Heretic Dawn

by Robert Merle

  Indeed, our cortège was discovered about a league from Mespech by the Siorac cousins, who, unbeknownst to us, spied us from the cover of some nearby chestnut trees, and, not recognizing me, galloped off to tell my father that “two men, richly attired, followed by a coach and numerous servants” were heading towards the chateau. Hearing this news, my father, surprised by such an unexpected visit, sent Cabusse ahead, who, hidden in a thicket, saw me, recognized me and came galloping back, stuttering like crazy in his emotion. The Baron de Mespech, blushing with joy since he’d given us up for dead, was incredulous, and headed off to meet us, with Sauveterre at his heels; and he could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw me leaping from my saddle and rushing towards him, followed by Samson, while he dismounted, tears flowing down his cheeks, which were quickly mingled with ours.

  It took another full hour for all the kissing, hugging, tears, sighs, questions and blessings to be exchanged with all our household, who, abandoning the grape harvest, rushed up and embraced us in their turn, squeezing us to make sure they weren’t dreaming, and slapping us on the back, all the while gushing in their beautiful langue d’oc, which I hadn’t heard for two months and which now sounded so strange and enchanting. Quéribus watched all this from astride his horse, his two hands on the pommel of his saddle, smiling broadly, while Dame Gertrude remained secluded in her coach, wishing, no doubt, to assure the Brethren of her modesty.

  After a thousand thanks and compliments, my father immediately invited Quéribus and his servants to be our guests at Mespech, while Sauveterre, without a word, cast a long look at the newcomer’s numerous party, quietly fearing the inroads their collective hunger would make into our pantry. Luckily for our Huguenot sense of economy, Quéribus refused:

  “I cannot,” he explained, “until I have paid a visit to my cousin Puymartin: he would otherwise be offended.”

  But on the invitation we’d made him, he promised to return the next day with Puymartin and to spend a day at Mespech. Once he’d gone, it was finally time to approach the carriage, which stood immobile and closed in the road, and towards which my father’s curious blue eyes had been turning from time to time; you can easily guess how they shone when Dame Gertrude du Luc got out, with all her grace, beauty and modesty, and, following her, Zara, whom Gertrude presented not as her chambermaid but as her lady-in-waiting. Zara immediately bewitched my father with such unabashed enticements that I could not doubt he would succumb to them, given his affinity for the fair sex, and age having so little cooled his appetites, as evidenced by the children Franchou continued to bear him. “Aha!” I thought. “These clever women have distributed their roles beautifully: one raising my father’s spirits, the other seducing him. Oh, heaven! How can one not admire the marvellous skills nature has given the fair sex to compensate them for being weaker than men?”

  My father, after having courteously offered room and board to our Calypsos, insisted on taking me, without further delay, into the library in order that he might hear an account of our adventures, which I provided as briefly as I could, so as not to dampen our private joys with the public calamities we’d witnessed. The Brethren could not keep, when they heard my story, from shedding burning tears at the traitorous assassinations of Coligny and so many other worthy young leaders of the Protestant nobility. And yet I understood how comforted they were by their Huguenot faith and how much they put their hope in the support of the Lord.

  “Although the Pope,” said Sauveterre, “when he received Coligny’s head, ordered a Te Deum sung in St Peter’s and joyous bonfires lit throughout Rome, his happiness will be of short duration. The reformed Church in France has not been destroyed. Already it is reorganizing and reconstituting itself. Already in numerous towns throughout the south of France, enclosed within their walls, people are dedicating the nails in their doors to the destruction of the royal garrisons, and this little turd of a kinglet will have gained nothing from his felonies other than a third civil war and his just defeat!”

  My father, who, I thought, had not appreciated Charles IX’s being called “this little turd of a kinglet” (since for him the king is the king, no matter what he may have done), contented himself with nodding approvingly at this fervent speech, and then asked me what was happening between Gertrude du Luc and Samson. So I answered straightaway:

  “She wants to marry him and give him as dowry a very good apothecary’s business in Montfort-l’Amaury.”

