Heretic Dawn (45 page)

“But, you, my gentle brother!” she gushed, lowering her mask. “You first of all, and then, you-know-who!”

“What?” I cried. “Dame Gertrude du Luc! Well, I’m happy to see you!”

“Well, my beloved brother,” said the blonde Norman, throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me so hard I could hardly breathe, “what a comfort to have you here after so many months!”

As she said this, she pressed me even harder against her bosom, and I wouldn’t have known how to avoid her hot lips, which were peppering my face with kisses, had I not spied over her shoulder, just in the nick of time, my good L’Étoile, looking very disapproving of these goings-on, and on his way out the door. Indeed, he slammed the door shut behind him, since he detested extramarital affairs, despite—or because?—of the fact that he’d found so little love in his own marriage.

“Madame,” I said as I took her by the hand and seated her on a stool, since, seated, she seemed less dangerous to me, “what are you doing here? You’ve appeared miraculously, like a
dea ex machina
,
‡‡
at the very moment I need you the most!”

“It’s no miracle,” she explained. “Like everyone else, I’ve come to see the marriage of Princesse Margot to that infamous heretic, though my heart bleeds at the idea of this unnatural union. And when I was passing through Montfort-l’Amaury, Dame Béqueret, who’d
just received a letter from you, told me where you are staying. But is it really true, my pretty brother,” she said, batting an eye and attempting to rise—a movement I arrested with a hand on her shoulder, “is it true that you have such an urgent need for me?”

“What, Madame? Didn’t Dame Béqueret tell you what request I’d made of her?”

“She told me she’d agreed to your request, but didn’t tell me what the nature of the request was.”

“And you, yourself, Madame—”

“Oh, Pierre,” she cried, “don’t call me Madame! Do you love me so little?” she cooed, feigning such affliction that I was worried she was going to renew her assaults on me.

“My gentle sister,” I soothed, increasing the pressure of my hand on her shoulder, but this only made her turn her head and bury her face in the back of my hand, on which she planted hot kisses (and, oh heavens! such feminine wiles are sure to make me weak at the knees and break down my resistance!), “if I asked you, would you consent to lodge with Dame Béqueret in Montfort? Would she welcome you back?”

“Assuredly so! But what would I do there? Why would I want to be so far away from my Samson, and from you, and Paris, and all these festivities surrounding the marriage of the princesse?”

“Ah, Madame,” I cried, “for Samson’s sake, you must! Here in Paris, because of his religion and his candour, he risks such cruel dangers.”

And I quickly recounted our nasty dust-up with the religious procession, where my beloved brother, for failing to doff his cap before the mutilated statue of Notre-Dame de la Carole, nearly lost his life.

“Ah,” she gasped, “I feared as much! He’s so pure and noble and is as innocent as an angel, my gentle little Huguenot!” (“Ah,” I thought, “at least you didn’t call him an ‘infamous’ Huguenot!”) “But by the Blessed Virgin, my vengeance would be swift and terrible if they killed
him,” she cried, placing her hand on a little dagger she wore in her sash, by which I could tell that our beautiful Norman had only just arrived from her journey, and yet she looked as fresh and vigorous as if she’d just got out of bed.

“Your vengeance wouldn’t impress me much,” I said, “or you either, if Samson were no longer alive. My sister, we must decide and decide immediately. Samson cannot remain here, announcing on every street corner that he’s of the reformed religion and that he abominates idols and saints!”

“But what can we do? What can we do?” cried Dame Gertrude, very alarmed.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do: forget all the wedding festivities, which you have so little taste for. Take my Samson and carry him on your lap to Montfort-l’Amaury. By day, put him in the druggist’s shop among the glass bottles in the office; by night, where you know; on Sunday, at Mass. And by God’s will, he’ll be safe. I fear the worst, if he remain here.”

At this, Dame Gertrude fell silent, her eyelids half-closed over her green eyes (in this she reminded me of the beautiful cat we have in Mespech), and as she was biting her lips I could see that she was hesitating between the joys she’d promised herself at the splendid princely wedding festivities and, on the other side, the great love she bore my pretty Samson—though she was hardly a faithful lover. Moreover, seeing her all bedecked like a queen, and almost as resplendent in all her finery as Madame des Tourelles, I imagined that she had as much desire to be seen in the capital as to see—that she would have wished to go shopping at her leisure along the grand’rue Saint-Honoré and around the Pont Saint-Michel, to stick her head in at the court where her beauty might lead to some gallant encounters, and not just to observe the royal marriage ceremony, but to be able to tell her friends and relatives back in Normandy all about it. Instead of that, I was
inviting her to go isolate herself in the deserted countryside, where she would even be unable to see my pretty brother by day (buried as he would be among his jars), and have nothing to do but lie around in bed, like a marmot underground, harbouring her strength for the coming night.

