The Royal Succession

by Maurice Druon

  He did not stop looking at her. Marie raised her eyes to him, lowered them at once, then raised them again, troubled at what he might be thinking of her and by his insistent gaze.

  ‘You understand, Messer, that your nephew …’

  ‘Oh, I disown him, I’ve disinherited him! If he had not fled to Italy, I think I’d have killed him with my own hands. If I could only find out where he’s hiding …’ said Tolomei, taking his forehead in his hands with an air of dejection.

  But through the little chink between his hands, allowing no one but the girl to see, he twice raised the heavy eyelid which normally he kept closed. Marie realized that she had an ally and could not restrain a sigh. Guccio was alive, Guccio was in a safe place, and Tolomei knew where. What did the cloister matter to her now!

  She was no longer listening to what her brother Jean was saying. She knew it all by heart. Even Pierre de Cressay sat silent, looking vaguely weary. Without daring to say so, he blamed himself for having also given way to anger. He was leaving it to his brother to convince himself that he had acted properly; he left it to Jean to speak of the honour of their blood and the laws of chivalry, so as to justify their immense folly.

  When the Cressay brothers came from their poor little ramshackle manor, from their courtyard which stank of the dunghill all the year round, and saw Tolomei’s princely residence, the brocades, the silver bowls, when they felt beneath their fingers the delicate carving on the chairs and became aware of that atmosphere of wealth and abundance which permeated the whole house, they were forced to recognize that their sister would not have been so badly off if they left her to her own inclination. The younger one sincerely regretted it. ‘At least one of us would have been well provided for, and we should all have benefited,’ he thought. But the bearded one, with his stubborn nature, merely felt the more spite as well as a base jealousy. ‘Why should her sins give her a right to so much wealth through sinning, while we live so poorly?’

  Nor was Marie insensible to the luxury around her; it dazzled her, and merely increased her regrets.

  ‘If only Guccio had been even a little noble,’ she thought, ‘or if we had not been noble at all! What does chivalry matter? Can it be a good thing, when it makes one suffer so much? And is not wealth a sort of nobility in itself? What is the difference between making serfs labour and making money work?’

  ‘You need have no concern, my friends,’ said Tolomei at last; ‘leave everything to me. It’s the duty of uncles to repair the faults committed by their wicked nephews. Thanks to my influential friends, I have succeeded in getting your sister accepted by the Royal Convent of the Daughters of Saint-Marcel. Does that satisfy you?’

  The two Cressay brothers looked at each other and nodded their heads in approval. The Convent of the Clarisses in the Faubourg Saint-Marcel enjoyed the highest reputation among female religious establishments. It was almost entirely confined to the daughters of the nobility. And it was there that the royal family’s bastards were occasionally concealed behind the veil. Jean de Cressay’s ill-temper vanished at once, appeased by the vanity of caste. And, to show that the Cressays were not unworthy of what was being done for their sister in her sin, he added hastily: ‘Excellent, excellent; besides, I think the Abbess is some sort of a relation of ours; our mother has often quoted her to us as an example.’

  ‘Then everything is for the best,’ continued Tolomei. ‘I shall take your sister to Messire Hugues de Bouville, the ex-Grand Chamberlain …’

  The two brothers bowed slightly in their chairs to show their respect.

  ‘… from whom I obtained this favour,’ Tolomei went on; ‘and tonight, I promise you, she shall be inside the convent. You can therefore go home reassured; I will keep you informed.’

  The two brothers asked no better. They were getting rid of their sister, and thought that they had done enough by handing her over to the care of others. The silence of the cloister would close over the scandal which, at Cressay, need from now on be mentioned only in whispers, or not even be mentioned at all.

  ‘May God keep you and inspire you with repentance,’ said Jean to his sister by way of goodbye.

  He put much more warmth into his farewell to Tolomei and thanked him for the trouble he was taking. He very nearly reproached Marie for the grief she was causing this excellent man.

  ‘God keep you, Marie,’ said Pierre with emotion.

