Tannhauser 02: The Twelve Children of Paris (7 page)

In the salons of the pavilion, as on the streets, an undertow of disquiet was general, but this did not prevent a determined display of the decadence for which the court was famed. Women of outstanding beauty and high station, perhaps in an attempt to raise morale, displayed their tits for the languid gentlemen who sprawled about the furniture, several of whom wore silver cages hung about their necks in which they carried miniature dogs. While a handsome young footman served a reviving cordial, one of the gentlemen stroked the former’s crotch bulge with a tongue-moistened forefinger, to a chorus of titters and squeals. The footman bore this ordeal with admirable stoicism and of the cordial he did not spill a drop. The smell of urine lingered everywhere.

‘To a provincial this must seem a paradise,’ said Arnauld, ‘but what you are seeing is an intense struggle to conquer the pyramid of precedence. The ambitious are constantly developing elaborate manoeuvres, either to establish superiority or to undermine rivals, which latter are in endless supply. It may look gay but there is little real enjoyment, rather a perpetual commerce in suspicion, jealousy and spite. I doubt you would do very well here, but that you may take as a compliment.’

As they passed from one wing to another, Tannhauser saw a woman topped with a mass of golden curls hoist up the skirts of her blue silk dress, the pearls on which alone must have cost the price of a modest farm. She squatted over a mound of human faeces piled beneath a staircase.

‘What am I seeing now?’ he asked. ‘An elaborate manoeuvre to establish her superiority? Or her intense struggle to conquer the pyramid of precedence?’

‘That is why the court has to move every month from one palace to another,’ tutted Arnauld. ‘The stench becomes intolerable and the building has to be aired for fear of the plague.’

‘And what do the midget dogs in cages signify?’

‘One expects the centre of power to attract the dishonest, the greedy, the venal, the vain and even the wicked,’ admitted Arnauld. ‘It would be a shabby little court that did not. The elite must be allowed their privileges or what is the point? What is so dispiriting is that nine out of ten courtiers are also stupid, ignorant, talentless and scared. In every respect, except perhaps physical beauty, they are mediocrities. Yet they prosper.’

Swiss and French Guard were stationed so that every room and corridor was watched. Ranks of Swiss steel walled off certain stairways and entrances all together. The apartments of the royal family stood above. They left the
Pavillon du Roi
through a grandiose portico.

A huge courtyard opened out before them, perhaps a hundred paces square. It was walled in by buildings old, new, demolished and half-complete. The north and east wings were ancient, and unlike the new to the south and west, which were created to satisfy the vices of degenerates, the old Louvre was built to be a fortress. Its three conical towers rose above the courtyard’s angles at all but the south-west corner. The courtyard swarmed with armed Huguenots.

Most of them were young and milled in truculent cliques. Some affected a silence suggesting righteous anger straining at the end of its tether. Others held vehement debates. Some, probably drunk, yelled insults and threats at the windows of the royal apartments. A handful wore armour. The white cross on Tannhauser’s chest marked him out as someone worthy of their scorn. Some had already noticed him and were pointing him out to their fellows.

Tannhauser said, ‘Where are the Swiss Guard?’

‘His Majesty has posted them indoors, for fear of further inflaming high passions.’

‘Where do we go next?’

‘The office of the
Plaisirs du Roi
, where we’ll find Picart, is in the North Wing.’ Arnauld stared across the courtyard as if wishing for an underground tunnel. ‘Unless this fury passes we will witness some terrible madness. Don’t these fanatics understand? The King is the best friend they’ve got.’

‘Perhaps not for much longer.’

Tannhauser studied the armed cliques. He wondered if he could reach the other side without shedding blood and decided he didn’t much care. He set out across the courtyard with Grégoire behind him. He realised that Arnauld had not budged from the portico. He turned and looked at him. Arnauld pointed to a narrow gateway at the centre of the North Wing.

‘Today the duty captain of the military household is Dominic Le Tellier, of the Scots Guard.’

‘Vicious, dour and intemperate, and given to drink?’

‘I doubt the Guard have a real Scotsman left. I was in the Guard for a year. It’s a prestige posting, the senior company of the King’s Life Guard. We swear to protect His Majesty wherever he goes – that is, to banquets, on hunting trips, to take the waters, and so on. The Life Guard only take to the field of battle when the King himself does so in person.’

