The Women's War

  And Canolles, after making his horse shy a little, bowed to the viscount and crossed over to the other side of the road, where Castorin followed him, in fact (and Pompée in spirit).

  Canolles played out this scene with such grace and good manners, and with such an attractive gesture, sweeping his broad felt hat across a forehead so pure, shaded with such silken black hair, that the viscount was moved less by his manners than by his noble appearance; Canolles had gone off, as we said, and Castorin followed him, upright and firm on his stirrups. Still on the other side of the road, Pompée was sighing loudly enough to crack the cobbles, so the viscount, who had thought a good deal, also spurred his horse and crossed over to join Canolles who pretended not to see or hear him. The viscount said, in a barely intelligable voice: ‘Monsieur de Canolles!’

  Canolles shuddered and turned round. A shiver of pleasure ran through him, and it seemed that all the music of the heavenly spheres had come together to provide him with this divine concert.

  ‘Viscount!’ he replied.

  ‘Listen, Monsieur,’ the other replied in a sweet, smooth voice. ‘I am in fact afraid of being rude to a gentleman of your quality. Forgive my timidity: I was brought up by parents who were full of anxieties, born of their affection for me. I repeat, therefore, forgive me, I never meant to offend you and as a proof of our sincere reconciliation, please allow me to ride beside you.’

  ‘What do you mean!’ Canolles exclaimed. ‘But, yes, a hundred times… a thousand times! I’m not someone who holds a grudge, Viscount, and to prove it…’

  He held out his hand and into it slipped a finely made hand, light and evanescent, like the charming claw of a sparrow.

  The rest of the night was spent in madcap chatter from the baron. The viscount listened and occasionally laughed.

  The two servants brought up the rear. Pompée was explaining to Castorin how the Battle of Corbie had been lost when it could very well have been won, if only they had not neglected to invite him to the council of war that had taken place in the morning.

  ‘But how did you end your business with the Duke d’Epernon?’ the viscount asked Canolles as the first light of dawn was appearing.

  ‘Not hard,’ Canolles replied. ‘According to what you told me, Viscount, he was the one who had business with me, and not I with him: either he has grown tired of waiting for me and has left, or else he is being stubborn and is still waiting there.’

  ‘But… Mademoiselle de Lartigues?’ the viscount added, with a slight pause.

  ‘Viscount, Mademoiselle de Lartigues cannot be at one and the same time at home with Monsieur d’Epernon and in the Golden Calf with me. We must not expect the impossible of women.’

  ‘That’s no answer, Baron. I’m asking how, being in love with Mademoiselle de Lartigues as you are, you were able to part with her.’

  Canolles looked at the viscount with eyes that were already too sharp, because daylight had come, and there was no more shadow on the face of the young man than that of his felt hat.

  He was greatly tempted to answer with what was in his mind. But Pompée and Castorin, as well as the viscount’s serious air, restrained him. In any case, he was prevented by a little uncertainty: ‘Suppose I was wrong, and that despite this little glove and little hand, it was a man… Really! I’d die of shame at my mistake!’

  So he held his peace and replied to the viscount’s question with one of those smiles that are an answer to everything.

  They stopped at Barbezieux to eat and give the horses a rest. This time, Canolles took breakfast with the viscount and over the meal admired that hand whose musk-scented envelope had caused him such a strong emotion. Moreover, the viscount was obliged on coming to the table to take off his hat and reveal hair so smooth, so lovely and so proudly set in such fine skin that only a man who was in love, and so already blind, could still be left in any doubt. But Canolles was too afraid of waking up not to prolong the dream. He found something delightful about the viscount’s disguise, which allowed him a host of little familiarities that would have been forbidden by total recognition or a complete confession, so he said not a word to the viscount that might make him suspect that he was incognito no longer.