  He wanted to kiss his sister, but dared not do so under the severe eye of his elder brother. And Marie found herself alone with the fat banker with the dark complexion, the fleshy mouth and the closed eye, who, strange as it might seem, was her uncle.

  The two horses left the courtyard and the roaring of the broken-winded nag could be heard growing fainter; it was the last sound of Cressay moving out of Marie’s ken.

  ‘And now, let us eat, my child. And while we dine, we don’t weep,’ said Tolomei.

  He helped the girl take off the cloak which was suffocating her; Marie looked surprised and grateful, for it was the first mark of attention, or even of simple courtesy, she had been shown for many weeks.

  ‘Ah, some of my cloth,’ thought Tolomei when he saw the dress she was wearing.

  The Lombard was an Oriental spice-merchant, as well as a banker; the stews into which he elegantly plunged his fingers, the little pieces of meat he removed so delicately from the bone, were impregnated with exotic, appetizing flavours. But Marie showed little appetite and barely helped herself to the dishes of the first course.

  ‘He’s at Lyons,’ said Tolomei, raising his left eyelid. ‘He cannot leave there for the moment, but he is thinking of you all the time and is completely faithful to you.’

  ‘He’s not in prison?’ asked Marie.

  ‘No, not exactly. He’s shut up, but it has nothing to do with you, and he is sharing his captivity with such important people that we have no cause to fear for his safety; everything inclines me to believe that he will come out of the church, where he now is, more important than when he entered it.’

  ‘The church?’ asked Marie.

  ‘I cannot tell you more.’

  Marie did not press him. The idea of Guccio being shut up in a church with people who were so important that their names could not be mentioned was a mystery that was quite beyond her. But there had already been in Guccio’s life many mysterious circumstances, indeed they were part of the admiration she felt for him. The first time she had seen him, had he not just returned from England on Queen Isabella’s service? Had he not since then been twice long absent so as to travel to Naples in the service of Queen Clémence, who had given him the relic of Saint John the Baptist she wore about her neck? ‘I shall call our child Jean or Jeanne and people will think it’s because of my elder brother.’ If Guccio were shut up at the present moment, it must again be in the service of some queen. Marie was astonished that, mingling with so many powerful princesses, he should continue to prefer herself, a poor country girl. Guccio was alive, Guccio loved her; no more was needed to restore her pleasure in life, and she began to eat with all the appetite of a girl of eighteen who had been travelling since dawn.

  Tolomei, who knew how to talk easily to the mightiest barons, to peers of the realm, to jurists and archbishops, had for long been unaccustomed to conversing with women, particularly one so young. They did not say much to each other. The banker gazed with delight on this niece who had fallen to him from the sky and who pleased him more each moment.

  ‘What a pity,’ he thought, ‘to place her in a convent! If Guccio had not shut himself up in the Conclave, I would send this pretty child to Lyons; but what would she do all alone there and without protection? And, by the look of things, the Cardinals, as far as one can see, show no signs of yielding. Or should I keep her here to await my nephew’s return? That’s what I should like to do. But no, I can’t; I asked Bouville to do something for her; what sort of figure would I cut if I took no account of the trouble he has taken? And, moreover, if the Abbess is a cousin of the Cressays, and t
he fools should take it into their heads to ask her for news? No, we must not lose our head too. She will go to the convent …’

  ‘… but not for all your life,’ he said, continuing aloud. ‘There’s no question of making you take the veil. You must accept these months of seclusion without too much complaint; I promise you that, when your child is born, I shall arrange things so that you can live happily with my nephew.’

  Marie seized his hand and carried it to her lips; he was embarrassed; kindness was not natural to him, and his profession had not accustomed him to expressions of gratitude.

  ‘I must now place you in the care of the Count de Bouville,’ he said.

