Heretic Dawn

by Robert Merle

“Ah, Monsieur!” I said. “A thousand thanks! But we can’t stay. As soon as I’ve caught my breath I must gallop to Montfort! I’ve been so worried about Samson!”

  “Well, you can stop worrying! Gertrude has already seen to that!”

  “What! She’s not here?”

  “Ah, my friend, you misjudge her!” laughed Quéribus. “As smelly as you are, she would already have embraced you with arms as large as her heart if she’d been here! As soon as she heard about the massacre in Paris, she rushed off to Montfort to prevent your pretty Samson from heading to the capital to save you!”

  “Which he certainly would have done!” I cried. “And how did she dissuade him from this?”

  “By assuring him that you were safe here with me!”

  “Well, good for Gertrude! There’s one white lie that’ll be worth more in heaven that the indulgences from ten trips to Rome!”

  “As long as the Lord belongs to the reformed religion!” said Quéribus merrily, which confirmed that for him the Churches were of as little consequence as the pearl that dangled from his pretty ear. And, all in all, though I found his scepticism a wee bit scandalous according to the strictest Huguenot standards, it was, after all, a minor sin compared with the fanaticism I’d seen and experienced in Paris.

  I wanted to leave the next day, but Quéribus wouldn’t hear of it, since he first wanted to make enquiries about the perils we might expect to encounter on the road to Périgord. He rode off to Paris, accompanied by a strong escort, since the mob continued to commit excesses of all kinds, and visited the Louvre to discover whatever he could that might be of use to us. He returned very alarmed for me. The carnage continued in the capital, although it was less apparent since there were now fewer people to kill. As for Navarre and Condé, they’d been called on by the king to choose between Mass and death, and were effectively prisoners in their apartments, their future precarious and their guard dissolved. But it was especially the king’s messages to the provinces that, though at times self-contradictory, were worrisome: he had ordered that the faithful massacre all heretics, sparing no one, though his orders were obeyed or disobeyed according to the complexion of the governors and seneschals.

  Quéribus returned from the Louvre, furnished with a safe-conduct pass (which he showed me) in his name and his younger brother’s name that allowed them free passage on the highways and through the cities and towns of the kingdom as far as Carcassonne.

  “You have a younger brother?” I asked, astonished that he’d never spoken of him.

  “He’s standing right here!” he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. “Aren’t you struck by the close resemblance between him and me? He’s the sketch, as you once said, and I’m the finished drawing!”

  “Except that, if I’m your younger brother, the sketch seems to have followed rather than preceded the drawing!”

  “Ah, Siorac!” he laughed. “The sketch has more wit than the drawing, for sure!”

  “I don’t know if it has as much heart,” I said with a tear in my eye. “My friend, you’d go to all the trouble, expense and danger of escorting me to Périgord?”

  “My Pierre! I need to go to take a look at my lands to keep the money flowing. Otherwise they’d be robbing me blind. And when I go through the Sarlat region, I can visit my cousin, Puymartin, who, as you’ve told me, though Catholic, is a good friend of your father’s.”

  On hearing from my mouth, that same evening, that Navarre’s guard had been disbanded, Fröhlich nearly fainted, for he’d continued to nourish the hope that, once the massacre had ended, he might return to the company.

  “Ach!” he said. “Why didn’t the Lord just kill me instead of leaving me like this, useless and unoccupied? Who’d hire a Huguenot soldier now?”

  “My father,” I said, “who’s Baron de Mespech and was a captain in the king’s armies in the battles of Ceresole and Calais.”

  “Ach! A captain!” smiled Fröhlich, who would never have signed up under a baron who’d not achieved his title by service in the army.

  “Monsieur,” said Miroul, when our Swiss from Berne had left my room so comforted, “I hope you didn’t go too far in assuring him of work at Mespech! The Brethren are so careful with their money!”

  “I’m not worried in the least that there’ll be a place for this young giant of the mountains. I’ve often heard them say that our servants are getting old and soft.”

