Heretic Dawn (71 page)

And since the coachman, having just climbed a long, steep hill, was stopping to let his horses breathe, I got out, giving my seat to Florine, and remounted Pompée. I quickly caught up with Quéribus.

“I was getting bored!” he said with a smile.

“I wasn’t,” I rejoined with a smile. “Now I’ve got a lot to think about.”

And despite knowing that the baron behaved like a dandy in the Louvre, I considered him a man of good sense, whose opinions carried some weight, so I told him what had just transpired. He thought about it for a while before responding.

“The lady is of
la noblesse de robe
and her dowry is not insignificant. I’ve heard that an apothecary’s trade can be more lucrative than a landowner’s—except in the Beauce region.”

“She’s a person of such changeable complexion.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that!” replied Quéribus with a sidelong glance. “If she doesn’t go off on pilgrimages, she can remain faithful, living continuously with him.”

“But he’ll be in Montfort and I’ll be in Mespech!” I sighed.

“Or else in Paris,” smiled Quéribus.

“What!” I exclaimed, taken aback. “Me in Paris!”

“Although you hate the place at present, Paris is a Circe,” said Quéribus, “and once you’ve put your lips to her cup, you can’t stay away. What’s more, you’re not without ambition and the only road to success in this kingdom lies through Paris.”

From Bordeaux, we headed to Bergerac, and, finally, by the tortuously curving roads of Périgord we neared Les Eyzies. Quéribus, riding in front with me, said: “Pierre, if you’ll follow my advice, don’t tell anyone here about your flight from Paris except your father and Monsieur de Sauveterre. Through Puymartin, I’ll have the ear of the Catholic nobility of Sarlat, and I’ll circulate the news that you were spared from the massacre by the favour of the Duc d’Anjou and the grace of the king.”

“And why would we need to spread this rumour?” I asked in surprise.

“As a Huguenot you’ll be much better protected in these troubled times, you and your family, by this news of the king’s favour than by your walls and ramparts.”

“Well, Quéribus,” I said, “you must have read Machiavelli; you have such a head for politics!”

“I haven’t read him,” answered Quéribus, “but I’m familiar with his thinking since I live at court.”

We found all of Mespech out harvesting the grapes in a vineyard that was a stone’s throw from the chateau, the women picking the fruit and putting it in baskets and the men spread around them to protect them, armed for war, on horseback and with loaded pistols, though, since I’d killed Fontenac in a duel, there wasn’t so much to fear as before, even in these times that were so perilous for Huguenots.

Indeed, our cortège was discovered about a league from Mespech by the Siorac cousins, who, unbeknownst to us, spied us from the cover of some nearby chestnut trees, and, not recognizing me, galloped off to tell my father that “two men, richly attired, followed by a coach and numerous servants” were heading towards the chateau. Hearing this news, my father, surprised by such an unexpected visit, sent Cabusse ahead, who, hidden in a thicket, saw me, recognized me and came galloping back, stuttering like crazy in his emotion. The Baron de Mespech, blushing with joy since he’d given us up for dead,
was incredulous, and headed off to meet us, with Sauveterre at his heels; and he could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw me leaping from my saddle and rushing towards him, followed by Samson, while he dismounted, tears flowing down his cheeks, which were quickly mingled with ours.

It took another full hour for all the kissing, hugging, tears, sighs, questions and blessings to be exchanged with all our household, who, abandoning the grape harvest, rushed up and embraced us in their turn, squeezing us to make sure they weren’t dreaming, and slapping us on the back, all the while gushing in their beautiful
langue d’oc
, which I hadn’t heard for two months and which now sounded so strange and enchanting. Quéribus watched all this from astride his horse, his two hands on the pommel of his saddle, smiling broadly, while Dame Gertrude remained secluded in her coach, wishing, no doubt, to assure the Brethren of her modesty.

After a thousand thanks and compliments, my father immediately invited Quéribus and his servants to be our guests at Mespech, while Sauveterre, without a word, cast a long look at the newcomer’s numerous party, quietly fearing the inroads their collective hunger would make into our pantry. Luckily for our Huguenot sense of economy, Quéribus refused:

“I cannot,” he explained, “until I have paid a visit to my cousin Puymartin: he would otherwise be offended.”

