Heretic Dawn (29 page)

“I shall obey the queen, my mother,” said the king, who had never in his life done otherwise, and bowed politely to his beautiful messenger with a touch of timidity, which I certainly would not have displayed in his place. But, alas, how great was my loss not to be there!

The tennis master immediately provided a ball to Monsieur de Nançay, who took up his position and said, “Here you go, sire!” And he served his master and sire so well, and so low, that the ball ended up in the net.

“Point and game to His Majesty!” cried the umpire, greatly relieved.

And the spectators all vigorously applauded the king’s victory—and, I’d wager, Monsieur de Nançay’s skill at not being too skilful.

That particular skill was maintained throughout the two sets, the captain winning only one game in the first and two in the second, but those two came after the king had already won five, a handsome advantage that allowed Charles IX to maintain his calm and good manners even though he was in a lather and completely exhausted.

The king changed his shirt on the court and one of his gentleman gave him a rub-down, both front and back; all the while the king coughed to break your heart, yet not so much that he couldn’t demand the profits from the bet he’d made. The tennis master brought him the money in a hat and I could see the coins shining from my perch above the court. Oh, heaven! How I wished that those coins were ringing in my own purse! I could have put them to such good use!

The king won fifty écus from the captain of his guards and received 100 from his mother, who must have found this an excellent occasion to reassure her son that he was more precious to her than Coligny, who, in his Huguenot stiffness, would never have agreed to do anything so frivolous as watch a tennis match—let alone place a bet on such a
thing. For his part, the king seemed very happy to have acquired these 150 écus, and said out loud (a phrase that was immediately repeated throughout the Louvre) that this money was really his, since he hadn’t had to request it from his treasuries. But, after all, where did the queen mother get this money from if not from the royal treasury?

“The king,” said the scorekeeper, turning to speak to us and wiping his chalky hand across the scar on his cranium, “is just as supple, vigorous and lively as his royal father was, and,” he added sotto voce, “just like his father, he can’t tolerate losing.”

“True enough,” agreed Rabastens, “but Henri II enjoyed better health. His son can’t keep from coughing up phlegm and destroying his chest. That’s the reason he gets exhausted so quickly. Tomorrow he’ll spend the entire day in bed to recover from this match.”

As he was speaking, I went over to the scorekeeper and, to thank him for his kindness, put two sols in his hand. At first he refused to take them, but, at my insistence, he ended up pocketing them, but in a very brusque and surly manner, yet smiling all the while.

“Monsieur de Siorac,” said Rabastens, “the captain is not busy at the moment, and is enjoying this good and worthy defeat, which has earned him so much favour. Would you like to seize the ball on the rebound? I’ll take you to meet him.”

“Oh, Sergeant! How much obliged I am! I could never repay you!”

“So I absolve you of all debt!” laughed Rabastens. “Are you not from the south?”

As we were descending this spiral staircase, Giacomi took my arm and said quietly, “My brother, go to see Monsieur de Nançay alone. I’ll keep Samson company while you do.”

I agreed, understanding all too well what he meant and that he was afraid my beloved Samson would say something that would offend the captain. And it’s true that throughout the tennis match, my mind kept returning to Samson and my fears that he was ill equipped to
live in this papist Babylon and constantly risked, in his simplicity, exposing himself into incredible dangers. And in the end, as much as I loved him, I regretted not having left him in Maître Béqueret’s pharmacy in Montfort-l’Amaury, and all the more so since they’d so urgently requested it and he himself had so ardently wished it, having so much interest in his glass bottles and finding nothing to interest him in this city of Paris, which had already enchanted me with its beauty and brilliance.

Rabastens led us to a small room at the entrance to the tennis courts, which he entered without knocking, indicating I should follow him. Monsieur de Nançay was having a rub-down while the tennis master watched.

He was conversing with a great hippopotamus of an Englishman, clothed in scarlet, hair so blonde it looked white, and a large face as red as a ham, who was paying him compliments about his game, laughing uproariously at every third word, being of an extremely jovial and energetic complexion.

“Milord,” said Monsieur de Nançay, as he gave me a nod that was all the more courteous since he had no idea who I was, “I thank you a thousand times for your generous compliments, but I’m sure that Queen Elizabeth’s subjects play tennis as well as we French!”

