Paris: The Novel (46 page)

This grandiloquent statement was probably true. Even the thieves in the other quarters of the city would respect the protection of a powerful chief like Le Sourd. And had Guy de Cygne been a native of Paris, he would have understood that he had just been given a gift worth far more than his golden trinket from the Holy Land.

But he raised his goblet of wine all the same, and thanked his host for his hospitality and friendship. And Le Sourd glanced at his son, and then looked around the tavern like a satisfied monarch, and told himself again that the kings of the feudal world were, after all, nothing more than himself writ large—in which belief, it must be said, he was entirely correct.

“My son, Richard, will accompany you to where you are staying so that we may know how to find you,” he said. And although Guy wasn’t delighted by the idea of taking Le Sourd’s son to the house of his father’s friend, it seemed the only way to get his pendant back. So after renewed expressions of mutual esteem, he and Richard set off.

He met the girl the next day. The Renard family lived in a fine house on the Right Bank near the river. She wasn’t so bad. Her name was Cécile. She had red hair and a pale oval face. Some people would have thought
her beautiful. His father’s friend, who knew the Renard family well, came with him, and on their way back he told Guy: “She likes you. So did her parents. It’s up to you now, young man.” And his tone of voice said: “If you turn down this dowry, you’re a fool.”

“Does she want to live in the country?” Guy had asked.

“Of course she does.”

“She didn’t say much, but her family talked about Paris a lot.”

“Naturally. That’s all she knows. She’ll love the country when she gets there.” His father’s friend smiled. “You might as well say an unmarried girl’s a virgin, therefore she won’t enjoy being married.”

He was quite surprised when they returned to find Le Sourd’s son, Richard, awaiting them. He came forward and made a polite bow with his shaggy black locks. As he looked up at de Cygne, he smiled.

“I have good news, monsieur,” he said. And he held out his hand. “Is this the one?”

It was. So the rogue had had it all the time, as Guy had thought. But he kept up the little comedy.

“And what is the ransom demanded?” he inquired.

“Nothing, monsieur. My father was able to persuade the man who had it to part with it for nothing. My father told him that, perhaps, this good deed might save his soul.”

“Let us hope so,” said Guy. It was hard not to smile at the rogue’s cheek.

“My father sends you his respects, monsieur. Is there any message I should take back to him?”

Guy de Cygne considered. He knew what he thought: that Le Sourd was a thief and prince of thieves. On the other hand, the thief had given him back his pendant.

“Please tell your father that Guy de Cygne thanks him for his hospitality, and thanks him for his help.”

“Thank you, monsieur.” The boy smiled. “May God keep you.”

“And you too.”

That night Guy de Cygne thought long and hard. There were terms the nobles used for marrying a rich bourgeoise: “Putting gold on the coat of arms.” Or, less lovely: “Putting dung on your land.”

Cécile Renard was all right. He imagined he could love her, but he doubted that she’d be happy in the country, and this troubled him a little. But then he thought of what her dowry could bring. He would be able to enlarge the estate. He could make improvements to the manor house.

He knew his duty. Before he went to bed, he said his prayers. He knew, he told God, that he should honor his father and mother, and if he married the girl, he’d certainly be doing that. But the family motto also came into his mind. “According to God’s will.” He would be guided by it. If God sent him a sign—if, for instance, his bride should die before their wedding day—that would be a clear signal that God did not want the marriage. But if there was no sign, he’d take it as consent. And he gave the Almighty the assurance that he would try to make the girl’s life pleasant, if it could be done.

The marriage took place three months later. The ceremony was in Paris, at the house of the Renard family.

It had to be said that they did the thing handsomely—far more so than the de Cygne family could have done at their crumbling manor. But there was something that his parents were able to do that clearly satisfied the bourgeois Renards.

They were able to summon noble kinsmen that Guy had hardly known he had. He might not be making a noble marriage, but it seemed the news that he was marrying an heiress was enough for all kinds of family friendships to be renewed. A score of noble names appeared, with their sons and daughters. If the Renards had been counting on this, then they had received their part of the bargain.

Even before the marriage took place, Guy suddenly found himself with kinsmen who declared that his bride was charming, and sweet, and all the other things that are said of a rich young girl—as long as she doesn’t make herself unpleasant—when she arrives on the social scene. Cécile seemed delighted by their friendly attentions, and was promised all kinds of amusement when she came to the country. As for Guy, his kinsmen soon introduced him to their own friends so that, by the time he married, he was on friendly terms with young men who belonged to some of the greatest families in the land.