  “Well, it’s true that our people are getting old,” he replied with an air that made me prick up my ears. “Especially the women. La Maligou no longer does anything but the cooking. Barberine spends her time cooing over your little sister Catherine. And as for the younger ones, Franchou is nursing her baby and Little Sissy is expecting. That leaves Alazaïs, who has the strength of two men, but she can’t do all the housework by herself!”

  “Ah, Miroul,” I said in mock surprise, “I never would have thought you paid so much attention to the household, which is not really a man’s concern, that I know of!”

  “Monsieur,” said Miroul with a look of complete innocence, “how can I not be concerned with the interests of Mespech since I’ve been so well treated there? And how can I be sure that the work will always be done by the women if there aren’t enough of them to do it?”

  “Ah, Miroul!” I laughed. “If I were as much of a teaser as you, I’d pretend not to understand the what, the why and the how of this beautiful speech!”

  “But Monsieur, you do understand!” said Miroul with a smile that was half jest, half uncertainty.

  “And yet,” I continued, pushing him a bit, “what will we do if the Brethren refuse to hire another chambermaid?”

  “Monsieur,” exclaimed Miroul triumphantly, “you can hire her yourself! You’re rich enough!”

  “Don’t make fun of me, Miroul!”

  “I’m not!” he laughed, and, unhitching from his saddlebag a very fat purse, my gentle valet said with enormous pride: “Here, my master, is the purse of that bearded monster who stabbed the poor child after you’d bought him. In truth, it was so heavy that there were times in our flight that I thought of ditching it but I didn’t, and luckily so! Look!” And having said this, he untied the straps of this pouch, brought it to the table and, with enormous care, emptied the contents. The several écus that fell out were merely cheap lead compared to the diamonds, pearls, rubies, emeralds and other gems that sparkled before me on the darkened oak of the table, some of which—the diamonds, I mean—were of a size I’d never seen before, and beautifully cut. It was obvious that this cruel fiend had pillaged an exceptionally wealthy jeweller, but which one? All of those on the Pont au Change, despite being papists, had been murdered and defenestrated.

  Oh heaven! I stepped up to the table, and, after having admired and caressed with my fingers some of the most beautiful gems, which reminded me of the stones that Maître Sanche, the apothecary in Montpellier, had ground into a fine powder and mixed with an equal amount of honey to create a remedy that’s called an electuary, which cures any number of illnesses, I removed ten écus, the amount I’d paid the bearded monster for the child, and put them in my purse.

  “Monsieur, what are you doing?” asked Miroul.

  “I’m taking back my due, Miroul; the rest is yours, being your legitimate bounty from battle, since you killed the fiend who had it on him.”

  “But Monsieur, ’twas you who ordered me to kill him and take his purse. I was only the means.”

  “Not at all! Whoever killed him should keep the profits from it. That’s the rule of war. What captain would ever go and take a soldier’s portion? What’s more, you’ll have children someday, and you wouldn’t want them brought up in a wretched hut as you were!”

  I watched him reflect on this last remark and become all dreamy and thoughtful. “But what would I do with the money?” he asked after a moment.

  “Do what Cabusse did with his booty from Calais: buy some land, live off the fruit of your labour, marry a good wench and be master of your hous
e.”

  “Well,” mused Miroul, “I’d never enjoy the monotony of farming! As your valet, I’ve seen the world and now have an appetite for that!”

  “Miroul,” I replied, deeply moved by his attempt to disguise his affection for me as mere thirst for adventure, “don’t you understand that you are much more worthy than your condition as valet?”

  “Is there any dishonour in the word ‘valet’?” asked Miroul, his brown eye lighting up. “If so, Monsieur, make me your major-domo and I’ll be happy.”

  “You’re being silly, Miroul!” I smiled, throwing my arm around his shoulder. “Major-domo of a gentleman without a domus!”

  “Domus, Monsieur?”

  “Domus, domi: house.”

  He laughed, repeated the word, and pocketed it in his memory, and in this conversation that which was unresolvable remained unresolved, for I could see clearly enough that Miroul enjoyed embracing such subtle contradictions: on the one hand, his desire to change his condition, marry and have a family; on the other hand, his wish never to be separated from me.