‘Not exactly veterans then.’

‘That does not stop us having a high opinion of ourselves. I’m sure Captain Le Tellier will gladly take you to find Monsieur Picart.’

‘Retz said anything I need. You will take me yourself, gladly or not.’

‘We could adopt a different route,’ offered Arnauld.

‘You should’ve thought of that sooner. I’ll walk where I choose.’

‘You’re as much a fanatic as they are.’

‘If we turn tail now, they’ll know why. We can’t do it, can we, Grégoire?’

Grégoire hoisted the waist of his new red pants. In hindsight, they ended too far short of his knees, but the boy seemed not to mind. Under his arm the package for Carla was a sodden mass.

‘No, sire,’ he said.

‘Then let this creature be your guide.’

‘I could drag you across the yard,’ said Tannhauser.

Arnauld stepped from the portico as if into a pool of vomit.

‘Walk beside me, on my left,’ said Tannhauser. ‘Imagine you’re still a Scots Guard. Head high. Eyes on the gatehouse yonder. If it comes to swordplay, grab Grégoire and run.’

They started across the courtyard, Arnauld almost trotting to match Tannhauser’s stride. Though it galled him to do so, Tannhauser navigated the cliques in a series of straight lines designed to avoid a petty confrontation. If any of them moved to block his way, he’d take the man’s measure. They skirted several bands without encountering anything worse than stares. When they reached the halfway mark, at the centre of the square, the catcalls began.

‘Who’s that fat swine?’

‘His arse is bigger than the Queen’s.’

‘I bet it’s seen a lot more cock.’

Laughter. To distract Arnauld, Tannhauser struck up a conversation.

‘I’ve been getting about the city on foot but I’m hoping to find a horse.’

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ said Arnauld.

‘Can I get a mount here at the palace?’

‘Not without an authorisation.’

‘You seem lordly enough to provide one.’

‘I’d rather provide a warrant for your arrest.’

Twenty feet ahead, a Huguenot detached himself from the bunch. He stepped into Tannhauser’s line of march and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. He was sturdy enough to try such a manoeuvre and angry enough to want to. He had sufficient lumps and scars on his face to prove himself a brawler but men who indulged such ploys as this drew half their courage from their fellows. Tannhauser checked the group to see if the brawler was a decoy deployed to set him up for someone more dangerous. He saw no candidates.

Arnauld quailed. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Give me some room but don’t stop walking.’

Arnauld put his hand on his sword hilt and loosened it in its scabbard.

‘Take your hand from your sword and do as I say.’

As they approached the burly Huguenot, Tannhauser did him the favour of altering course so that a confrontation was not inevitable. But the brawler was not to be denied. As he stepped once more into their path, he pointed a finger at Arnauld’s face but spoke to Tannhauser.

‘What does his arsehole taste like?’

Tannhauser grabbed the extended finger and cranked it backwards. The brawler howled with pain. Tannhauser stepped past him and the brawler, his strength rendered useless, was forced to bend backwards from the waist to avoid the dislocation of his knuckle. With the back of his right leg Tannhauser swept him behind the knee. As the hulk crashed into the flagstones Tannhauser felt the finger snap at the second joint and let go. Tannhauser had barely altered pace. He didn’t stop walking nor did he look back. He didn’t need to. The fallen brute – and not them – now formed the focus of the courtyard’s attention. Arnauld craned his head back over his shoulder.

‘Eyes front,’ said Tannhauser. ‘It’ll take him a minute to get to his feet, another to get over his shame. By then we’ll be inside. By the time the buffoon gets angry, he’ll be a problem for the Guard, not for us.’

They reached the gateway without further incident. On the steps a pair of guards stood grinning from behind their halberds. They nodded to Tannhauser but avoided looking at Arnauld, who was further incensed.

‘This kind of insolence is the cross I bear for being so close to Anjou.’

Henri, Duc d’Anjou – a man who by all accounts preferred wearing women’s jewellery to wearing a sword – was the King’s younger brother and no friend to the Huguenots. He made amends for his decadence with periodic bouts of self-flagellation.

‘Ignore it,’ said Tannhauser. ‘You did well.’

‘Really?’

‘You didn’t lose your head and you were ready to fight.’

