Heretic Dawn (37 page)

“Well, Monsieur,” he replied, lowering his voice even further, “my heart tells me Giacomi, but if I believe my eyes, it’s Silvie.”

“What does he look like?”

“A beanpole of a man, so thin you’d think he’d break. But he doesn’t. He’s like a well-tempered blade of steel.”

I laughed at this, so loving everything about my good Miroul: his French, his
langue d’oc
and also his Latin, or at least the pearls he’d gleaned that he sprinkled over his own language.

“So now,” I said, taking Miroul by the arm, “let’s go see this great artist
pingere cum gladio
.”

“
Pingere cum gladio
?” asked Miroul. “What’s that?”

“To paint with the sword.”

And, since he was quiet for the time it took us to cleave a passage through the crowd to get to the other end where the great Silvie was fencing, I could hear him moving his lips to repeat and learn my Latin phrase before he forgot it.

Heavens! How I would have admired Silvie, this marvellous master swordsman, perhaps the greatest in the kingdom, had not my eyes fallen on the gentleman who was crossing swords with him. ’Sblood! My blood boiled when I saw him; I dug my nails into my palms, and my breath came so short I thought I might faint from the rage that suddenly had me trembling and shuddering like a leaf in the autumn wind. For the man I saw, directly in front of me in his brocaded silk shirt, agile and quick as a fawn in a forest, was none other than the popinjay of a courtier I’d seen the day before in the room at the tennis court, where he, an impertinent valet of Monsieur de Nançay, had overwhelmed me with his insolent and scornful looks. Oh, God! My rage awakened, hotter than ever, shaking me from head to foot and filling my throat with a bile all the more acrid because, though I hated this rascal to the absolute limit, I couldn’t help but admire him, so well proportioned was he, so agile and skilled with a sword. And what added oil to my fire was that this sprig of a fellow resembled me in his age, his build, the colour of his hair and eyes, and even the thirst for life that was evident in his looks, though he was certainly
more handsome than I. This resemblance only served to make matters worse. For, dear reader, imagine that you looked in a mirror and saw your earthly being at its most perfect, but that, instead of smiling back at you, this more perfect being glared at you with infinite scorn. Perhaps now you can understand my mortification.

Meanwhile, this presumptuous gallant not only fought marvellously, dissimulating his strength and his art beneath a graceful nonchalance, but also managed, while his eyes were glued to the flying blade of the great Silvie, to exchange pleasantries with two gentlemen standing near me, and it was amazing to see the way they interacted. The elder of these two lords was about forty years old. He had a noble and polished face and a piercing and sagacious eye; his body was solid but not fat, and his clothes were light brown, with yellow slashes, so that it was if he had two tones of but a single colour. His younger companion’s clothes were of such diverse colours you might have said that he resembled a meadow in May. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old and his face was so handsome and resplendent that, other than my beloved Samson’s, I didn’t believe I’d ever seen one to equal it.

“Monsieur,” said Miroul, who had followed very curiously my looks, “do you want to know the whats and whys of these two gentlemen?”

“Yes, thank you. And also the name of Silvie’s opponent. Especially his.”

“I understand,” replied Miroul. “I could tell from looking at you that you didn’t like him very much.”

And in a trice he’d disappeared into the crowd, as lively and slender as an eel flowing between two rocks.

“My brother,” said Samson, his eyes all lit up, “this gentleman we’re watching is as skilful as he is handsome. He fences very nearly as well as his teacher.”

“I hope to God,” I said between clenched teeth, “he’s as benign as he is pleasant to look at.”

Meanwhile, the swordplay between the two combatants was so quick, so fine and so fluid, and their blades seemed to be touching so continually—as if each man sensed at every second what the other was going to do—that the lively interest I took in them had gradually succeeded in calming the anger that the memory of the young man’s disdainful looks had reawakened.

“Monsieur,” whispered Miroul, suddenly materializing at my side like the Devil arising out of the ground, “the grey-haired fellow in the brown doublet is the Marquis d’O. There’s not a gentleman in the kingdom with a shorter name, or, it seems, a longer arm.”

“And the lad on whose shoulder he’s put his right hand?”

“This lively little fellow’s Monsieur de Maugiron, a young nobleman in a well-placed family. The
tertium quid
,
||
that is, the arrogant sprig, whom you don’t seem to like very much, is named Quéribus. As young as he is, he’s already a baron. All three belong to the Duc d’Anjou, and are devoted to him to the death, and even beyond. Which is to say that they’d sell their souls for him, if they had any.”