  Since Quéribus couldn’t stand to see me in clothes that were stained with blood, he gave me a light-brown doublet with yellow slashes, which, though very handsome, was less attractive than his yellow satin one, as befitted the younger son of a baron. He dressed Fröhlich in the black and gold of his livery, and dressed Miroul as handsomely as if he were his own major-domo—a figure Quéribus was certainly used to, given his houses in Paris and Saint-Cloud and his chateau in Carcassonne. To Giacomi, he loaned a dark-blue velvet suit that the maestro felt quite at ease wearing, since he was not disdainful of his earthly appearance—which I do not criticize, not wishing to behold the mote in my brother’s eye while neglecting the beam in my own.

  And so, Quéribus and I, riding side by side, our horses groomed and shining, were first to enter Montfort on Wednesday, 27th August at sundown, followed by a dozen brave men in livery, all armed with swords and pistols. You can imagine the awe we inspired in the Béqueret family when they saw such a large troop swooping down on them! Quéribus sent the squadron off to the inn and I was immediately overwhelmed with hugs and kisses from my beloved Samson, who simply couldn’t let go of me; nor could I of him, though I felt that I hadn’t suffered as much from our separation as he had, which somewhat pricked my conscience. But I had no time to consider these feelings, since I was snatched from his arms by Dame Gertrude, who took me in hers, from which I escaped only to be swept up in her chambermaid’s, falling from the gentle Charybdis towards the smoother Scylla.

  The beautiful Norman had no sooner heard that the Baron de Quéribus was going to escort us to Périgord than she insisted on joining our party. So I invited her to Mespech, certain that my father (if not Uncle Sauveterre) would be delighted to see her brighten our walls with her blonde hair, her lively colours and all her finery—not to mention her Zara, who was dressed as splendidly as her mistress, conceding nothing to her in terms of beauty but carrying the day with her youthful coquettishness.

  There was no danger that we’d be taken for Huguenots, since we were travelling with such elegance, stayed in such luxurious inns and enjoyed such expensive meals and drinks. Gertrude couldn’t pass a village without making the rounds of all the shops and purchasing lace, brocades and baubles, and Quéribus surpassed even her most sumptuous tendencies, being one of those papist dandies who consume their fortunes in superfluities and have no thought for their expenses, believing the princes will replenish any lacunae in their fortunes. And so we rode along, escorting Dame Gertrude’s carriage, scattering gold behind us, and at each stop gorging ourselves with excellent cuisine. At night Gertrude displayed a fiery fidelity to Samson, but, in this, was not imitated by Zara—but I shall not elaborate on that, not wishing to offend anyone.

  It was just before we reached Bordeaux, I believe, that Gertrude invited me to join her in the carriage, saying that she wished to enjoy a tête-à-tête with me. To make space for me, Florine got out and mounted my Pompée, Miroul immediately riding up beside her to protect her from any foolishness from my horse, but also, I imagined, in order to cast amorous looks at her.

  “My brother,” said Gertrude, “don’t take that little seat! Do you like our company so little? Come here and sit between my Zara and me! You’ll not feel the bumps when you’re cushioned on both sides this way. Give me your hand, and the other to Zara. Are we not the best of friends?”

  “To be sure!” I agreed. “Such good friends my head is spinning!”

  “Oh, Pierre! You’re so diverting! Do you know,” she said, moving with no warning from her jocular tone to a most serious one, “I found Dame Béqueret to be quite tired, looking forward to retirement. Maître Béqueret is nearly resolved to sell his apothecary’s practice and would do so, I believe, if he found a replacement who was as honest as our pretty Samson.”

  “Well, that’s all well and good,” I agreed, “but Samson doesn’t have a sol to his name!”

  “I’m rich enough for both of us,” said Gertrude sweetly, giving me a sidelong glance.

  “Beautiful Gertrude,” I replied, “if I understand what you’re proposing, I have to say that I see a few obstacles to it.”

  “What?” she frowned, suddenly angry, or pretending to be so. “Surely you’re not going to tell me, my brother, that the few paltry years I have on your brother would—”

  “Oh, Madame!” cried Zara, who immediately understood how wounding this was to her mistress. “It’s appearances that count and you’re as youthful looking as any mother’s daughter in France! What’s more, I think your physical beauty is completely indestructible!”

