Heretic Dawn (39 page)

“What a nuisance for them!” I smiled. “And what an escort for me! Monsieur de Montesquiou, you’ve entirely persuaded me to follow you!”

But to my smile, Monsieur de Montesquiou responded only with a most serious and angry expression, so that, when Samson and I were walking ahead of him in the courtyard of the Louvre, I turned and asked quietly, “Monsieur de Montesquiou, is this a serious matter?”

“I know not,” he answered, his face inscrutable, “but His Highness looked very angry and his orders would admit of no delay.”

Slowing my pace so that he could catch up to me, I looked silently at these two black stripes on his face, which, at this moment, did not look very accommodating. Ultimately, his silence so weighed on me that I said, thinking it was a joke:

“From your expression, Monsieur de Montesquiou, one would think I were being taken to a judge who was going to send me off to the Bastille this very night!”

“I’m not sure,” replied Montesquiou, through his teeth. “Have you quarrelled?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, it’s possible.”

M
ONSIEUR DE MONTESQUIOU
led us to the new wing of the Louvre, and into a suite of rooms inaccessible to most of the courtiers. The ceilings of these rooms were superbly decorated with golden panels, on which were painted depictions of an ancient victory containing images of helmets, lances, cutlasses and pikes; the walls were hung with magnificent tapestries, and the parquet floors were covered with sumptuous rugs—all ornaments that I would have enjoyed, I think, had I not been so worried, both about the predicament I found myself in and about the august presence before whom I was to appear. Samson walked quietly beside me, throwing me such piteous looks that my throat knotted up. I was, moreover, horribly ashamed to appear before His Royal Highness looking so ridiculous in my doublet, and would have preferred to have been wearing a simple black velvet costume, like my brother, rather than displaying this repaired clothing to the prince.

At first I couldn’t see the Duc d’Anjou, since he was surrounded by a group of brilliantly clad young courtiers, who, at our entrance, turned round to stare at us with as much curiosity as if we had been strange beasts brought that very morning from the Americas, and spoke quietly among themselves, shaking their heads, their bodies in constant movement, stroking their beards, rolling their hips, their soft hands caressing the ribbons, curls and pins in their hair, and
exclaimed every other minute, “It weighs on my conscience!” or “I should have died of shame!”—phrases I’d already heard on the lips of the Baronne des Tourelles, and that they whispered with such suggestiveness you’d have thought these clichés were acquiring some new charm or authority.

I noticed that, despite the stifling heat, all of these gentlemen were wearing capes that were so short that they scarcely reached the waists of their wasp-like figures. On the other hand, some of them wore their capes attached only at the right shoulder, so that they fell lower and fluttered about when they turned on their heels, giving the impression of multi-coloured birds with red tails. I also noticed that almost all of them affected having one sleeve of their doublets unbuttoned with the other buttoned up tightly, so that each sleeve was of a different colour, as were their slashes, and so ample around the shoulders that they could have kept a purse under their armpits. They wore their leggings very tight about their thighs, almost like a woman’s girdle, their stockings a different colour from the leggings, and the left a different colour from the right. Their ruffs, on which their heads were set as if on a plate, were quite wide, the plaits bleached the purest white. On their heads, atop their resplendent coiffures, they wore Italian caps surmounted by a plume that reminded me of the bonnet my mother used to wear.

Their eyebrows were trimmed into thin, delicate arcs, and their faces made up discreetly with white and red powders, and framed on only one side by a pearl or diamond earring. They all had sweetly suspicious looks on their faces, with their delicate hands posed on the hilts of their swords, which, from what I’d heard, these dangerous popinjays all wielded to perfection. All in all, despite the fact that they looked so soft and arrogant, they were a courageous lot, and valiant to the death, as many of them demonstrated during our wars.

My Samson was dumbfounded to see all of these refinements and trinkets on these dandies, the likes of which he’d never encountered,
even in the Louvre, where the typical courtier, however decked out, would have looked like a worn-out rooster in the barnyard compared to these parading swans. As for me, horribly ashamed to see all these eyes on me, nearly suffocated by all the perfumes these peacocks sprayed on themselves, and struggling to understand their way of speaking, which was stuttered, mannered and lazy, their words falling almost inarticulately from their mouths, I dared not advance into their midst, but tried nevertheless to maintain my dignity as I confronted them in all their plumage.