“Did a valet tell you all this?” I asked with some surprise.

“He spoke very ungraciously of them. But I don’t know whether everything he said is true. He serves a gentleman who belongs to the king, and between the Duc d’Anjou and his brother the king, it seems to me that there’s not much fraternal love.”

At this moment, the great Silvie, who was as tall and thin as his own foil, and presented to the eye so little substance in his corporeal being that one wondered how the point of a sword could ever touch him, suddenly retreated (which he normally never did) and, standing to his full height, gave an Italian bow to the Baron de Quéribus, signalling that the lesson, if lesson it was, was over. To which Quéribus responded with a similar bow, though not as ample, since he did not
have the fencing master’s height to permit it. A valet ran forward to take his épée from his hands to save him the labour of resheathing it, and another handed him his doublet, which was, like mine, made of pale-blue satin, but as magnificently brocaded, pearl-studded and stylish as mine was not. Quéribus, throwing it on, headed over to the Marquis d’O and Maugiron, smiling broadly and readying some joke to tell them, but then, all of a sudden, he caught sight of me.

His face froze and his lips curled in derision; his eyebrows arching haughtily, he threw me a look of such infinite scorn that my hatred for him instantly flared up again. Suddenly I was carried away by such extraordinary anger at the odious repetition of his offensive manner that I returned his murderous look and, unthinkingly, my right hand gripped the hilt of my sword—and I would have drawn it had not Miroul put his hand on my arm. His touch awakened me, so to speak, from my trance, and I abruptly turned on my heels and, drunk with anger, pushed my way roughly through the crowd, scarcely aware of my surroundings, so blinded was I by my fury. Miroul and Samson followed behind, the first having some idea of my emotions; the second, understanding nothing of what had happened, kept repeating “Whath thith! Whath thith?” so insistently that finally I turned and snarled:

“My brother can’t you stop lisping at us?”

He blushed and immediately fell silent, looking so aggrieved that I was overcome with shame at my nastiness; I slowed my precipitate pace and, as we stepped out into the courtyard of the Louvre, went to his side, slipped my arm under his, pulled him close to me without a word and walked next to him for the rest of the way, loving him more in proportion to the hurt I’d caused him.

Miroul, who was walking on my right, his face raised in concern towards mine, seeing that I was somewhat more calm, said in
langue d’oc
, “Monsieur, have you exchanged angry words with this gentleman?”

“No,” I replied curtly. “Only looks.”

“God be praised!” breathed Miroul gravely. “I feared for the worst.”

“No words could be worse than this sort of look.”

“But, Monsieur,” smiled Miroul, “you returned an eye for an eye. Leave it at that! You’re in Paris to ask the king to pardon you for one duel. Are you going to add another to your list? That would be madness! And all the more so since this time you could be killed. The knave is a marvellous swordsman.”

“Ah, Miroul! That’s just the point! If the rascal weren’t so good, he wouldn’t dare be so insolent to everyone. And, for me, if I give in to his insolent looks, he’ll think me a faint-hearted coward.”

“Monsieur, what does it matter what he thinks? You’re no coward. Is this fop going to push you into a duel simply because you’re afraid he’ll think you’re a coward? Isn’t it also a kind of cowardice to let yourself be troubled by another man’s scorn?”

“I need an explanation,” Samson broke in, who was listening to our argument with amazement. “My brother, have you been offended?”

“Not at all,” I replied impatiently. “It was just an exchange of looks.”

“Monsieur,” continued Miroul gravely, “may I remind you that your father ordered you to take my advice in extreme situations?”

“Miroul,” I said, smiling somewhat reluctantly, “I’ll take it. What do you advise me to do?”

“Monsieur, if your eyes and those of that popinjay continue to insult each other at every encounter, then words will follow. And they’ll be irremediable. I advise you, then, while there’s still time, to cease looking at him when he’s looking at you, and simply to pretend to ignore his slights, so as not to have to answer them—as the Maréchal de Tavannes did, who turned a deaf ear when Coligny got angry and dared question his courage.”

“Miroul,” I said, eyes downcast, “I’m persuaded that, ultimately, your advice is good. I will follow it.”