  “Beautiful, beautiful Gertrude,” I cooed, bringing her hand to my lips, “Zara took the words right out of my mouth. What man would not be proud to have you on his arm as you walk down the aisle of the church? But since there must be a church, and you’re Catholic while he’s an inflexible Huguenot, what can be done?”

  “Well, not so inflexible that he wasn’t willing to go to Mass in Montfort with me.”

  “’Strue!” said Zara, whom the Parisian jargon had quickly conquered. “You should have seen your Samson, Monsieur, trembling at our priest’s sermons. Ah, me! He was boiling! But all Madame had to do was to take his hand and he calmed down.”

  Hearing that, and knowing the great power women hold over us from the moment we fall in love with them, and noticing that Gertrude was caressing my hand with hers in a very subtle way, I withdrew my hand and fell silent.

  “My Pierre,” said Gertrude, her voice trembling, “is there any other obstacle?”

  “Yes, there is!” I confessed. “Once you’re joined in matrimony to my Samson, I wouldn’t like you to, as it were, ‘Saint-Cloud’ him.”

  “My brother,” she said, lowering her beautiful eyes modestly, “there is, for widows, a certain licence that one may close one’s eyes to, but which in a wife would be wholly unacceptable. I will be faithful to your brother.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes,” she said, taking my hand again and squeezing it hard. “My brother, tell me, may I have your consent?”

  “Do you have Samson’s?”

  “If I have yours, I’ll have his. And your father’s as well, given your amazing gift and power of persuasion.”

  “Well then, Gertrude,” I laughed, “you’re not so bad at choosing your ambassadors! I’m going to think about it a bit.”

  And since the coachman, having just climbed a long, steep hill, was stopping to let his horses breathe, I got out, giving my seat to Florine, and remounted Pompée. I quickly caught up with Quéribus.

  “I was getting bored!” he said with a smile.

  “I wasn’t,” I rejoined with a smile. “Now I’ve got a lot to think about.”

  And despite knowing that the baron behaved like a dandy in the Louvre, I considered him a man of good sense, whose opinions carried some weight, so I told him what had just transpired. He thought about it for a while before respondi
ng.

  “The lady is of la noblesse de robe and her dowry is not insignificant. I’ve heard that an apothecary’s trade can be more lucrative than a landowner’s—except in the Beauce region.”

  “She’s a person of such changeable complexion.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that!” replied Quéribus with a sidelong glance. “If she doesn’t go off on pilgrimages, she can remain faithful, living continuously with him.”

  “But he’ll be in Montfort and I’ll be in Mespech!” I sighed.

  “Or else in Paris,” smiled Quéribus.

  “What!” I exclaimed, taken aback. “Me in Paris!”

  “Although you hate the place at present, Paris is a Circe,” said Quéribus, “and once you’ve put your lips to her cup, you can’t stay away. What’s more, you’re not without ambition and the only road to success in this kingdom lies through Paris.”

  From Bordeaux, we headed to Bergerac, and, finally, by the tortuously curving roads of Périgord we neared Les Eyzies. Quéribus, riding in front with me, said: “Pierre, if you’ll follow my advice, don’t tell anyone here about your flight from Paris except your father and Monsieur de Sauveterre. Through Puymartin, I’ll have the ear of the Catholic nobility of Sarlat, and I’ll circulate the news that you were spared from the massacre by the favour of the Duc d’Anjou and the grace of the king.”

  “And why would we need to spread this rumour?” I asked in surprise.

  “As a Huguenot you’ll be much better protected in these troubled times, you and your family, by this news of the king’s favour than by your walls and ramparts.”

  “Well, Quéribus,” I said, “you must have read Machiavelli; you have such a head for politics!”

  “I haven’t read him,” answered Quéribus, “but I’m familiar with his thinking since I live at court.”

  We found all of Mespech out harvesting the grapes in a vineyard that was a stone’s throw from the chateau, the women picking the fruit and putting it in baskets and the men spread around them to protect them, armed for war, on horseback and with loaded pistols, though, since I’d killed Fontenac in a duel, there wasn’t so much to fear as before, even in these times that were so perilous for Huguenots.