Arnauld gained a couple of inches in height and strode on into the lobby. He looked back and forth then set off down a corridor. The windows of the old palace were hardly more than slits in the stone. Lamps and candles struggled to fend off the gloom.

‘You’re one of Anjou’s
mignons
?’ asked Tannhauser.

‘I am his friend and counsellor. He’s in great need of both.’

‘Counsellors seem to outnumber footmen round here.’

‘The palace is a stew of rivalries and plots.’

‘Perhaps that’s why.’

‘And by the way, my lord Anjou’s taste in clothes does not necessarily make him a sodomite, nor does his tolerance of masculine love among some of his favourites. I myself saw him take a maidservant from behind while she was scrubbing the floor, though, I admit, he was intent on proving himself to his mother, who was also witness.’

‘Buggery’s not a practice to which I’ve given much thought. Must I?’

Arnauld smirked. ‘Tell me, why did you insist on crossing the courtyard?’

‘Aren’t you glad we did?’

‘I do believe I am.’

‘There’s your answer.’

They entered a large room stacked with the detritus of diverse theatrical productions.

‘Wait here,’ said Arnauld. ‘Christian Picart, yes?’

Tannhauser nodded. While Arnauld went to question the man in charge, Tannhauser studied the room. Artificial mountains, painted silver and topped with thrones, lined one wall. Here were sheaves of scenery designed to recreate the flames of Hell. The masks of demons and imps filled several shelves. Animal costumes and angels’ wings hung from racks. A strange sequence of noises drew him deeper into the clutter.

Hidden from view was a large cube covered by a sheet of black velvet. From beneath the cover came rustlings followed by silence, then whispers and croonings, then more silence. Tannhauser lifted the velvet and was greeted by a gale of shrieks so violent he took two steps backward and dragged the cover off with him.

The cage was made of hardwood slats. Its interior teemed with scores of monkeys, each no bigger than a squirrel. Their coats were short and yellowish. Their mouths and eyes were rimmed with black fur, which gave them the look of skulls. Their tiny and perfect fingers clung to the slats, which showed the marks of their teeth. Their ribs heaved rapidly beneath their skins. When they pulled back their lips, their gums were grey. Their eyeballs were shrunken from the rims of their sockets. Some lay on the cage floor, too lethargic to move. Grégoire stared at the creatures with a sigh of pity.

‘What are they?’

‘They’re called monkeys.’

Grégoire made a fair attempt at pronouncing the word.

‘They live in trees. These are from the New World, across the ocean.’

‘They’re scared and hungry. And there’s no water in there.’

‘Well spotted. Lend me a hand.’

Tannhauser threw the velvet cover aside. With a deafening exacerbation in the violence of the shrieks, he and Grégoire manhandled the cage from its obscure location and left it at the door. Arnauld reappeared and studied the monkeys with distaste.

‘What are you doing?’

‘The poor creatures are dying of thirst. Here they can let their keepers know it.’

They left the monkeys to raise the roof and Arnauld led them back down the corridor.

‘Why do you want to find Picart?’ asked Arnauld.

‘He can tell me where to find my wife.’

‘His nickname is “Petit Christian” because he was born with a deformity of the genitals. He has no testicles and his penis is barely visible, or so I am reliably told. In his younger days this made him sexually desirable to those of more outlandish tastes, whom this place draws as a manure bin flies. Christian submitted to these humiliations in the belief it would advance his ambitions as a playwright. If he had trace of talent as a writer, perhaps it would have.’

‘He’s a writer?’

‘He wrote a single play, crudely borrowed from Gringoire but lacking his wit, and outstanding only for its pretentiousness and vacuity. In some circles these qualities are highly valued but the bloom quickly faded from his buttocks and with it his career. He now pens spiteful pamphlets aimed at dramatists more gifted than he and erotic doggerel for a private clientele. He is most valued for the sexual freak shows that he stages to titillate his former abusers at the court. He can draw on a whole stable of grotesques, midgets, freaks and children, or so I am reliably told. In his official role, however, he is an administrator of court entertainments.’

‘Not a man of great importance, then.’

‘Who is of lesser importance than a failed playwright?’

Tannhauser said, ‘I’ve never seen a play.’

‘After spending half an hour in your company I will never watch one again.’