“Ah, Monsieur,” warned Miroul with much alarm, “it looks like you’ll
have a chance to do so much sooner than I would have thought! Here comes the swordsman now, heading straight for us, accompanied by the Marquis d’O and Monsieur de Maugiron. I beg you, Monsieur, keep your eyes on the ground, or on Samson, and let’s talk in
langue d’oc
as we were doing, and simply pretend not to see him!”

“You have to admit, Miroul,” I said in my native tongue, my head lowered, but secretly watching the Baron de Quéribus as he advanced towards us, magnificently dressed and with his haughtiest expression, my heart beating with the hatred and the admiration he inspired, “you have to admit that these pretty little tarts are the most execrable race of vermin that ever crawled on this earth!”

“Ah, Monsieur!” said Miroul in terror. “What are you saying? Is Périgordian so little understood here?”

But he couldn’t say more, for Quéribus, passing us, flanked by his two acolytes, turned to look at us, and said in a loud and clear voice:

“These rustic fellows are speaking
langue d’oc
.”

Dropping Samson’s arm, I turned as if I’d stepped on a thorn and, trembling with anger from head to foot, I said with subdued fury:

“Rustic, Monsieur?”

“Ah, Monsieur!” cried Miroul in despair.

“Rustic, Monsieur!” replied Quéribus with a deep bow. “Rustic, from the Latin
rus, ruris,
countryside.”

“Monsieur,” I said, bowing in turn, “I take offence.”

“I believe that none has been given,” said the Marquis d’O, who looked with astonishment from Quéribus to me; and, placing his hand with authority on Quéribus’s arm, he added: “The Baron de Quéribus said, ‘This rustic fellow is speaking
langue d’oc
.’ He meant the valet and not the gentleman.”

“I meant the two of them,” corrected Quéribus, with the greatest nonchalance.

“Quéribus!” said the Marquis d’O, frowning. “What are you doing? A challenge! Here in the Louvre! Are you ignoring the orders of the king and of the Duc d’Anjou?”

“Not at all!” answered Quéribus, now speaking more softly, all the while assassinating me with his insolent looks. “As for me, I saw no offence in the word ‘rustic’, by which I simply meant a foot soldier who has his roots in the countryside. Monsieur de Siorac, having arrived directly from Périgord, cannot be from anywhere but the country.”

“Aha!” I thought. “This gallant found out my name and origins from Monsieur de Nançay, and for what design is now obvious.” And yet I made no answer, for I could tell that Quéribus, without in the least renouncing his quarrel with me, wanted to blame it on me.

“Monsieur,” I said at last, “I accept your explanation. Nevertheless, would you consent to take back the word ‘rustic’? Even though it means a simple soldier to you, it does not suit a gentleman.”

“On the contrary,” observed Quéribus in suave tones but with a murderous look, “it seems to me that it nicely fits a gentleman who was raised with pigs.”

“Quéribus!” cried the Marquis d’O.

“Monsieur,” I said calmly, “when you think about it, aren’t we all different kinds of animal, some who are able to reason, others, as I gather, devoid of reason. So do you believe that the rustic rat is so inferior to the urban rat?”

At this, the little hanger-on Maugiron, as mad and insouciant as one often is at his age, laughed outright, which only served to goad Quéribus on.

“A rat, Monsieur?” he said, frowning.

“Urban,” I replied.

“Offence taken!” cried Quéribus, in a tone less aggrieved than triumphant.

“I see none!” the Marquis d’O said quickly. “Monsieur de Siorac called himself a rustic rat.”

“Monsieur de Siorac does himself justice,” said Quéribus, “but not to me. Monsieur, answer! Am I a rat?”

“Urban,” I explained. “From the Latin
urbs, urbis
, city.”

“Ha!” cried Quéribus in the most derisive tone. “
Urbs, urbis
! Monsieur de Siorac is declining! Like his courage!”

“Quéribus!” cried the marquis.

“Monsieur,” I said, “you provided the first example of this declension.”

And little Maugiron laughed again.

“Ah, yes!” cried Quéribus, suddenly beside himself, and burning all his boats. “Laugh, Maugiron! Laugh! Monsieur de Siorac will laugh even harder when I add a buttonhole to the stitches in his ridiculous doublet!”

“There you have it, Monsieur d’O,” I said, turning to the marquis, “there is offence, defiant, provocative and public. I beg you to give me leave to act.”