by Robert Merle
I ask a thousand pardons if these reflections seem sacrilegious. I state them in all innocence and simplicity, not wishing to seek answers from the clerics among us who can explain these mysteries. But observing that all too often the explanations they provide only make things more obscure, and since I wouldn’t want these obscurities to influence the clarity I seek, nor allow them to constrict my judgement, I have decided to offer my own feelings, however infirm they seem, but truthfully, just as I conceived them in the nights and days that followed my return to the sweetness of my paternal retreat; for, after having survived the perils of the St Bartholomew massacre, I couldn’t help meditating on this terrible event, which God, or perhaps I should say Fortune, wished me to experience.
At the beginning as at the conclusion of these reflections, I decided that it was dangerous to believe that the misfortune that befell us was desired by the Lord, seeing in this belief the beginnings of a limp resignation; in my judgement, in contrast, we must parry the blows of our adversary instead of treating the wounds he inflicts as if they were a test sent by Heaven. If it is a test, then I dare believe that we need to stand up to it before it destroys us.
After having so often cogitated on these ambiguous points, both back then, in the bloom of my youth, and now, when I’m an old greybeard writing these lines, I still can’t decide whether it was God, or fate, that led me there—where, unwittingly, I had no business being, seeking every which way for a pardon I did not need. But I am persuaded of one thing and will hold on to this belief as firmly as a barnacle sticks to a rock, despite the waves and the tides. Having seen in this hateful city of Paris to its full extent the detestable effects of religious zeal, I made a promise never to permit my Church’s zeal to cause me to raise my sword, believing that disputes over this or that form of worship should be decided only by clerics, and without knives ever being drawn, “since knives never decide anything”, as the Duc d’Anjou, besieging one year later the Huguenot city of La Rochelle, dared write to “his beloved brother and sovereign”, the same man whom I accuse before men, before history and before God, of bearing responsibility for the massacre of St Bartholomew.
Quéribus accomplished miracles with the Catholic nobility of the Sarlat region, having enough of his native Carcassonne in him to cover his courtly, dandyish side, and playing up the friendship he enjoyed with the Duc d’Anjou, which was, in fact, of some consequence, since Charles IX had no male heir and was quite sickly. The upshot was that people listened to him, and he used the authority he had to paint a portrait of my own connections to the future king that was so favourable you would have thought that, on the morning of the 24th, His Highness had dispatched a company to protect me in my lodgings against the fury of the mob.
I handed the copy of my pardon to Monsieur de La Porte, however useless it had become, to give additional credibility to the stories that Quéribus was circulating. In short, the baron was so successful, and the balance of opinion leant so strongly in my favour, that even had Madame de Fontenac not withdrawn her complaint you wouldn’t have found a single judge in the Sarlat region who would have condemned me, the most unforgiving among them contenting himself with repeating privately to the seneschal of Sarlat the witticism of Catherine de’ Medici: “I see that your Huguenots are all cats, since they always seem to land on their feet.”
The king’s brother, in the Louvre, having given his doublet to Quéribus, since Quéribus had been forced to give me his, it happened that, after Quéribus left Sarlat, rumours had spread that it was I who had been the recipient of Anjou’s doublet. And you wouldn’t believe the prestige that accrued to me due to that satin article. The good side of my character was suddenly praised to the skies, as were all the laudable actions I’d taken, such as the part I’d played at my father’s side in the defeat of the butcher-baron of la Lendrevie, and the rescue of the bishop of Nîmes, not to mention the rescue of Monsieur de Montcalm, whose story was less well known here. All of this led to a situation in which I, Huguenot that I was, could have married, on the basis of my new reputation, any of a number of gentlewomen of the region, whose mothers had begun to argue that the marriage of Margot de Navarre, however detestable it seemed at the time, had set a precedent.
But I had no thought of marrying anyone but Angelina, to whom I’d written from Saint-Cloud—without, on the advice of Quéribus, mentioning any details of my adventures, since it went without saying that in that quarter as well it was better if they believed I was protected by the king. I didn’t believe this letter had much chance of arriving, since I was sure that the paternal tyranny wouldn’t allow it to reach its destination; but, luckily, it was placed directly in her hands, which immediately wrote to me in reply and gave the response to the messenger. I’ve copied it here in all its feminine valour and sweetness:
Monsieur,
I was extremely comforted to learn from your hand that you’d succeeded in escaping healthy and strong from the terrible massacre in Paris, but, to speak openly, if I’d thought you were in mortal peril, my heart would have told me, and I don’t know why, but it led me to believe that you were safe within the walls of Mespech.
Since the messenger cannot tarry here, I’m writing this in great haste, and can only give you a very short version of events from the minute I saw you running alongside our carriage, which was carrying me away from you, to the present moment.
My engagement to Monsieur de La Condomine is over. By means of grim silences, the cold shoulder, frowns and despising looks, I created a hell for him during the journey—a hell so hot that it must have burnt the moustache of that big idiot, who got out in Lyons and doubtless had to go for a swim in the Rhône after we left. And may the Blessed Virgin make him drown, for in truth I couldn’t look at him without feeling nauseated, he was so disgusting.
I leave to your imagination the fury of Monsieur de Montcalm, who again threatened to send me to a convent, but it won’t happen. I thank God that my father loves me too much for that. And, despite his opposition to my fondest wishes, I still love him as well because of his affection for me. And even though no one is allowed to say your name in our household, I don’t want you to judge him badly; he is a man of goodwill, however zealous God made him.