But on the invitation we’d made him, he promised to return the next day with Puymartin and to spend a day at Mespech. Once he’d gone, it was finally time to approach the carriage, which stood immobile and closed in the road, and towards which my father’s curious blue eyes had been turning from time to time; you can easily guess how they shone when Dame Gertrude du Luc got out, with all her grace, beauty and modesty, and, following her, Zara, whom Gertrude presented not as her chambermaid but as her lady-in-waiting. Zara
immediately bewitched my father with such unabashed enticements that I could not doubt he would succumb to them, given his affinity for the fair sex, and age having so little cooled his appetites, as evidenced by the children Franchou continued to bear him. “Aha!” I thought. “These clever women have distributed their roles beautifully: one raising my father’s spirits, the other seducing him. Oh, heaven! How can one not admire the marvellous skills nature has given the fair sex to compensate them for being weaker than men?”

My father, after having courteously offered room and board to our Calypsos, insisted on taking me, without further delay, into the library in order that he might hear an account of our adventures, which I provided as briefly as I could, so as not to dampen our private joys with the public calamities we’d witnessed. The Brethren could not keep, when they heard my story, from shedding burning tears at the traitorous assassinations of Coligny and so many other worthy young leaders of the Protestant nobility. And yet I understood how comforted they were by their Huguenot faith and how much they put their hope in the support of the Lord.

“Although the Pope,” said Sauveterre, “when he received Coligny’s head, ordered a
Te Deum
sung in St Peter’s and joyous bonfires lit throughout Rome, his happiness will be of short duration. The reformed Church in France has not been destroyed. Already it is reorganizing and reconstituting itself. Already in numerous towns throughout the south of France, enclosed within their walls, people are dedicating the nails in their doors to the destruction of the royal garrisons, and this little turd of a kinglet will have gained nothing from his felonies other than a third civil war and his just defeat!”

My father, who, I thought, had not appreciated Charles IX’s being called “this little turd of a kinglet” (since for him the king is the king, no matter what he may have done), contented himself with nodding approvingly at this fervent speech, and then asked me
what was happening between Gertrude du Luc and Samson. So I answered straightaway:

“She wants to marry him and give him as dowry a very good apothecary’s business in Montfort-l’Amaury.”

To which the two brothers’ responses, though articulated in the heat of the moment, were very different:

“What?” said my father. “So far from Mespech!”

“What?” bellowed Sauveterre. “Another papist!”

This latter remark could not but rub me up the wrong way, given my feelings for Angelina, so I remained silent, faced with the closed and proud way my father expressed his disappointment (without actually saying so) with what he’d just heard. At my silence, my father looked at me and, observing that I was imitating him, began to laugh.

“Well, my son,” he said, “don’t take it to heart. Monsieur de Sauveterre wasn’t referring to you.”

“Although, my nephew,” Sauveterre interjected, “on reflection, what I said also applies to you.”

At this my father burst out laughing even louder; he then began to explain all the ins and outs of their current situation, to which Sauveterre had just alluded. It seems that, the morning after my departure for Paris, the Sieur de Malvézie rendered up to God a soul that had come from the Devil in the first place, and that one can only imagine was sent back to the latter, dying of a very opportune
miserere
, or appendicitis. Madame de Fontenac immediately forced Pincers, the priest, to withdraw the testimony he’d given that incriminated me, and withdrew the accusation Malvézie had levelled at me. I was thus safe and my entire trip to Paris became unnecessary. My father sent word to Montaigne, but I’d already left, two days earlier. He wrote to d’Argence in Paris, but, as we learnt later, he was holed up in his house in the country and didn’t receive the message.

“Do you mean,” I gasped, “that I ran all those risks and experienced
all those misadventures and incredible dangers for nothing? To ask the king for a pardon that I didn’t need? Do you mean that I was safe, and Samson as well, without knowing it?”

“I had no way of telling you! I had no idea where you’d found lodgings in the capital. And remember, it can take a month, sometimes two, before a letter can get from Sarlat to Paris! But let me continue,” said my father. “If Madame de Fontenac acted so promptly it was, no doubt, out of gratitude for the cure I’d administered to her daughter, Diane, when she had the plague, but also because the lady was pressed very hard by Puymartin, who has loved her madly for a long time and wishes to marry her as soon as the law will permit.”

