Heretic Dawn (38 page)

“I give you leave to act,” said the Marquis d’O mournfully.

“Monsieur d’O,” I said, bowing deeply, “I’m lodged in Paris at the home of Maître Recroche, rue de la Ferronnerie: you’re sure to find me there in the morning. Monsieur de Quéribus,” I continued icily, “I am your humble servant and at your command at a time you shall designate.”

“Monsieur, it is I who am manifestly your humble servant,” said Quéribus calmly as he bowed to me. And as he stood straight again, I noticed that, by some magic, all the anger and haughtiness had been completely erased from his face, and he gave me a look, to my immense surprise, that wasn’t the least bit unfriendly, but quite the opposite. I was even more astonished by my response, for I returned his look without a trace of bitterness. And as we stood eyeing each
other, neither of us could repress a hint of a smile, as if the scene in which we’d faced off so angrily had only been a sort of mask behind which we had sealed a sudden and intimate friendship! That we were forced to cut each other’s throats before getting to this point was what left me not a little perplexed.

“Ah, Monsieur,” wailed Miroul, wringing his hands in despair as we walked away, “you shouldn’t have taken offence at the word ‘rustic’! You managed to be blind, but you couldn’t remain deaf.”

“How now? How now?” said Samson, his complexion taking on a deathly pallor. “A duel with a man of his calibre? Ah, my brother, he’ll kill you!”

“Or, if you kill him, Monsieur, you lose your head!” choked Miroul, his throat constricted in grief. “A baron! A brilliant courtier! One of the Duc d’Anjou’s gentlemen! Oh, Monsieur! It’s madness!”

“What could I do?” I replied. “If I hadn’t taken offence at the word ‘rustic’ he would simply have gone on with his persecution!”

“Alas, I think you’re right,” sighed Miroul.

“Ah, my brother,” said Samson, “if the baron were to kill you, I’d have to take up the challenge.”

“Oh, very nice!” said Miroul. “Then he could kill you as well!”

“And your death would give me great comfort up there in heaven,” I laughed. “But my brother, let’s say no more about this and close the book of lamentations. I suggest we tell Monsieur de Nançay about this nasty business and ask for his advice as to what to do.”

Monsieur de Rambouillet, to whom I spoke to learn how best to find the captain of the foot guards, told me that he hadn’t seen him yet, but that he might perhaps be found at the Five Virgins tennis court, where he usually spent his leisure time, since there would be few people there at this hour. I sent Miroul to Giacomi in his gallery to tell him where
we were headed, and passed back through the gates of the Louvre and knocked at the massive oak door of the Five Virgins. The door opened slightly, and a valet asked my name and my business. I told him, and immediately the tennis master and ball-maker, Delay, appeared and very graciously greeted me, and told me that he recognized me as the Périgordian gentleman whom he’d seen with Monsieur de Nançay the day before, and that I had only to go on in, since the captain was about to start a doubles match. Saying this, he led us to the grandstand, which was empty at this early hour, and, sitting down with me, asked me, in the Parisian way, an infinite number of questions about my parentage and my province. I listened with one ear and answered only as much as necessary to avoid being impolite, my attention focused on two gentlemen who, in breeches and shirts, were hitting a ball back and forth over the rope, while a third gentleman stood by and served as umpire, seeming very impatient at not being able to join the game. At least so I surmised by his manner and by the fact that he was holding a racquet in his hand, which was of no use to him as an umpire.

“So these must be the gentlemen who are waiting for Monsieur de Nançay to make up a doubles game? What’s the name of the tallest of the three? He plays very well.”

“What?” said Delay almost indignantly. “You don’t know him? You’re kidding! Everyone in the world knows the Duc de Guise!”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve been in Paris only three days, though I’ve heard so much about him since my father, the Baron de Mespech, served under his father at Calais.”

“I’ll speak to Henri de Guise about you,” said Delay good-naturedly. “He’ll like you the better for it since he venerates the memory of his father, who was assassinated.”

“And who’s the gentlemen who’s returning his shots?”

“Well, this is the amazing thing! This lord is the son-in-law of the man who had his father killed.”

“But,” I said, now on my guard, “is it certain that it was Coligny who had François de Guise killed? The king tarnished him with this infamous insinuation.”