  From the Street of the Lombards to the Palace of the Cité was no great distance. Marie walked beside Tolomei in wondering surprise. She had never seen so great a city; the movement of the crowds beneath the July sun, the beauty of the buildings, the quantity of shops, the glittering goldsmiths’ stalls, the whole spectacle transported her into a sort of fairyland. ‘How wonderful,’ she thought, ‘to live here, and what a nice man Guccio’s uncle is, and what a blessing that he is prepared to protect us. Oh yes, I shall certainly put up with my time in the convent without complaint!’ They crossed the Pont-au-Change and entered the Mercers’ Gallery, which was cluttered with baskets of goods.

  For the pleasure of hearing Marie thank him once again and of seeing a smile reveal her pretty teeth, Tolomei could not help buying her a purse for her belt, embroidered with little pearls.

  ‘This is on Guccio’s behalf. I must take his place!’ he said, calculating that, if he had gone to a wholesale merchant, he could have bought it for half the price.

  They started up the grand staircase of the Palace. Thus, for having been seduced by a young Lombard, Marie de Cressay entered the royal dwelling, which her father and her brothers, for all their three hundred years of chivalry and the services they had rendered the King in battle, would never have dreamt of being able to do.

  Within the Palace a certain disorder reigned, the result of everyone trying to show his own authority, the peculiar state of turmoil which became immediately evident wherever the Count of Valois happened to be. Having crossed galleries, corridors and suites of rooms, which, as they progressed, made Marie de Cressay feel smaller and smaller, they reached a secluded part of the Palace, behind the Sainte-Chapelle, giving on to the Seine and the Island of Jews. A guard of gentlemen-at-arms, dressed in coats of mail, barred their way. No one might enter Queen Clémence’s apartments without the Curators’ authority. Tolomei and Marie waited by a window, while someone went in search of the Count de Bouville.

  ‘Do you see? That’s where they burnt the Templars,’ said Tolomei, pointing out the island.

  Fat Bouville arrived, still dressed in armour, his paunch rolling under his coat of mail, his step as decisive as if he were about to command an assault. He made the guard move aside. Tolomei and Marie crossed a room in which the Sire de Joinville was sleeping, sitting in an armchair. His two equerries were silently playing chess beside him. Then the visitors entered the Count de Bouville’s lodging.

  ‘Is Madame Clémence any better?’ Tolomei asked Bouville.

  ‘She weeps less,’ replied the Curator, ‘or rather she shows her tears less, as if they were flowing straight into her throat. But she is still suffering badly from shock. Moreover, the heat here is doing her no good in her condition; she suffers from exhaustion and often has fainting-fits.’

  ‘So the Queen of France is nearby,’ thought Marie, intensely curious. ‘Perhaps I shall be presented to her? How shall I dare speak to her of Guccio?’

  She then had to listen to a long conversation, of which she understood little, between the banker and the former Grand Chamberlain. When they mentioned certain names, they lowered their voices, or moved a little aside, and Marie tried hard not to listen to the whisperings.

  The Count of Poitiers’s arrival from Lyons was announced for the morrow. Bouville, who had so much desired his return, no longer knew whether it was a good thing or not. For Monseigneur of Valois had decided to leave immediately to meet Philippe, accompanied by the Count de La Marche; and Bouville pointed out to Tolomei, by a window giving on to the courtyard, the preparations for departure. The Duke of Burgundy, for his part, had taken up his residence in Paris and had mounted a guard of his own gentlemen about his niece, the little Jeanne of Navarre. The Treasury was empty. There was a sinister wind of rebellion blowing through the city, and this rivalry of regents could but end in the greatest calamities. In Bouville’s opinion, Queen Clémence should have been made Regent and surrounded by a Council of the Crown composed of Valois, Poitiers and the Duke of Burgundy.

  Interested though he was in these events, Tolomei several times endeavoured to bring Bouville back to the subject in hand.

  ‘Of course, of course, we shall look after this young lady,’ replied Bouville, who immediately returned to his political pre-occupations.

  Had Tolomei any news from Lyons? The Curator had taken the banker familiarly by the shoulder and was practically talking cheek to cheek. What? Guccio was shut in the Conclave with Duèze? Oh, what a clever boy! Did Tolomei think he could communicate with his nephew? If he should receive any news from him, or was in a position to send him a message, would he let him know? It might be a very valuable channel. As for Marie …

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said the Curator. ‘My wife, who is an intelligent and extremely competent woman, has done all that is necessary. Don’t worry.’