“Not at all as well!” laughed the “milord”. “I’m amazed by the great number of tennis courts I’ve seen in Paris. From your king to the smallest valet, anyone can get involved!” (He laughed.) “You’d think French people were born with a racquet in their hands!” (And he laughed again.)

“And do you have the same rules in England as we do, Milord?” asked Monsieur de Nançay, smiling politely.

“All the same, even the words, except that, before serving, you say ‘
Tenez!
’ and we say ‘Tenetz!’—which some of our ignoramuses who don’t know French pronounce ‘tennis’!”

“And do you use the same balls?”

“We use yours since ours don’t bounce very well.”

“You mean mine,” said the tennis master, jumping shamelessly into the conversation with great self-assurance, “for I’m the one who sells them to your country, Milord, and no one else, since mine are the best in the kingdom: they’re made with the best leather, and are stuffed with oakum, or with dog hair, and not with white chalk or bran, as some black marketeers do, whom I’ve had outlawed by the king.”

“Dog hair, eh!” said the milord, and he laughed again, a laugh I was beginning to find quite tiring, especially since I resented the amazing effrontery of the tennis master, who went on and on singing his own praises and importance, to the point where one would believe he was giving orders to the king. But later, when I got to know the court better, I realized that this fellow was simply conforming to common practice, Parisians being so credulous and gossipy that they seem to accept every accomplishment at face value. Which is why they all go around trumpeting their own glory.

As this chatter went on between the sniggering Milord and the bumptious tennis master on the subject of balls, I watched Monsieur de Nançay, who seemed to be listening, but was, I guessed, a thousand leagues away, and so I was able to study the captain of the guards at my leisure, as his valet gave him his rub-down. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders, well-muscled arms and long sprightly legs, and there was not an ounce of fat on him. He had a square, tanned face with an aquiline nose and a scar on the corner of his fleshy lower lip. His hair, as I think I mentioned, was more pepper than salt, his eyebrows very black and bushy, which gave him, even at rest, a somewhat supercilious air, something that was softened by his fine, ironic but benign look, all of which seemed to me to indicate some scepticism about common beliefs. He appeared very self-assured, circumspect
and courteous, and had an elegant way of expressing himself. There was something so polished about him, it brought to mind a stone become perfectly smooth by its interaction with the other stones in the court, but one that was not without its hardness under this suave exterior—not, certainly, hardness of heart, but a toughness derived from his situation and his predicament.

At length the milord and the tennis master departed, laughing and chuckling, freeing the room and its rotundity of their unceasing noise, and Rabastens told his captain who I was and then begged our leave to go off to his fencing lessons.

“What, a Siorac!” cried Monsieur de Nançay, giving me a warm embrace. “What a delight to see the son of the Baron de Mespech here in the flesh! For if anyone ever deserved to be a baron, it’s your father, who so gallantly fought when we retook Calais from the English. But ’sblood! I still can’t say the name of Calais without my heart beating faster! Or without remembering the bravery of our great captains beneath its walls! The Duc de Guise! D’Aumale! D’Andelot! Thermes! Bourdin! Sénarpont! How many are already dead? How tenderly I remember these names! But none more highly and clearly than Siorac! Good God! I fought elbow to elbow with him when we crossed the ditch in icy water up to our necks to storm the breach our cannon had made in the Château de Calais! And as frozen as we all were, Siorac was mocking the enemy all the way. My good companion never lost his sense of humour, making a thousand jokes and riotous comments, always funny yet fearless in the teeth of extreme peril. A lion in combat, a dove in victory! And once the city was taken, so caring and concerned about our captives that he tolerated no carnage or rapine from his soldiers. But,” continued Nançay, embracing me again, and placing his hands on my shoulders to get a good look at me, “he’s here! I see him! You have his laughing blue eyes, his features, his build, his carriage and his insatiable thirst for life
and love that he did! Ah, my son! Don’t tell me Siorac is now hoary, sad and defeated! I’d never believe it!”

“Captain,” I laughed, “he’s practically as youthful and vigorous as you, despite the fact that he’s ten years older than you.”

“Well!” replied Nançay, a glint in his eye. “Does he still chase the petticoats?”

“Like a madman!”

“And prosperous?”

“He’s very well off, yes.”

“Well, you’d never guess it from your doublet!” laughed Monsieur de Nançay, and though his remark stung, I didn’t let it show and laughed with him. “Heavens! An outmoded doublet and, what’s worse, it’s been resewn! At the Louvre! At court! ’Sblood! If we were the same size and build, I’d lend you one of mine!”