  To which the two brothers’ responses, though articulated in the heat of the moment, were very different:

  “What?” said my father. “So far from Mespech!”

  “What?” bellowed Sauveterre. “Another papist!”

  This latter remark could not but rub me up the wrong way, given my feelings for Angelina, so I remained silent, faced with the closed and proud way my father expressed his disappointment (without actually saying so) with what he’d just heard. At my silence, my father looked at me and, observing that I was imitating him, began to laugh.

  “Well, my son,” he said, “don’t take it to heart. Monsieur de Sauveterre wasn’t referring to you.”

  “Although, my nephew,” Sauveterre interjected, “on reflection, what I said also applies to you.”

  At this my father burst out laughing even louder; he then began to explain all the ins and outs of their current situation, to which Sauveterre had just alluded. It seems that, the morning after my departure for Paris, the Sieur de Malvézie rendered up to God a soul that had come from the Devil in the first place, and that one can only imagine was sent back to the latter, dying of a very opportune miserere, or appendicitis. Madame de Fontenac immediately forced Pincers, the priest, to withdraw the testimony he’d given that incriminated me, and withdrew the accusation Malvézie had levelled at me. I was thus safe and my entire trip to Paris became unnecessary. My father sent word to Montaigne, but I’d already left, two days earlier. He wrote to d’Argence in Paris, but, as we learnt later, he was holed up in his house in the country and didn’t receive the message.

  “Do you mean,” I gasped, “that I ran all those risks and experienced all those misadventures and incredible dangers for nothing? To ask the king for a pardon that I didn’t need? Do you mean that I was safe, and Samson as well, without knowing it?”

  “I had no way of telling you! I had no idea where you’d found lodgings in the capital. And remember, it can take a month, sometimes two, before a letter can get from Sarlat to Paris! But let me continue,” said my father. “If Madame de Fontenac acted so promptly it was, no doubt, out of gratitude for the cure I’d administered to her daughter, Diane, when she had the plague, but also because the lady was pressed very hard by Puymartin, who has loved her madly for a long time and wishes to marry her as soon as the law will permit.”

  “But,” I observed, “though Diane seems not to respond to my older brother’s feelings for her, it nevertheless seems to arrange things very well for him!”

  “And for us as well,” said my father. “An alliance with Fontenac and Puymartin would be an immense advantage for us, since it’s understood that, once François is married, he’ll share the management of the Fontenac lands with Puymartin.”

  “So it’s done?” I asked.

  “Not yet. The Sarlat clergy don’t approve of this marriage, since François is a Huguenot and his bride-to-be is a papist, but Puymartin believes that, in time, persuasion and a few greased palms will do the job.”

  I then told the Brethren how Quéribus had advised me to spread the word about my great favour with Anjou and the king, and how it would considerably advance this affair. My father was delighted to hear this, and Sauveterre as well, although the latter affected to be reluctant about this marriage, the amelioration of Mespech’s fortunes seeming to be little consolation for the fact that François, like his father (and perhaps his two younger brothers as well), would be united with an idolater.

  Just then we heard a knock at the door, and Barberine came in to announce that the baths were now heat
ed and steaming, and ready in the west tower to receive Samson, Giacomi and me; so, taking my leave of the Brethren, I headed to the west tower with her, giving her a thousand kisses and hugs on the way, since without my Barberine Mespech would never have been what it is for me, my old nurse being like a warm feathery nest into which I snuggled so securely. Of course, there were ramparts and walls for our defence and safety, but, for my head, a softer pillow was necessary, and that feminine tenderness without which a man’s life would be hollow and empty.

  “Well now, Pierre,” objected Barberine, blushing both from shame and joy, “you’re caressing me like a sparrow his mate. Have you forgotten that I’m practically your mother, or do I have to remind you of it?”

  “Now, now,” I cooed, “there’s no danger! Just let yourself enjoy my great friendship for you!”