  Madame de Bouville was summoned. She was a thin, authoritative little woman, her face seamed with vertical wrinkles, and her withered hands were never still for an instant. Marie, who had until then felt safe with the fat Tolomei and the equally fat Bouville, at once had a sensation of unease and anxiety.

  ‘Oh, so it’s you whose sin has to be concealed!’ said Madame de Bouville, examining her with eyes that lacked all kindliness. ‘You are expected at the Convent of the Clarisses. The Abbess showed very little eagerness, and less still when she heard your name, for it appears that, by I know not what link, she is related to your family, and your conduct is most displeasing to her. However, the interest which Messire Hugues, my husband, enjoys carried weight. When I had insisted a little, she agreed to shelter you. I will take you there before nightfall.’

  She talked quickly and it was difficult to interrupt her. When she stopped to take breath, Marie replied with great deference, but also with considerable dignity: ‘Madame, I am not in a state of sin, for I was married to my husband before God.’

  ‘Now, now,’ replied Madame de Bouville, ‘don’t make us regret the kindness we’re showing you. Give thanks to those who are taking the trouble to help you, instead of putting on airs.’

  Tolomei thanked them on Marie’s behalf. When she saw the banker about to leave, she felt so sad, lonely and distressed that she threw herself into his arms as if he had been her father.

  ‘Let me know what happens to Guccio,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘and let him know that I long for him.’

  Tolomei left and the Bouvilles also disappeared. Marie remained all the afternoon in their antechamber, not daring to leave it and with nothing to do but sit in the embrasure of the open window and watch the departure of Monseigneur of Valois and his escort. For a moment the spectacle distracted her from her sorrow. She had never seen such beautiful horses, harness and clothes, or in such great number. She thought of the peasants of Cressay dressed in their rags, their legs bound in strips of cloth, and thought how strange it was that human beings, who all had a head and two arms and were all created by God in His image, should be of such different races, if one were to judge by their clothing.

  Two young equerries, seeing the beautiful girl gazing down at them, smiled at her and blew her kisses. Suddenly they gathered about a figure, dressed in silver-embroidered clothes, who seemed to have a commanding presence and looked like a sovereign; then the cavalcade set off, and the heat of the afternoon lay over the courtyards a
nd the gardens of the Palace.

  Towards the end of the day Madame de Bouville came in search of Marie. Accompanied by several footmen, and mounted on mules harnessed with a sort of pack-saddle on which one sat to one side with one’s feet on a bar, the two women crossed Paris.

  There were riotous groups and shouting at the tavern doors; a brawl had broken out between the partisans of the Count of Valois and the people of the Duke of Burgundy, who had but recently arrived and were getting very drunk. The watch was restoring order with its maces.

  ‘The city is in a state of excitement,’ said Madame de Bouville. ‘I should not be at all surprised if there were not a rising tomorrow.’

  They left Paris by Mont Sainte-Geneviève and the Porte Saint-Marcel. Dusk was falling over the suburbs.

  ‘When I was young,’ said Madame de Bouville, ‘there were only twenty houses to be seen here. But people can no longer find anywhere to live in the city and are constantly building in the fields.’

  The Convent of the Clarisses was surrounded by a high, white wall, which enclosed the buildings, gardens and orchards. In the wall was a low door and, next to the door, a turning-box constructed in the thickness of the stone. A woman came walking along the wall, her head covered with a hood, went to the turning-box and quickly placed in it a package which she took from beneath her cloak; cries came from the package; the woman turned the wooden drum, pulled the bell and, seeing that someone was coming, ran away.

  ‘What was she doing?’ Marie asked.

  ‘She has abandoned a fatherless child,’ said Madame de Bouville, looking at Marie with an expression of severity. ‘That is how they are received. Come along, hurry up.’