The Women's War

  ‘What, Richon!’

  ‘He was hanged, Madame! Hanged, like a wretch, like a thief, like a murderer! I saw his body in the market at Libourne.’

  The princess rose from her seat as though propelled by an invisible spring. Lenet gave an anguished cry. Madame de Cambes, who had got up, slumped back in her chair, putting her hand to her heart, like someone who has received a deep wound. She had fainted.

  ‘Take the viscountess away,’ said the Duke de La Rochefoucauld. ‘We have no time just now to bother with swooning women.’

  Two women servants removed her.

  ‘This is a brutal declaration of war,’ the duke said impassively.

  ‘It’s outrageous!’ said the princess.

  ‘It’s savage!’ said Lenet.

  ‘It’s impolitic,’ said the duke.

  ‘And I hope we shall be avenged,’ the princess exclaimed. ‘And cruelly!’

  ‘I have a plan!’ cried Madame de Tourville, who had been silent up to now. ‘Reprisals, Your Highness, reprisals!’

  ‘One moment, Madame,’ said Lenet. ‘My goodness, how you go at it! This matter is serious enough for us to give it some thought.’

  ‘No, Monsieur, on the contrary: at once!’ Madame de Tourville retorted. ‘The faster the king struck, the faster we must hasten to reply, striking the same blow.’

  ‘Well, Madame,’ said Lenet. ‘I must say, you’re talking about shedding blood, as though you were the queen of France. At least wait until Her Highness asks for your opinion before you give it.’

  ‘The lady is right,’ said the captain of the guard. ‘Reprisals: that’s the law of war.’

  ‘Come, come,’ said the Duke de La Rochefoucauld, calm and impassive. ‘Let’s not waste time in words. The news will travel around the town, and in an hour we shall no longer be in control of events, or of people’s feelings, or of the people themselves. Your Highness’s first consideration must be to take such a firm attitude that you are considered unshakeable.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the princess, ‘I shall leave that task up to you, Duke, and rely entirely on you to avenge my honour and your feelings – because, before he entered my service, as you told me, Richon was in yours, and you led me to think that he was one of your friends rather than one of your servants.’

  ‘Have no fear, Madame,’ the duke replied, bowing. ‘I shall remember what I owe to you, to myself and to that poor corpse.’

  He went over to the captain of the guard and whispered to him for a long time, while the princess left, accompanied by Madame de Tourville and followed by Lenet, beating his brow with grief.

  The viscountess was at the door. Her first thought on coming to herself had been to go back to Madame de Condé. She met her on the way, but wearing such a stern look that she did not dare question her directly.

  ‘My God, my God! What is to be done?’ she asked timidly, clasping her hands in supplication.

  ‘We are going to have revenge,’ said Madame de Tourville imperiously.

  ‘Revenge! But how?’ Claire asked.

  ‘If you have any sway with the princess,’ said Lenet, ‘use it, so that there is not some frightful murder committed in the name of reprisals.’

  And he too went past, leaving Claire in a state of terror.

  Indeed, by one of those extraordinary intuitions that make one believe in an ability to see into the future, the young woman’s mind had suddenly and painfully been filled with the memory of Canolles. It was as though she could hear a sad voice in her heart speaking to her of this absent friend. Returning home in furious haste, she began to get dressed for their meeting, when she realized that the meeting was not to take place for three or four hours.

  Meanwhile Canolles had presented himself at Madame de Lalasne’s, as the viscountess had instructed him. It was the birthday of her husband, the president, and they were giving him a kind of party. As these were the finest days of the year, all the guests were in the garden, where a game of quoits had been set up on a wide lawn. Canolles, whose skill was exceptional and his manner elegant, had taken up several challenges and, thanks to his dexterity, constantly ensured victory.

  The ladies were laughing at the awkwardness of Canolles’s rivals and admiring his skill. There were prolonged cheers at every point he won, handkerchiefs were waved in the air, and it would have taken little for the bouquets of flowers to fly from the ladies’ hands and fall at his feet.

  This triumph was not enough to turn Canolles’s mind from the idea that obsessed it, but it helped him to be patient. However anxious one is to reach one’s goal, one can excuse delays on the route when these are caused by ovations.

  However, as the expected time approached, the young man’s eyes strayed increasingly towards the gate through which the guests were arriving or leaving – and through which, naturally, the promised envoy would appear.

  Suddenly, just as Canolles was congratulating himself on having in all probability only a very short time to wait, a strange murmur spread through the happy crowd. He noticed that groups were forming here and there, and talking in subdued voices, looking at him with strange curiosity and, at the same time, with what seemed like a measure of pain. At first he attributed the interest to his physique and his skills, and congratulated himself on this attention, being far from suspecting its true cause.