  After breakfast, they set off again and rode until dinner. From time to time, the viscount was no longer able to conceal an exhaustion that gave his face a pearly tint or sent small shudders through his body; Canolles asked him in a friendly manner what it was. At that, Monsieur de Cambes smiled and appeared to be suffering no more; he even suggested increasing their pace, something that Canolles refused to do, saying that they had a long road ahead of them and that it was essential not to overtire the horses.

  After dinner, the viscount found it quite hard to get up. Canolles hurried to his aid.

  ‘You need a rest, my young friend,’ he said. ‘If we carry on like this, it will kill you by the third stage. We shall not ride on tonight, but instead take to our beds. I want you to sleep well, and the best room in the inn is yours, or I’ll want to know the reason why!’

  The viscount gave Pompée such a terrified look that Canolles could not repress an urge to laugh.

  ‘When we set off on a long journey such as this,’ said Pompée, ‘we should each have our own tent.’

  ‘Or one tent for two,’ said Canolles, in the most casual manner imaginable. ‘That would do.’

  A shudder ran through the viscount’s whole body. The shot had hit its target, and Canolles noticed it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the viscount make a sign to Pompée. The latter went over to his master, who whispered a few words to him, and very shortly afterwards, on some pretext or other, Pompée rode on ahead and disappeared.

  An hour and a half after this occurrence, the explanation for which Canolles did not even try to discover, the travellers rode into a fair-sized town and saw the groom standing at the door of a decent-looking hostelry.

  ‘Ah!’ said Canolles. ‘It appears that this is where we shall spend the night, Viscount?’

  ‘Why, yes, if you wish.’

  ‘Why, I wish whatever you do. As I told you, travelling is a pleasure for me, while you, as you told me, are travelling on business. It’s just that I am afraid you will not be too comfortable in this shack.’

  ‘Oh, a night doesn’t last long,’ said the viscount.

  They halted and, proving swifter than Canolles, Pompée ran forward and took his master’s bridle. In any case, it occurred to Canolles that such an attentive gesture would be ridiculous coming from one man to another.

  ‘Quickly, my room,’ said the viscount. ‘It is true, you are right, Monsieur de Canolles,’ he continued, turning towards his companion. ‘I am really very tired.’

  ‘It is here, Monsieur,’ said the hostess, indicating a rather large room on the ground floor overlooking the courtyard, but with bars on the windows and situated underneath the loft and granaries of the house.

  ‘So where is mine then?’ asked Canolles.

  He turned covetous eyes towards a door beside the viscount’s: the thin walls would have been a very feeble protection against such burning curiosity as his.

  ‘Yours?’ said the hostess. ‘Come this way, Monsieur, I’ll take you to it.’

  Without apparently noticing Canolles’s sullen look, she led him to the far end of an exterior corridor, full of doors and separated from the viscount’s room by the whole length of the courtyard.

  The viscount had been watching this proceeding from the door of his room.

  ‘Now, I’m sure of it,’ thought Canolles. ‘But I’ve behaved like a fool. Come, now, making a glum face would be fatal. Let’s put on our most gracious manner.’ And, going back along the sort of balcony that, as we have said, formed the exterior corridor, he exclaimed: ‘Goodnight, my dear viscount! Would you like me to wake you up tomorrow morning? No? Very well, you must wake me at your own time. Goodnight to you.’

  ‘Goodnight, Baron,’ said the viscount.

  ‘By the way,’ Canolles continued. ?
??Have you everything you need? You wouldn’t like me to lend you Castorin to untie your laces?’

  ‘Thank you, I have Pompée. He will be sleeping next door.’

  ‘Wise precaution. I’ll do the same with Castorin. A prudent measure, huh, Pompée? You can never be too sure, in an inn. Goodnight, Viscount.’

  The viscount replied with the same wish, and the door closed.

  ‘Very well, very well, Viscount,’ Canolles muttered. ‘Tomorrow it will be my turn to prepare our quarters, and I shall have my revenge. Well, now, he’s closing both curtains and hanging a sheet over the window to prevent anyone even seeing his shadow. Dammit! This little gentleman is a very prudish lad. But not to worry. Until tomorrow…’

  And Canolles went in, grumbling, and got undressed in a very bad temper. He went to bed sulking and dreamt that Nanon found the viscount’s little pearl-grey glove in his pocket.