“But,” I observed, “though Diane seems not to respond to my older brother’s feelings for her, it nevertheless seems to arrange things very well for him!”

“And for us as well,” said my father. “An alliance with Fontenac and Puymartin would be an immense advantage for us, since it’s understood that, once François is married, he’ll share the management of the Fontenac lands with Puymartin.”

“So it’s done?” I asked.

“Not yet. The Sarlat clergy don’t approve of this marriage, since François is a Huguenot and his bride-to-be is a papist, but Puymartin believes that, in time, persuasion and a few greased palms will do the job.”

I then told the Brethren how Quéribus had advised me to spread the word about my great favour with Anjou and the king, and how it would considerably advance this affair. My father was delighted to hear this, and Sauveterre as well, although the latter affected to be reluctant about this marriage, the amelioration of Mespech’s fortunes seeming to be little consolation for the fact that François, like his father (and perhaps his two younger brothers as well), would be united with an idolater.

Just then we heard a knock at the door, and Barberine came in to announce that the baths were now heated and steaming, and ready in the west tower to receive Samson, Giacomi and me; so, taking my leave of the Brethren, I headed to the west tower with her, giving her a thousand kisses and hugs on the way, since without my Barberine Mespech would never have been what it is for me, my old nurse being like a warm feathery nest into which I snuggled so securely. Of course, there were ramparts and walls for our defence and safety, but, for my head, a softer pillow was necessary, and that feminine tenderness without which a man’s life would be hollow and empty.

“Well now, Pierre,” objected Barberine, blushing both from shame and joy, “you’re caressing me like a sparrow his mate. Have you forgotten that I’m practically your mother, or do I have to remind you of it?”

“Now, now,” I cooed, “there’s no danger! Just let yourself enjoy my great friendship for you!”

When we got to the baths, however, I let go of her, because I knew that Alazaïs would be there, who stood as stiff as a cliff against the sea of all human weaknesses, as would Little Sissy, who was, indeed, that sea itself, but who wasn’t easy to face when her jealousy started causing waves.

“What?” I exclaimed. “What’s this? Just three bathtubs? Fill all five immediately! I want Miroul and Fröhlich to bathe with us since they shared our perils.”

Little Sissy, who claimed to be two months pregnant by me, but was not showing at all, gave me lots of little glances and uttered many sweet nothings as she washed me, but she dared not make them too bold, since Alazaïs kept her eye on her. Barberine groomed Samson with her strong, soft hands, but Giacomi was the worst off of the three of us, since Alazaïs cleaned him as if she were plucking the feathers from a chicken before putting it on a spit.

As comforting and enjoyable as this sweet moment was, I needed to cut it short and sent the three women away as soon as they’d soaped us. Once the door was closed behind them, I told the
maestro
, Miroul and our Swiss giant to be careful not to tell any of the heroic stories of our flight from Paris to anyone hereabouts, but to keep quiet, and I explained why.

“Well,” said Samson, whose head scarcely emerged from the tub in which he was immersed, “I’m very happy for François that he’s marrying his Diane.”

When I didn’t hear him express any reservations about her being a papist, I realized that it was an excellent time to ask why he wouldn’t get married himself instead of living in sin with his lady.

“Because I’m not sure she would want me,” he said in his exquisite simplicity.

“Oh, but she does!” I said. “All she does is dream about it and also about offering you, as her dowry, the apothecary practice of Maître Béqueret, which he wants to sell, as perhaps you are aware.”

At this, he opened his eyes very wide; he then closed them, then opened them, then grew very pale, then blushed, unable to say a word, not knowing how to take in these two great joys that I was offering him all at once.

“Ah,” he said at last, having sped through all the impediments he’d imagined to his dreams, “but I’ll be in Montfort, my brother, and you’ll be in Mespech!”

“Or maybe in Paris,” I said with a smile, very moved that his first thought had been for me, even before he’d thought of our father.

“In Paris!” he gasped. “You’d be in Paris! But you hate the filthy place!”