“Messieurs, let us pass!” cried Montesquiou, whose tanned face and bushy eyebrows gave him the appearance of a crow among all these canaries, for whom, moreover, he seemed to have no liking—nor did they for him, given the lack of good grace they displayed in allowing us room to pass, some putting on faces and even holding their noses as if the captain smelt bad, and others putting their hands on their sword hilts as if they were suddenly going to pierce him through. Montesquiou scornfully refused to look at all these antics, but went straight to his prince, to whom he said, with a deep bow: “Your Highness is obeyed: here are the Messieurs de Siorac.”

At these words, a complete silence fell over the gallery, all the pretty lordlings showing an almost devotional respect, ceasing their cacophony as the Duc d’Anjou, with a gesture of his hand, signalled that he was going to speak.

In fact, however, he didn’t say a word, but stood, looking Samson and me over with intense curiosity, and perhaps attempting to gauge the extent of his power over us, for there are two ways of being quiet in this world: that of the subject and that of the prince. Although the Duc d’Anjou was sitting on an unadorned high-backed chair that was so low it was close to the floor, this chair looked like a throne given the majestic way he sat there—wholly different from his brother Charles IX, who, even when he was most angry, seemed childish. Nor
could the duc be distinguished from the lordlings that surrounded him by his dress, for all the extravagances I’d noticed in them could be found in him as well (though his dress was clearly the origin and source of theirs), except that today he was dressed all in one colour: a white satin doublet with innumerable pearls and other jewels set in rows over his chest and shoulders. He didn’t seem as handsome as I’d been told: his Valois nose was long and heavy like his father’s and grandfather’s—but his eyes made up for this imperfection, being very Italianate, large and black, and expressing almost simultaneously liveliness, mistrust, suspicion and a kind of gracefulness that had a way of winning you over even before he said a word, so that all he had to do was look at you to seduce you.

As for me, I wasn’t immediately completely won over, for as I looked back at him with all the respect in the world, it seemed to me that his physiognomy tended less towards happiness and compliance—qualities that are always reassuring in a king—than towards bitterness and melancholy, for I could just detect in the turn of his mouth something that allowed me to see that this man, however young and favoured by the gods, was not at ease in his own skin.

I also observed that Anjou wore a thin and fine moustache, falling down at the corners of his mouth (which only emphasized the slight pout that I just mentioned), a little bunch of hairs under his lower lip that connected with a trim beard that encircled his chin, all of which were the most beautiful black, as was his hair, which emerged from under his cap, and fell in places over his forehead, which was high, wide and luminous.

“Monsieur de Siorac,” he said in a deep voice, his eyes serious but not angry, “is it true that you entered into a quarrel in the courtyard of the Louvre with Monsieur de Quéribus?”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” I replied, making a deep bow.

“And which of the two of you began this dispute?”

This question embarrassed me not a little, and all the more so because Quéribus, whom I’d not seen as I entered the gallery, since I had my eyes on Anjou, suddenly appeared on my right, still flanked by the Marquis d’O and Maugiron, but no longer looking the least bit haughty, but instead quite pale, ashamed and more confused than I was myself, evidently very fearful of losing the good graces of his master. And I suddenly realized that I myself had nothing of the kind to fear, being a Huguenot, and so, since I was already out of favour, I resolved to take the burden of the baron’s responsibility.

“Monseigneur,” I answered, “the fault lies neither with him nor with me, but with my doublet, which Monsieur de Quéribus could not look at without surprise, and his unhappy reaction produced a like reaction in me, and so looks passed to words and we exchanged a few of these that were prickly enough to cause a dispute, though the occasion hardly warranted such a difference since it derived entirely from his despising a despicable doublet.”

At this, His Highness deigned to smile, since he enjoyed
giochi di parole
,
*
as I discovered after our conversation.

“Quéribus,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “what think you of the account Monsieur de Siorac has given of your encounter?”

“That it is far too generous and absolves me of far too much blame.” And saying this, he bowed graciously to me, a bow I instantly returned.

“Quéribus the Quarreller,” said the duc (who seemed very happy with his own alliteration, which the courtiers greeted with a delighted murmur), “do you have any additional grievances or complaints concerning Monsieur de Siorac’s person or sartorial choices?”

“None whatsoever, Your Highness.”

“Do you hate him?”

“Quite the contrary,” said Quéribus with some heat. “You’d have to be very valiant to dare cross swords with me, and equally good-natured not to resent me for my insolent treatment of him. I’ve only known Monsieur de Siorac since yesterday, but already I like and esteem him greatly.”