  XI

  On the following day, Canolles was in an even jollier mood than the night before, while the Viscount de Cambes relaxed and also gave way to less restrained enjoyment. Even Pompée fooled around while recounting his campaigns to Castorin. The whole morning was spent in pleasant conversation on both sides.

  At breakfast, Canolles made his excuses for leaving the viscount, saying that he had a long letter to write to one of his friends, who lived in the region. He also warned that he would have a visit to make to another of his friends, whose house he thought must be situated some three or four leagues from Poitiers, almost beside the main highway. Canolles enquired of this friend, telling the innkeeper his name, and received the reply that he would find the house a little before the village of Jaulnay, where he would recognize it from its two towers.

  Then, as Castorin was leaving the little group to deliver the letter, and Canolles himself had to hurry on ahead, the viscount was asked in advance to indicate the place where they would spend the night. The viscount cast an eye on a little map that Pompée was carrying in a case, and suggested the village of Jaulnay. Canolles made no objection and even slyly went so far as to say aloud: ‘Pompée, if you are sent on, as you were yesterday, as quartermaster, please try if possible to get me a room close to your master’s so that we shall be able to chat to one another.’

  The cunning groom exchanged a glance with the viscount and smiled, determined to do nothing of what Canolles was telling him. As for Castorin, who had received his instructions in advance, he came to fetch the letter and was ordered to join them at Jaulnay. There was no question of him mistaking the inn, because Jaulnay possessed only one such establishment, the Great Charles Martel.

  They started off. A hundred yards from Poitiers, where they had lunched, Castorin took a right-hand fork. They went on for about two hours more. Finally, Canolles recognized his friend’s house from the description he had been given. He showed it to the viscount and took his leave of him, once more inviting Pompée to take care of his lodging, before taking a fork to the left.

  The viscount’s mind was quite easy: the previous evening had gone off without complications, and the day had passed without the slightest hint of suspicion, so he no longer feared that Canolles might prove in any way an obstacle to his plans, and provided the baron remained a mere travelling companion, kind, merry and witty, he asked nothing better than to complete the journey with him. So, either because the viscount considered the precaution unnecessary, or because he did not wish to separate from his groom and remain alone on the highway, he did not even send Pompée on ahead.

  They arrived in the village at night, with the rain coming down in torrents. By good fortune, one room was heated, and the viscount, in a hurry to change his clothes, took it and entrusted Pompée with finding somewhere for Canolles.

  ‘It’s done,’ said the selfish Pompée, who was himself eager to get to bed. ‘The innkeeper’s wife has promised to look after it.’

  ‘Very well. And my bag?’

  ‘It’s here.’

  ‘My scents?’

  ‘Here they are.’

  ‘Thank you. Where are you sleeping, Pompée?’

  ‘At the end of the corridor.’

  ‘What if I need something?’

  ‘Here’s a bell. The innkeeper’s wife will come.’

  ‘That all right. This door does close properly, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You can see, Monsieur.’

  ‘There are no bolts!’

  ‘No, but there is a lock.’

  ‘Good, I’ll shut myself in. There is no other way in?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Pompée took the candle and made an inspection of the room.

  ‘Make sure the shutters are secure.’

  ‘The hooks are fastened.’

  ‘Very well. Off you go, Pompée.’

  Pompée left, and the viscount turned the key in the lock.

  An hour later, Castorin, who had arrived first at the hotel and was lodged close to Pompée, though Pompée did not know it, came out of his room on tiptoe and opened the door for Canolles.

  The latter slipped into the hotel with pounding heart and, leaving Castorin to close the door, got him to point out the viscount’s room, then went upstairs.

  The viscount was about to get into bed when he heard footsteps in the corridor.

  We may have remarked earlier that the viscount was very timid. These footsteps made him tremble, and he listened attentively.