The wedding was a success in every way. By the third day, he and Cécile had decided that they liked each other very much indeed. Meanwhile, a week of gaiety in Paris was called for, before he took her down to the valley of the Loire, to see the modest estate which so urgently needed her love.

He was in a company of a dozen nobles, three days after the marriage,
when they had dismounted to wander through the great market of Les Halles. And he was just standing beside a brightly colored stall that offered herbs and spices when he heard a cry from nearby.

It was Charles, son of the Comte de Grenache, with whom he’d been riding only minutes before. He ran over to him.

“What’s the matter?” Guy asked.

“Someone just stole my purse. It was hanging on my belt, on a strap, and the cursed fellow must have cut it off with a knife. My God he was fast.” Charles de Grenache shook his head. “I had thirty francs in there.”

“Did you see him?”

“I’m not certain, but I think so. A fellow with a stoop. Tonsured like a priest. His head bobbed like a pigeon.” The young aristocrat looked around. “He just vanished in the crowd. I’ll never see him again. Or my money.”

Guy smiled.

“As it happens,” he said, “I may be able to help you there.”

It took only a few moments for Guy to explain what he required. One of the party, a young squire, volunteered to go with him. Then, leaving the others in the market, Guy and the young squire set out.

They moved swiftly and by the most direct way, to a street where they could see the door of the Rising Sun. They hadn’t long to wait. Having taken a more circuitous route, the stooped man appeared from an alley, and having glanced behind him furtively, went in through the tavern door.

Guy gave him time to get well inside, and then, keeping the squire with him, he strolled casually to the tavern and opened the door.

Jean Le Sourd was in a good mood. He sat with his son beside him at his table, on which the leather purse had just been placed. He poured out the gold and silver coins and quickly reckoned. Thirty francs’ worth. He scooped the money back into the purse, and nodded to the stooping man.

“You’ll get your share,” he said.

“How much?”

“Whatever I give you,” said Le Sourd sharply. “Sit down.”

As the stooped man was about to turn away, there was a movement at
the door, and Le Sourd looked up in surprise to see the fair-haired young noble who’d come there three months ago enter with a youth.

Was it possible the stooped man had stolen from him again? He looked inquiringly at the cutpurse, who gave a shrug which said, “I’ve no idea.”

De Cygne was looking at him and smiling.

“I hoped I’d find you here,” he said. “I am in Paris only another day.” He paused. “You said I was welcome at your table. Is the offer still good?”

Le Sourd kept his eyes on him thoughtfully, at the same time taking the purse off the table and placing it at his feet.

“Of course.” He glanced at the door, and one of his men slipped out.

De Cygne turned to the youth.

“Go to my father and say I shall return in an hour or two. Tell him I am dining with friends.”

He advanced toward the table, gave a friendly nod to young Richard, and addressed his host again.

“I have not forgotten your kindness to me, you see. And I came to tell you my good fortune. I was married, two days ago, here in Paris.”

“Ah.” Le Sourd nodded. “To the heiress.”

“It turns out she is an angel. I am taking her down to our poor manor this week.”

“An angel of mercy. The fields will rejoice.”

“No doubt. May I sit down?”

The man at the door came back in and signaled that the coast was clear, and the visitor had come alone.

“Of course.” Le Sourd smiled expansively. “Wine for our friend,” he called.

It seemed he could relax a little. This show of courtesy was more than he’d expected, but one never knew with these nobles. He gave his son a look that told him to take note of this courtesy to his father.

“Master Villon is not here?” de Cygne asked.

“No, monsieur. He is away.”

So they talked of this and that. De Cygne could not ask Le Sourd much of what he’d been doing, since he’d only been robbing people. But young Richard wanted to know about the wedding, and so, without making too much of the disparity between the richness of the scene and the poverty of the tavern, he was able to describe the bright clothes of the men and women, and the food. “A great haunch of venison. A boar’s head
stuffed with sweetmeats, a huge pie made from—I don’t know—a hundred pigeons. Ah,” he told the boy cheerfully, “the smell of it …”

“And wine, monsieur?”

“All you could drink.”

“And many guests?” asked his host.

“I never realized,” Guy smiled, “I had so many friends.”