“My sister,” I said somewhat icily, “whatever you decide, since Maître Béqueret wishes to have Samson there, and Samson wishes to be there and continue his work as an apothecary, and since he’s dying of boredom here, I’m resolved to take him to Montfort-l’Amaury tomorrow, whether you join us or not.”

“Ah, my brother!” she cried as she stood up, an opportune teardrop lighting up her green eyes. “You’re so stiff, mean and abrupt with me! Fie, then! Is this any way to recognize the great and fraternal love I bear you? Scarcely have I arrived in Paris before you take Samson away from me—or, if I agree to follow him, you keep me from these beautiful festivities!”

“Well, Gertrude,” I laughed, “this is what I expected: you want it all! Both Samson and the festivities! And what else I know not. But my sister,” I continued, “why don’t you leave for Montfort-l’Amaury tomorrow with Samson. Stay one week with him. After which you can return alone—and I mean
alone
!—for the princely festivities. Once the wedding is over, you can go straight back to Montfort.”

“Oh, my brother! What a saint you are!” she cried. “You’ve found the only happy way out of my predicament!”

This said, the little teardrops in her eyes evaporated in the rush of pleasure she felt, and she planted two or three kisses on my face and spun round, her skirts ballooning around her, crying: “It’s all decided! I’m leaving! I’m leaving! Oh, my brother! I’ve got wings! Where is this angel of God that I can carry him off?”

I looked back at her as I bounded down the staircase, and saw her lift her skirts to go faster, her beautiful, pale complexion reddening
with happiness, her green eyes as intense as those of a cat who has just caught a sparrow in its little teeth.

When she entered his room, she saw nothing of the tiny chamberette where Samson was still sleeping—Giacomi being, I thought, still at his devotions. Neither the badly laid flooring, nor the dirty walls, nor the miserable furnishings, nor the open window overlooking the Cimetière des Innocents, nothing except my pretty brother lying naked on his mat in the stifling heat of August. He lay there, resplendent in his virile symmetry, white skin, copper-coloured hair and azure eyes—though of his eyes, since he was still asleep, nothing could be seen.

“Oh, Blessed Virgin!” cried Dame Gertrude, joining her hands together. “Doesn’t he just look like Jesus! And aren’t I right to claim that he’s divinely beautiful?”

“Divine, Madame?” I smiled.

“Oh, my brother,” she cried, giving me a little tap on my hand, “what an evil man you are, making me remember my sins when I’m trying to forget them as soon as I commit them, hoping to put off my repentance till later!”

“My sister,” I said, kissing the hand that had tapped me, which was warm, sleek and perfumed, “I ask your pardon a thousand times for having been such a spoilsport—I who place such joys above all the others! But, my sister,” I continued, “not a word more. I’ll leave you to your beautiful sins. I’ll come and fetch you for supper. And tomorrow we’ll leave for Montfort at daybreak.”

And placing two kisses on her sweet cheeks, I left, closing the door on her—or rather on them, not without a bitter sigh and a quarrelsome ache in my heart.

The solitude of my little room was too horrible, so I went downstairs into the atelier, feeling all dreamy and immersed in my thoughts. I didn’t think that anyone was there, since Miroul was out tending to the horses, but then I saw Fogacer, who, dressed all in black, walking
back and forth on his long legs, his long arms behind his back, when he saw me, arched his diabolical eyebrows and said with a sinuous smile:

“Well, you’ve come back down rather quickly from your little perch,
mi fili
. So the Delilah I saw in front of me as I walked along the rue de la Ferronnerie was not directing her fatal charms to you, but to Samson. But perhaps,
mi fili
, if I may believe what I’ve heard, the noble ladies who have their gallants’ hair removed are not unknown to you either. Women are so like grasshoppers in a field!
Causa mali tanti femina sola fuit.
”
§§

“Heavens!” I objected. “Is one example sufficient to determine the lot?
Parcite paucarum diffundere crimen in omnes
,
¶¶
said Ovid.”