And though he laughed, I could see that he took my situation to heart and was worried about me. Of Calais and my father, he’d spoken like a soldier, but now, looking at my repaired doublet, he was speaking like a courtier. And then, in his solicitude, he offered to give me the address of his tailor so that I could immediately rejuvenate my wardrobe. I was forced to confess that my father hadn’t provided me enough money to cover such an expense.

“Ah,” he joked, “so Siorac is still as careful with his money! And, I’ll wager, as Huguenot as ever!”

“Unshakeably.”

“Alas,” said Monsieur de Nançay. “In that, I must dare to say I think he’s wrong. A captain should leave religion to the clerics. It’s true, when you think about it a little, that ours abounds in manifest absurdities. But bah! You just have to swallow them with all the rest. As for me, I hear Mass every Sunday and go to confession once a year without thinking about it. The world doesn’t ask more than that. ‘To live happily,’ as Ronsard said, ‘simplicity is everything.’”

“That’s easy,” I thought to myself, “when you enjoy the favour of the king”—something that, for both Ronsard and Monsieur de Nançay, has never failed, since this great poet howls with the wolves at the heels of the reformists. But about my father’s religion—in which I intend to remain (though without any zeal)—I didn’t want to argue, hearing what I’d heard from the captain, and said nothing more. Seeing this, Monsieur de Nançay, whose sharp grey eyes missed nothing, asked me about the affair that brought me here. I told him everything: about my duel and my trial and the king’s pardon that I’d come here to seek.

“Well,” he said, “as for your access to the Louvre, you only have to ask me: it’s already granted. And as for your duel, I’ll speak to my friends here to ensure that the king hears of it and is favourably disposed. But that won’t suffice. You’ll have to be presented to the king. And although he’s not as concerned about dress as the Duc d’Anjou, I couldn’t possible present you dressed as you are. So we’re back to your doublet, and the money you need to have a new one made.”

“But,” I moaned, “who would ever lend me money, and on what guarantees, since I’m a younger son?”

“I would,” said Monsieur de Nançay, continuing immediately, “if I weren’t already up to my neck in debt, living in the Louvre well beyond my means, my captain’s salary paid only when the king’s coffers are full, which is to say, never. Ah, Monsieur de Siorac,” he said stroking his long, fine moustache, “what you need is for one of our gallant, generous ladies to pay for your clothes, as several I know here do for some of the pretty young men of the court. But there’s the rub! How can you ever approach one of these brilliant ladies dressed as you are?”

Ah, reader! What claws his words planted in my heart, I who was already desperate at the thought that, the next day, I should have to confront Madame des Tourelles, who had already told me to come
dressed in new clothes and to have my body shaved, which of course was easier to achieve than the first thing. “So,” I said to myself, laughing at my predicament, “I need a fairy with a wand to transform my body hair into an elegant suit!” Sadly, it’s true that you’re nothing at court without the right clothes. Nobility, merit, wisdom—nothing matters at the Louvre except show. You have to make the right impression or suffer absolute suppression.

I was in the midst of these thorns and pricks, in bitter humour from my humiliation, when a gentleman of about my age entered the room without knocking. He had roughly my build except that he was much better looking than I and superbly dressed in the most marvellous doublet of blue satin I’d ever seen, even at the Louvre. He gave a quick bow to Monsieur de Nançay and, at the very instant that I was in such admiration of him, he gave me such a scornful and insolent look that I paled in my immediate anger and returned his look with a degree of hatred equal to the admiration I’d just felt, and further nourished by the realization that the fellow had seduced me by displaying exactly the image I would have most wanted to present here at the Louvre. The gentleman was greatly surprised by my look, and when his look doubled in arrogance, I matched it, my blue eyes flashing so angrily, as Monsieur de Nançay told me later, that if our eyes had been pistols, we would have laid each other out cold on the ground. In the end, sensing it was ridiculous to continue this awkward predicament, the fellow turned his back, which, from the rigidity of his posture, communicated the infinite disdain he felt. Shaking with rage, I decided to surpass his arrogance, and, making a deep bow to Monsieur de Nançay, and asking to take my leave, I stood up straight and, as the Parthians did in retreat, shot the newcomer such a murderous look as I passed that it’s a miracle he didn’t fall lifeless on the tiled floor.