  The footsteps stopped in front of his door.

  A moment later there was a knock.

  ‘Who’s there?’ asked such a terrified voice that Canolles would not have recognized its tones, if he had not previously had the opportunity to hear the various modulations of that voice.

  ‘It’s me!’ said Canolles.

  ‘What! You?’ said the voice, changing from fear to terror.

  ‘Yes. What do you know, Viscount? There’s no more room in your hotel, not a single room free… Your idiotic Pompée didn’t think of me. And there’s no other hotel in the village. But since your room has two beds…’

  The viscount looked, appalled, at the two twin beds next to one another in an alcove, separated only by a table.

  ‘So, you see?’ Canolles went on. ‘I’m claiming one of them. I beg you, open the door quickly, because I’m dying of cold…’

  There followed a great sound of confusion from the room, a rustle of clothes and hurried steps.

  ‘Yes, Baron, yes,’ said the viscount’s voice, still more afraid. ‘Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming.’

  ‘And I’m waiting. But for pity’s sake, my dear friend, please hurry, if you don’t want to find me frozen stiff.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was asleep, you understand…’

  ‘Really! I thought there was a light on.’

  ‘No, you were mistaken.’

  The light was put out at once, but Canolles did not remark on this.

  ‘Here I am… I can’t find the door,’ said the viscount.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Canolles. ‘I can hear your voice from the other end of the room. Come over here…’

  ‘I’m looking for the bell to call Pompée.’

  ‘Pompée is at the far end of the corridor; he won’t hear you. I tried to wake him up to get something out of him, but – pooh! – it was impossible. He sleeps like the deaf post that he is.’

  ‘Then I’ll call the innkeeper’s wife.’

  ‘She has given her bed up to a traveller and gone to sleep in the loft. No one is going to come, my good friend. And in any case, why call for people? I don’t need anyone.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘All you have to do is open the door. I thank you. I feel my way to my bed, I get into it and that’s all. So please open up.’

  ‘But there must be another room,’ said the viscount in desperation. ‘Even without beds. It’s impossible that there is no other room. Let’s call someone, let’s look.’

  ‘My dear viscount, it has just struck half past ten. You will wake up the whole hotel – they’ll t
hink there is a fire in the house. It will be a commotion that keeps us awake all night, which is a shame, because I am dropping with tiredness.’

  The last assertion seemed to reassure the viscount a little. Small steps approached the door, and it opened. Canolles went in, shutting it behind him. The viscount, after opening the door, had hurried away from it.

  The baron now found himself in a more or less dark room, because the last coals of the fire, which was dying down, did not give enough light. The air was warm and filled with all the scents that indicate the greatest refinement of toilet.

  ‘Ah. Thank you, Viscount,’ said Canolles. ‘It really is better here than in the corridor.’

  ‘Do you want to sleep, Baron?’ the viscount asked.

  ‘Yes, indeed, I do. So just show me my bed, since you know the room. Or else let me relight your candle.’

  ‘No, no, there’s no need!’ the viscount said quickly. ‘Your bed is here, on the left.’

  As the viscount’s left was the baron’s right, the latter went to the right, met a window, tripped over a little table near it and touched the bell on that table, which the viscount had been searching for with such desperation. Just in case, Canolles slipped the bell into his pocket.

  ‘What are you saying?’ he exclaimed. ‘Come, now, Viscount, are we playing hide-and-seek? You should at least cry beware! But what are you hunting around for in the dark?’

  ‘I’m looking for the bell to call Pompée.’

  ‘But what on earth do you want with Pompée?’

  ‘I want… I want him to set up a bed next to mine.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘For himself.’

  ‘For himself? What are you talking about, Viscount? Servants in our room! Come, come, you’re behaving like a terrified little girl. Fie! We’re big enough lads to take care of ourselves. No, just give me a hand and guide me to my bed, because I can’t find it… or else, let’s relight the candle.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ the viscount cried.