  When we got to the baths, however, I let go of her, because I knew that Alazaïs would be there, who stood as stiff as a cliff against the sea of all human weaknesses, as would Little Sissy, who was, indeed, that sea itself, but who wasn’t easy to face when her jealousy started causing waves.

  “What?” I exclaimed. “What’s this? Just three bathtubs? Fill all five immediately! I want Miroul and Fröhlich to bathe with us since they shared our perils.”

  Little Sissy, who claimed to be two months pregnant by me, but was not showing at all, gave me lots of little glances and uttered many sweet nothings as she washed me, but she dared not make them too bold, since Alazaïs kept her eye on her. Barberine groomed Samson with her strong, soft hands, but Giacomi was the worst off of the three of us, since Alazaïs cleaned him as if she were plucking the feathers from a chicken before putting it on a spit.

  As comforting and enjoyable as this sweet moment was, I needed to cut it short and sent the three women away as soon as they’d soaped us. Once the door was closed behind them, I told the maestro, Miroul and our Swiss giant to be careful not to tell any of the heroic stories of our flight from Paris to anyone hereabouts, but to keep quiet, and I explained why.

  “Well,” said Samson, whose head scarcely emerged from the tub in which he was immersed, “I’m very happy for François that he’s marrying his Diane.”

  When I didn’t hear him express any reservations about her being a papist, I realized that it was an excellent time to ask why he wouldn’t get married himself instead of living in sin with his lady.

  “Because I’m not sure she would want me,” he said in his exquisite simplicity.

  “Oh, but she does!” I said. “All she does is dream about it and also about offering you, as her dowry, the apothecary practice of Maître Béqueret, which he wants to sell, as perhaps you are aware.”

  At this, he opened his eyes very wide; he then closed them, then opened them, then grew very pale, then blushed, unable to say a word, not knowing how to take in these two great joys that I was offering him all at once.

  “Ah,” he said at last, having sped through all the impediments he’d imagined to his dreams, “but I’ll be in Montfort, my brother, and you’ll be in Mespech!”

  “Or maybe in Paris,” I said with a smile, very moved that his first thought had been for me, even before he’d thought of our father.

  “In Paris!” he gasped. “You’d be in Paris! But you hate the filthy place!”

  “I’m not so sure,” I laughed. “Quéribus thinks that Paris is an illness that is contracted by breathing in its air, and he thinks I’m already infected.”

  I waited for nightfall, and for Little Sissy to slip into my bed like a little snake, to offer her the ring I’d bought for her in Paris. She was overjoyed, breathing “Ooh” and “Aah” several times and hugging me furiously; and, between kisses, she kept holding her hand up to the candle to admire the glitter of the gold. And after we had each enjoyed our caresses to the fullest, she assured me that she’d present me with the most beautiful baby in Périgord and that, for sure, I’d be happy.

  Having said this, she fell asleep like a snuffed candle, and you can imagine how she strutted around the next day, showing off her ring until the walls of Mespech seemed to echo with her excitement. La Maligou, in her vainglorious maternity, relayed the news, which grew more extravagant with every retelling until it reached the nearby villages. Sauveterre was clearly unhappy, and I had to explain to my father, who felt more rueful than joyful, how I’d been caught in the girl’s web and forced to make an imprudent promise.

  “You did well to keep it,” he acknowledged, “since a promise was made, but in the future, take one prudent step at a time when you’re advancing along the paths where captivating beauties may lead you. It’s a very gentle slope, which leads from a ribbon to a bauble, from the bauble to silver and from silver to gold.”

  “Father,” I said, “your counsel obviously comes from a lot of experience and, now that I’m thinking about it, I seem to remember a silver thimble that you offered Franchou, when, before the plague broke out, she was sent to Sarlat.”

  “Touché!” laughed my father, and, throwing his arms around me, he embraced me warmly. “Well, Pierre, no one’s going to catch you off guard!”

  Meanwhile, my little sister, Catherine, who, in the three months we’d been away, had bloomed into a beautiful flower, majestic in her new height, did not take it well that, while in Paris, I’d bought her nothing but a top, and then given that away to Alizon’s little Henriot.