“What?” gasped Fogacer. “Ovid! Why, everyone knows he was a petticoat-chaser! What kind of authority is that? Trust rather my Plautus:
qui potest mulieres vitare vitet.
”
||||

“Ah, but Fogacer,” I laughed, “listen instead to wise Seneca,
multum interest utrum peccare aliquis nolit an nesciat.
”
***

“Ah, how well I know!” groaned Fogacer. “I know all too well! But I’m not so inclined!
Trahit sua quemque voluptas
.”
†††

Having thus pedantically traded Latin maxims in the spirit of morning courtesy and fun, we gave each other a big hug. This kind of jargon exists in every social group: venerable medical doctors exchange Ciceronian phrases in Latin, while the lordlings of the court exclaim “by my conscience!” and “I could just die!” which are certainly less profound and substantial than our beautiful Latin, since these gentlemen’s memories are not garnished with such gems.

“I saw you at Maillard’s sermon yesterday,” said Fogacer, “looking superb in your new pearly doublet, but seeming very disgruntled at having to listen to his calls for carnage, which I found, quite to the contrary, most pleasing and a comfort to my philosophy.”

“What? Pleasing? A comfort?” I gasped. “Isn’t this precisely the opposite of God’s teachings?”

“But which God are you referring to,
mi fili
?” asked Fogacer, arching his diabolical eyebrows. “The God of the Evangelists, who is sweet and beneficent? Or the God of the Old Testament?”

“But it’s the same God!”

“Oh, no, it’s not! The God of the Old Testament strikes down Onan for having sown his seed on the ground, and burns Sodom, destroys the Sodomites, massacres untold numbers of honest idolaters by the hand of Israel and tortures sinners in hell. Isn’t it obvious that, far from having created us, it’s man who created Him in his own sad, cruel and spiteful image?”

“Please, Fogacer!” I cried. “Enough! As much as I love you I hate your blasphemies!”

“What?” said Fogacer with his slow, sinuous smile. “My blasphemies! No, no! I’m a person of infinite tolerance, and would never demand the death, in the name of religion, of any Guillaume or Gautier, were he papist or reformist! Siorac, did you hear Maillard? A Huguenot lends me 100 écus. I meet him in the street. He asks for what is owed him. So I kill him. My dagger thereby becomes ‘the most sacred of swords’. And I’m automatically spared the noose, absolved, promised salvation without Purgatory and sent to heaven with the happy few! Do you think Maillard is the only one preaching this doctrine? In truth, the Huguenot has replaced the Jew as the object of hatred of our Holy Church. ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ That’s what’s being said—no, shouted!—in every church in the kingdom, and your side isn’t any better!”

“My side!”

“Oh, come, Siorac! The Michelade massacre! And I don’t know how many other Huguenot atrocities! Listen to this,
mi fili
: each religion can’t help being tyrannical, and, as a result, cruel, since each pretends to speak in the name of an absolute truth, which cannot be rejected without capital offence.”

“Now, Fogacer,” I objected, “you’re talking only of the fanatics and not the good and honest people!”

“But who are these good and honest people?” asked Fogacer, his eyes suddenly narrowing. “The late La Boétie, Montaigne, Ambroise Paré, Ramus, our poor Maître Rondelet, Pierre de L’Étoile, Michael Servetus, who was burnt by Calvin in Geneva, you, me—all of us people who want to inject a little bit of reason into men’s minds and advance secular knowledge.
Mi fili
, answer! Would you sacrifice the life of a single papist to help your Church triumph?”

“Of course not!” I cried without hesitating, as if my answer were already waiting inside me, and, without my having been aware of it, deliberated at length.

At this Fogacer looked at me, his eyes shining, and a smile on his sinuous lips, but this time not sardonic, but friendly, and he said in a quiet and almost muffled voice: “Then you are less of a believer than you thought, Siorac, since you reject the victory of your faith bought at the price of a single human life.”

“But I believe!” I said, as though shaken by his explanation, which suddenly entered my understanding with a novelty that greatly magnified its power.

“I’m not sure,” replied Fogacer. “I’m not sure whether you believe, or only believe you believe. Or rather, if you aren’t a member of a party much more than of a Church, that is, of the party of your father, whom you cherish with such great love.”