“Well,” said Delay, “the king plays his own game, and his game is to keep everyone guessing.”

He lowered his voice mysteriously as he said this, suffering from the same fever that afflicts everyone at court: wishing to appear well informed about everything. But other than this very Parisian weakness, I liked the master ball-maker well enough, if only for the fact that he was as round as one of the balls he produced: in his backside, his stomach and his face, with eyes that were a strange mixture of naive and sly.

“The Duc de Guise is very handsome,” I observed as I watched him bound here and there on the tennis court.

“A beauty which nearly cost him his life,” whispered Delay with a delicate smile. “The king nearly had him killed when he discovered his clandestine affair with Princesse Margot.”

In truth, this was common knowledge, even at Mespech, thanks to the letter d’Argence had sent us, but I let him go on, since I was finding among these scraps some useful bits of information.

As we talked, I watched the Duc de Guise at tennis, and found him a vigorous, agile and dexterous player, his face an apt image for turning the heads of the ladies at court, having soft, narrow eyes, fine features and a delicate moustache that ravishingly turned up at the corners.

Unfortunately his beauty far surpassed his talents, which, according to the Brethren, were few: Guise gave a poor account of himself on the papist side in the civil wars, having inherited from his father neither military genius nor political finesse. And yet it was miraculous how his dedication to his party made up for his insufficiencies. There wasn’t a Catholic church, cathedral pulpit, school, sacristy or seminary—or even confessional—which didn’t daily resound with his
idolatrous praises, since Guise was seen throughout the kingdom as the only steadfast defender of the Vatican faith, Charles IX being quite suspect on this account, since Coligny had his ear. Guise let it be known that, as a direct descendant of Charlemagne, he had a better right to the throne of France than Charles. Monks and priests went about whispering this with such fervour that ultimately the tall, handsome duc couldn’t appear in the streets of the capital, looking so imposing on his black stallion, without the ignorant populace running up from all sides to kiss his hands, his feet and even his horse’s shoes! What a strange place Paris is—indoctrinated by its priests, it created for itself another king than the king of France!

“You will notice,” said Delay, “that Monsieur de Téligny doesn’t have much of a backhand and that his service is shaky. Do you play, Monsieur de Siorac?”

“Much better than Téligny, a little less well than Guise.”

“And your pretty brother?” asked Delay, leaning over to get a better look at Samson, who, dreamy, lost in thought and bitterly sad, was already imagining me, I suspect, with a sword through my heart.

“Very little.”

“Is he always this quiet?”

“Always.”

“Isn’t that marvellous!” said Delay. “I never have enough hours in the day to disgorge all the words that swell up my cheeks.”

I laughed at this, and he did as well, being a good-natured fellow, though proud and cunning. Turning the discussion away from my brother—so much did I fear that he would unleash some unfortunate remark about religion—I said, “So how does Guise consent to play tennis with the nephew of the man he believes killed his father?”

“The king wishes it so,” replied Delay, “and is preaching reconciliation. Monsieur de Téligny served as an intermediary between Coligny and the king before the present amicable arrangement between the
Huguenots and us. And, from that point on, the king has showered benefits on this Téligny, who counts them as money in the bank.”

“Do you think he shouldn’t?” I asked turning to look at him.

“Good gentleman,” answered Delay with a somewhat bitter smile, “at the court, you can’t trust anything you hear. Everything is in constant movement: favour and disfavour. Moreover, whoever is loved by one king will find himself hated by the other.”

“What?” I asked amazed. “But we have only one king!”

“We’ve got four of them,” replied Delay, lowering his voice. “The crowned and sanctified one; the queen mother’s king, the Duc d’Anjou; the king of the Huguenots, Coligny; and then there’s Guise, the king of Paris.”

“As I watch him play tennis,” I said sotto voce, “the king of Paris is doing a lot of favours for the son-in-law of the king of the Huguenots. Look how he smiles and seems almost ashamed to have taken so many points from him.”

“He smiles at him,” said Delay, “but if he didn’t fear the king’s anger, he’d immediately slit his throat like a chicken. And Coligny’s, as well. And those of all the heretics.”