“And yet you were ready to cut his throat!” said Anjou with a sudden frown and raising his voice. “And not just you, but your seconds and your thirds! Oh, my friends,” he continued, now addressing the entire assembly, “isn’t this madness, all these quarrels that start up daily among you and in this very chateau? And near the person of the king—which is a capital crime according to the laws of the kingdom! And quarrels over what? Over things as unimportant and empty as this doublet. You’d think that killing each other were a kind of sport for you that needed no more justification than does a tennis match! Beware this monster, called a
quarrel
, which has been gaining popularity among the nobility, doesn’t little by little devour you all! If you were to count up all the people in France who lose their lives every year in these duels, you’d discover that there have been battles, both in foreign and civil wars, at which there were fewer losses of such young and valiant lords—who might, with time, have attained to greatness, instead of dying uselessly in a field in the bloom of their youth. My bonny lads,” continued Anjou (who was exactly our age, and was only our elder by reason of his rank), “can you imagine anything crazier than that a gentleman, with no hatred in his heart for his adversary, nay, having an obligation of friendship with him, should kill him in the name of some duty of false gallantry and false sense of honour?”

This powerful and beautiful remonstrance, eloquently delivered in fluid French, quieted our lordlings so completely that you could have heard a pin drop on a rug, each of them holding his breath in proportion to his sins, which must have been many and great
judging by the expressions on many of their faces, though doubtless there were none here who’d pushed their excesses to killing a man in a private duel.

The Duc d’Anjou, meanwhile, fell silent, sitting on his high-backed chair, in his most elegant pose, his beautiful hands (which, I learnt later from Fogacer, he kept soft by applying all manner of fancy pastes and ointments) placed lightly on the arms of his chair, his beautiful, black, angry eyes fixed on Quéribus’s as though he expected him to speak in a certain way but without explaining what he wanted.

“What should I do, Monseigneur?” asked Quéribus, who, pale and almost trembling, appeared to be in despair to have displeased his master. “Shall I straightaway make my peace with Monsieur de Siorac and ask his forgiveness?”

Still, His Royal Highness, head held high, looked him in the eye but said not a word, remaining majestically still as stone.

“Well, then, since I must,” said Quéribus, flushing with anger at being forced to apologize to a man of inferior rank. “Monsieur de Siorac, I beg you—”

But I didn’t let him finish, since things were not at all going the way I wanted. Pulling the baron suddenly to me, I embraced him warmly saying loudly: “Ah, Monsieur de Quéribus! It’s not an apology I want, it’s your friendship and only that!”

At this, he reddened, laughed, paled, laughed again and, suddenly dropping all his defences, embraced me in turn and kissed me several times on both cheeks, to which I responded in kind, finding this exchange infinitely more pleasurable than I would have found the clash of our swords. For, to tell the truth, he was so skilled in swordplay that, in the blink of an eye, he would have laid me out cold in the field, if our duel had taken place.

However, releasing me from his fond embrace, Quéribus, his face still red from pleasure, with tears in his eyes, and his face radiant,
said to me, “Siorac, I confess here and now that you are no more rustic than I.”

“Nor you more of a rat than I.”

“Nor is your doublet any more shabby than mine.”

“What?” cried Anjou suddenly. “Do you really believe that, Quéribus?”

“Assuredly so, Monseigneur,” replied Quéribus with a bow.

“Well, I’m very glad,” laughed Anjou, “for, looking at you, I see that you’re the same height and build, and I had the idea that, as a gauge of your new friendship, you could exchange doublets!”

At this suggestion (which was really an order) there was a burst of laughter from the entire assembly that died down the minute Anjou looked up disapprovingly. I leave you to imagine the discomfort displayed by Quéribus as he exchanged doublets with me, and to guess how hard it was for me not to look too happy at my rich spoils, my double’s displeasure touching me deeply, given the new feelings I had for him. And though the lordlings who were watching were struggling to contain their mirth, their cheeks so swelled they looked like frogs, such was the sovereign control that Anjou maintained over them that not one burst out laughing, and those whose eyes were too full of mockery immediately cast them down when they thought he was watching them.

“Well, this looks like an excellent fit,” said the Duc d’Anjou, maintaining his gravity, “and also looks good on each of these sworn friends! Quéribus,” he continued, “I am grateful for your compliance and would be even more so if you were to consent to spend the next hour, dressed as you are, walking about the Louvre with Monsieur de Siorac.”