  “My brother,” she said, pulling me aside when she saw Little Sissy parading around with her new gold ring as if her entire hand had suddenly been transformed into gold, “did you not consider what an outrage it would be to give this little Gypsy wench a chance to put on airs with me?”

  “But Catherine, my beauty,” I said, taking her hands in mine—but she immediately withdrew them without letting me continue.

  “Your beautiful Catherine,” she said with a haughty air that reminded me of my mother, “is not so beautiful that her beauty couldn’t be embellished by a gift from you! Monsieur, you place your affections where you should not and you forget people you should remember.”

  And, turning on her heels, with a flourish of her hoop skirt, she stomped off, leaving me very unhappy about the hurt I’d caused her, especially since I was very fond of her, though for the moment I was quite put off by her superior manner.

  I knew not what to do about this unexpected setback. My father, having learnt what had transpired from Franchou, who’d been eavesdropping, pulled me aside after dinner.

  “My son, at the rate things are going, you’re not going to set things straight for less than a necklace.”

  “A necklace!” I gasped.

  “Made of gold. Catherine is your sister: you can’t allow her to be outdone by your mistress.”

  “But, Father, a necklace!”

  “You stuck your finger into the gears,” laughed my father, “and you risk having your arm go after it. That’s how it is dealing with women. Or else practise being miserly like Samson, and never give anything to anybody, in which case no one can take offence since they expect nothing from you.”

  I ran to buy a necklace from an honest Jew in Sarlat whom my father knew, and thus made peace with my little sister Catherine, who wasn’t little any more, since she’d got me to capitulate just by using her wiles.

  Meanwhile, with Catherine pacified, the war flared up elsewhere, and I fell from the frying pan into the fire.

  “Monsieur,” said Little Sissy, whose normally rosy cheeks were ashen and whose dark eyes had turned obsidian when she saw the necklace shining on Catherine’s white skin, “since you’re so well off that you can buy me a gold ring the way I might buy a waffle from a shop in Sarlat, you shouldn’t have given in and put me so far beneath your sister as you’ve done.”

  But at this, I was so angry that I began shouting at her like a dog in a pack, and in my wrath I might have slapped the impudent wench if she hadn’t been carrying my child; and I could only turn round, walk away and avoid her for three days, so furious was I that she should compare
my gold ring to a waffle.

  During those three days that I deprived Little Sissy, as it says in the Holy Bible, of the “light of my countenance”, I have to admit that my face wasn’t very luminous, worked as I was by thoughts that were far more bitter than sweet. I’d heard Coligny say, and two days later Monsieur de La Place affirm, and then the Brethren repeat again here, that nothing happens on earth, not even the death of a sparrow, that God hasn’t decreed. But when I tried to connect this principle with my personal predicament, I couldn’t help perceiving that it posed a real problem for my theology: how, indeed, could I imagine that God, in His infinite goodness, could put me to a test which wasn’t even useful in the moment I was undergoing it? Should I believe that it was God’s express will that my father’s letter should be received by Montaigne two days after I’d left, so that, continuing to believe that I was in danger for my life, I should go to Paris to ask the king for a pardon that I didn’t need at all, only to encounter, while in the capital, among those of my party, the incredible perils that I’ve recounted?

  These very perils, these assassinations, these drownings, these horrors, which were so awful and immense that my pen nearly falls from my hand as I try to describe them—must I believe that the Lord inflicted them on the Huguenots to test them, increasing, however, the wealth and power of the papists in the process, and thus fortifying the papists’ belief that their corrupted cult is the good one and that their errors are truths?

  But on the other hand, what if the St Bartholomew massacre were the work of the Devil and not God, complete with felonies so repugnant and cruelties so abject that they bore the mark and seal of the Prince of Darkness? How could we admit that the all-powerful Lord should not have brought His wrath down on the henchmen of this prince, instead of allowing the death of the just and the triumph of Satan, as if Satan were more powerful than He in this world that He made with His hands?