Thank God, Delay had said this so quietly that my brother didn’t hear it. Otherwise we would have been in great danger of his giving us away, and that would have been the end of the confidences that Delay was sharing with me, as well as of his jokes, which I found quite enjoyable, especially given how much this man, who was not of the court, knew about his clients, who were.

A closer look at these tennis players allowed me to see that, indeed, Guise’s smile was as false as Téligny’s was candid. This latter gentleman, who had just arrived from Rouergue, was a fairly agile person with a pleasant and benign face, and visibly proud (in the simplicity of his heart) to be so well received at court and favoured by the king and the lords.

“So,” I asked, “who is the gentleman acting as umpire of the match and who appears to be so impatient for Nançay to arrive for a game of doubles.”

“The Chevalier d’Angoulême. But they call him ‘the bâtard’ since he’s the fruit of fornication between Henri II and an Irishwoman.”

“He’s very dark,” I observed. “His hair, his eyebrows, his eyes and his skin.”

“And his soul,” added Delay. “Look at his eyes, deep-set in their sockets and unnaturally close together, a sign of cruelty of character. In any case, the king loves this dark fellow, and always wants him near him, and entrusts to him his basest assignments.”

“His basest assignments?”

“No one here is ignorant,” Delay whispered in my ear, “that the king ordered him to kill Guise when the duc had the impertinence to bed Margot. If Guise hadn’t got married immediately thereafter, the bâtard would have killed him.”

“Well!” I thought. “What a world has Fortune thrown me into! Guise would slit Téligny’s throat on a sign from the king, and, on a sign from the king, the bâtard would have dispatched Guise. But here they all are, playing tennis, with such courtesy and good grace. ’Sblood! What a royal court we have in France! All you see is fond embraces, smiles and kind words. But he who smiles at you on Monday could dagger you on Tuesday!”

The thought of daggers reminding me of my duel with Quéribus (which, however much I tried, never left my mind the entire time I was talking with Delay), I considered that my future in this treacherous city was very shaky indeed, which saddened me no little bit given how much I love our earthly life.

“Well,” said Delay, “I can see that the bâtard is not a little impatient that Nançay’s not here. Monsieur, perhaps you’d consent to be the fourth, if these gentlemen are willing.”

I was so astonished at this that I could only agree, and straightaway Delay rose and trotted across the court, buzzing like a hornet around Guise’s, then the bâtard’s and then Téligny’s ears. He came straight back and informed me that it was all arranged, and that I should strip to my shirt, and added, to my great shame, “I don’t want these gentlemen to see you in this doublet.”

After which, and having taken up a very good racquet, Delay introduced me to the bâtard, to Coligny’s nephew and to Guise, partnering me with this last gentleman for the match.

“Well, Monsieur de Siorac,” said the Duc de Guise, graciously, “I’m very happy to meet the son of Captain de Siorac, whom my father never failed to mention when he told us about the siege of Calais: a story I must have heard a hundred times as a boy.”

“Monseigneur,” I said, bowing low, “I also heard the story from my father, who had enormous veneration for the military talents and courage of yours.”

This was, however true our statements were, in reality a kind of courtly balm, for Guise knew very well which religion my father embraced, and I knew that he was the sworn ally of the Pope and the Spanish king, dreaming only of acceding to the throne by means of the blood of the Huguenots: a long-standing plan that he dissimulated beneath the amiable mask of his courtesy. He could accept almost anything patiently—except not being king.

I played only a few minutes with them, enough at least for Guise to pay me some very pretty compliments on my game; he even told me, when Monsieur de Nançay arrived, that he’d happily have me as a tennis partner again should the occasion arise—a promise which seemed sincere enough, tennis being one of his passions.

Nançay didn’t arrive alone. Monsieur de Montesquiou followed him in and came over to me in the grandstand where I was donning my doublet, and said gruffly that the Duc d’Anjou had ordered him
to bring me straightaway to see him, along with my brother, news that I heard with prodigious amazement, as did Delay, who, seeing Montesquiou approach, came over to hear what he had to say.

“But Monsieur,” I said, showing him the state of my doublet, “how can I appear before His Highness dressed as I am?”

“I have my orders,” replied Montesquiou, his tanned face barred with two black stripes: his eyebrows and his moustache. “The matter can suffer no delay. Were you to refuse to come,” he continued without a trace of a smile, “I would have to take you to His Highness by means of my guards.”