Baron de Quéribus’s letter described your success at the Louvre and succeeded in winning over my mother’s good graces, but my father is still unshakeable, since his confessor paints such terrible images of the hell that awaits him if his daughter marries a heretic. My mother thinks my father should change confessors or that Heaven should call this one home, which may yet happen given his excessive zeal and his advanced age. My mother believes Father Anselm is very fond of you after he fought with you against the highwaymen of Barbentane, so he would certainly be more flexible.
The messenger is getting impatient and I must close. I beg you, do not judge me for the rude and rebellious behaviour I directed at that ridiculous suitor, because I was forced to be cruel out of love for you. As for that word—now I’ve written it. I would have preferred not to write it but there it is, and since I’ve expressed it I will not deny it.
Monsieur de Montcalm, in his fury, led me to believe that when you were in Montpellier you had a reputation for chasing women, and in particular that you had an affair with a woman of quality. But in truth, if the woman is the one he named, then I cannot believe it. She’s almost old enough to be my mother and you would be a very strange young man if, loving me as you do, you had any appetite for such carrying-on.
But to come back to my father and his opposition to our plans, he is so firmly against them that all I can do is put my faith in God’s grace and pray for our union, in the hope of which, I beg you to believe, Monsieur, in your faithful and affectionate servant,
Angelina
This letter made my Angelina so present to me that I dreamt, as I held it, that I was holding her in my loving arms. Alas, her suitor gone, nothing had been resolved! She was still in Barbentane, still as inaccessible as the wife of the Grand T
urk, and still under the watchful eye of an inflexible father whom I’d rescued from the attack of the brigands but whose confessor led him by the end of his nose.
Comparing my fate with those of my brothers, I felt some cause for bitterness, which I had to combat in order to avoid being eaten up by it. I certainly didn’t resent Samson’s marriage to Gertrude, and had even helped to arrange it, albeit half-heartedly. But there was not much to envy there, however, since I felt that they might have trouble adjusting to their life together. But François! He didn’t have to travel the highways and byways of France or overcome any dangerous threats to enjoy his dinner! Quite the contrary! Sitting around the house, being spoon-fed! By killing the Baron de Fontenac, I simply roasted his chestnuts for him, and now he gets to marry his Diane and manage Fontenac! And, what’s more, although may God keep him from it for as long as possible, he’ll be Baron de Mespech! But I, who have galloped, sought out adventure, suffered—I’m still the younger brother without any estate and my great love now out of reach.
But I’m not writing this to cry and lament my condition. That’s just not who I am and it’s not my philosophy. If the wise man claims that every test makes him wiser but sadder, I don’t feel, after what happened in Paris, any great melancholy, or, for that matter, very much wiser. But when Barberine comes to wake me at dawn—my lazy Little Sissy hoping to sleep till noon—I let her encompass me in her care and warmth as I open my eyes to the new day. And I love the world I open them to! How can I moan and complain? Isn’t it enough to be alive? I thank the Lord every day for having kept me safe and well in Paris so that I can sink my teeth once more into life. ’Sblood! My brother may be Baron de Mespech and half-Baron de Fontenac, but may I say without appearing too proud that I much prefer my life to his, and my experiences to his possessions? I have in my wallet (minus the ring and the necklace) the 200 écus that Anjou gave me, and the 300 I got for the pearls. So I don’t have much money—or much baggage, other than my physician’s bonnet and “Jarnac’s thrust”, the secret sword thrust Giacomi taught me. But Giacomi and Miroul are no mean companions, nor is my good Swiss from Berne, though I don’t know whether he wants to spend his life in Mespech, since he loves his battles. And, to speak frankly, there are days when I can’t see myself settling down as a doctor in Périgueux, and even less so in Sarlat, since I have too great an itch to urge my Pompée forward onto the great highways of France.
These are only dreams, and what becomes of dreams is “another pair of sleeves”, as my friend and ally Pierre de Bourdeille, lord of Brantôme, would say: a bizarre expression that I have never actually heard anyone use but him; nor have I read it except from his pen. The Devil only knows what that “other pair” is doing there, the first pair not being mentioned. In any case, if sleeves there are, as our cousin Bourdeille intends, perhaps I’ll sew them on gradually with age, if God consent to lend me a hand and keep me hearty and healthy enough to do so.
* Alas, I was only too right. The nun with the red shoes, as I learnt later, was named Mademoiselle d’Yverni. She was a Huguenot, though the niece of a cardinal. Arrested nearby, they promised her life if she’d relinquish her religion, and when she refused, she was stabbed and thrown in the Seine. [Note by Pierre de Siorac.]
† Today the rue Saint-André-des-Arts. [Author’s note.]
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About the Author
Born in 1908, ROBERT MERLE was originally an English teacher before serving as an interpreter with the British army during the Second World War, which led to his capture by the German army at Dunkirk. He published his hugely popular Fortunes of France series over four decades, from 1977 to 2003, the final instalment appearing just a year before his death in 2004. The Brethren is the first book in the series, followed by City of Wisdom and Blood and Heretic Dawn.
Copyright
Pushkin Press
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London WC2H 9JQ
Original text © 2016 Estate of Robert Merle
English translation © 2016 T. Jefferson Kline
Fortunes of France: Heretic Dawn first published in French as Paris, ma bonne ville in 1980
This translation first published by Pushkin Press in 2016
ISBN 978 1 782272 08 3
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