their tender skin for the slim profit of a few pearls and a medallion. Whether or not he believed it was bronze, I now valued it as worth much more than its weight in gold, not just because it had been given to me by my late mother, but because it had just saved my life—after having nearly cost me it during the Michelade in Nîmes five years previously. But isn’t it a terrible thing than men can play “heads or tails” for a man’s life using an image? Oh, Lord! What a strange power over men is wielded by the very idols they have fashioned with their own hands!
As we watched them run off towards other exploits, we were conscious that the church bells had stopped tolling, but all around us we could hear the repeated explosions of arquebuses, the thuds of battering rams splintering wooden doors, the panting of fleeing victims, the battle cries of the assassins and the screams of martyrs who had been surprised in their homes and had then fled in their nightclothes, but who were then caught, their throats slashed pitilessly, stripped, mutilated and dragged through the filth of the street.
“Monsieur,” said Miroul, “you did an amazing job of out-talking those rogues, but I don’t think your medallion is going to save you a second time. We have to find a way to have some white armbands sewn on our sleeves, and the only one who do that is Alizon. Outside of Alizon, no salvation!”
“Ach, good Monsieur,” said Fröhlich, “do I have to stay mute or may I say something?”
“Speak, Fröhlich.”
“It’s a great Schelme, in my opinion, to wear the white brassards of these killers!”
“Ah, no, Fröhlich, quite the contrary!” I said. “It’s a legitimate strategy to imitate your enemy when it’s a matter of life and death! Miroul, in the end, I think you’re right. Go and see if the priest’s sermons haven’t entirely corrupted Alizon’s good heart.”
But once we got to Alizon’s lodgings, the door was locked and barred from within, and even though I dared knock, no one came to the windows.
“But look, Monsieur,” observed Miroul, “the upstairs window is open and there’s candlelight within. If you please, Monsieur, let me climb up to her room and test the waters.”
“Was? My little friend,” said Fröhlich, “are you a fly that you can scale that facade?”
“He’s done better than that,” I said. “Bend over and lend him your strong back, Fröhlich, so he can get past the corbel, and by the time you stand up straight, he’ll be through the window.”
Miroul managed this feat with his incredible agility and the grace of a cat—and, like a cat, without appearing to be in any hurry but, with total calm, choosing each step. I watched him from below, illuminated in the moonlight, while, in the shadows, I agonized, my heart beating frantically with his every step, anxious and uncertain about the success of his mission. But I needn’t have been. Scarcely two minutes passed before the door was unbolted and thrown open and my Alizon fell into my arms, sighing and planting a thousand kisses on my face and neck.
“Who’s that?” she whispered, seeing the great mountain of a man behind me.
“A good Swiss from Berne.”
“May God keep him!” she murmured. (But which God, I wondered, the God of the assassins or the God of the assassinated?) “Come up to my room,” she continued, “but don’t make a sound! The men of our lodgings have all gone out, but the women are here and I’m not sure they’re sleeping since the sound of the arquebuses is so near. Monsieur,” she said over her shoulder to Fröhlich, “the stairs are creaking, make yourself light!”
This can’t have been very easy for him, but at last we reached her room and closed the door, and each of us found a place to sit down. I told Alizon in hushed tones what I hoped she could do for us.
“They’re not brassards,” she said without hesitating, “but shirtsleeves cut and sewn into the shoulder of one’s doublet. I have the needle and thread, but I don’t have the sleeves, and certainly not enough for three.”
“Four,” corrected Miroul, quietly, “since maestro Giacomi is waiting for us on the place de Grève.”
His words pricked me with shame, because I’d completely forgotten, in the heat of our escape, our rendezvous.
&n
bsp; “Here’s my shirt,” I said, removing my doublet. “Cut away, Alizon! A shirt without sleeves is perfectly adequate in the August heat.”
“And here’s mine,” said Miroul. “With two sleeves a shirt, we’ve got four.”
Without a word, Alizon set to work by candlelight, cutting and sewing, beginning with my shirt—not without a tear in her eye, however, for I had no doubt that, by helping, nay, saving us, she was risking her life, and not just hers, but that of her little Henriot, who was so prettily asleep in his cradle, his fist under his tiny cheek.
I would have liked to take the pretty little child in my arms, so comforted would I have felt by that tiny warm body of one who knew nothing of the cruelty of this world, since he was not yet a man, but still so close to heaven. But I didn’t pick him up. Not only did I fear waking him from his starry dreams, I felt too blood-soaked and sweaty after my two battles to dare to touch him with my finger. I shall never forget to my dying day, however, the silence of that little room as Alizon went about her sewing by candlelight, her eyes misty with tears, her breath coming short, and, in his cradle, little Henriot smiling angelically, as if he were gambolling about in the garden of Eden.
Since none of us was wearing a hat that we could attach a cross to, we had to be content with the armbands. Miroul slipped into his doublet the armband Alizon had made for Giacomi, with pins to attach it to his shoulder, should Fortune be kind enough to favour our meeting at the place de Grève. We then went—or rather slid—downstairs, as silent as weasels in a meadow, and, after Alizon had unbolted the door, she dared, as she threw herself into my arms, to whisper in my ear, since the noise in the street was so loud:
“Oh, Pierre! This is hell in all its fury! In the lodgings you see there, they slashed the throats of an entire family—father, mother and a child who was Henriot’s age! Then these pitiless monsters tore their clothes off and dragged their bodies out into the street and through the filth down to the Seine, some still groaning, and then the lot was thrown on a cart. Oh, Pierre! Between the promising of what they were going to do and the doing of it, what an abyss! I cannot believe the Blessed Virgin, who is so sweet, could ever have called for so much bloodshed!”