  He began, however, as we said, to notice that there was something uncomfortable in the attention directed at him. Smiling, he went over to one of the groups. The people in it tried to smile, but their faces were visibly embarrassed, and those who were not speaking to Canolles drifted away.

  Canolles turned around and saw that bit by bit everyone was vanishing. It was as though some fatal piece of news which had stricken everyone with terror had suddenly spread through the gathering. Behind him, President de Lalasne was walking, with one hand on his chin, the other on his chest, and with an air of dejection. His wife, who had her sister on her arm, took advantage of a moment when she could not be seen and made a step towards Canolles. Without speaking to anyone in particular, she said, in a tone of voice that caused the young man deep anxiety: ‘If I were a prisoner of war, even one on parole, in case my captors did not respect the parole that I had been given, I should leap on a good horse and ride to the river where I would give ten louis, twenty louis, a hundred if need be, to a boatman, and I would leave…’

  Canolles looked at the two women with astonishment, and both of them simultaneously made a sign of terror that he could not understand. He stepped forward, trying to get them to explain the words that had just been spoken, but they slipped away like ghosts, one putting a finger to her mouth, telling him to keep quiet, while the other raised an arm in a sign that he should flee.

  At that moment, the name of Canolles rang out at the gate.

  He shuddered throughout his body. It must be the messenger of Madame de Cambes speaking his name. He ran to the gate.

  ‘Is the Baron de Canolles here?’ asked a loud voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Canolles cried, forgetting everything, the better to recall Claire’s promise. ‘Yes, here I am.’

  ‘You are Monsieur de Canolles?’ asked a kind of sergeant, stepping through the gate, behind which he had stayed until then.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  ‘Governor of the Ile Saint-Georges?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Former captain in the regiment of Navailles?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The sergeant turned and motioned to four soldiers, who were hidden by a carriage and immediately came forward. The carriage, too, advanced to the point where its running board was beside the gate. The sergeant asked Canolles to get inside.

  The young man looked around him. He was entirely alone. He could, however, make out Madame de Lalasne and her sister in the distance, among the trees, like two shades, leaning on one another, and apparently looking at him with compassion.

  ‘Well I never!’ he thought, not understanding what was going on. ‘Madame de Cambes has chosen an u
nusual escort here. But let’s not be fussy about the choice of conveyance,’ he added, smiling at the idea.

  ‘We are waiting for you, Monsieur,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘I beg your pardon, gentlemen, I’m coming,’ said Canolles, and got into the carriage.

  The sergeant and two soldiers followed. One of the two remaining soldiers took up a position beside the coachman and the other behind him. Then the heavy vehicle set off as fast as two strong horses could pull it.

  All this was peculiar and starting to make Canolles wonder, so he turned to the sergeant and said: ‘Now that we’re alone, Monsieur, could you tell me where you are taking me?’

  ‘To prison, first of all, Commander,’ replied the man to whom the question had been addressed.

  Canolles looked at him in amazement.

  ‘What! To prison?’ he said. ‘Weren’t you sent by a woman?’

  ‘We were.’

  ‘Was that woman not the Viscountess de Cambes?’

  ‘No, Monsieur, the woman was the Princess de Condé.’

  ‘The Princess de Condé!’ Canolles exclaimed.

  ‘Poor young man,’ said a woman going past outside, and she crossed herself.

  Canolles felt a shudder run through his veins.

  Further on, a man who was running along with a pike in his hand stopped on seeing the carriage and the soldiers. Canolles leant out, and the man must have recognized him, because he shook his fist at him with a furious, threatening look.

  ‘Why, they’re mad in this town of yours!’ Canolles said, still trying to smile. ‘Have I become in one hour an object of pity or hatred, for some people to sympathize with me and others to threaten?’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur,’ the sergeant replied, ‘those who feel sorry for you are not wrong, and those who threaten you may well be right.’

  ‘If only I could understand something, at least,’ said Canolles.

  ‘You soon will, Monsieur,’ the sergeant replied.

  They reached the door of the prison, and Canolles was taken down in the midst of a crowd that was starting to gather. But, instead of taking him to his usual room, they made him go down to a dungeon full of guards.

  ‘Come, now, I must at least know what’s up,’ said Canolles to himself. And, taking two louis out of his pocket, he went over to a soldier and put them in his hand.

  The soldier was hesitant about taking them.

  ‘Go on, my friend,’ said Canolles. ‘The question I am going to ask will not compromise you at all.’

  ‘Then ask away, Commander,’ the soldier replied, after first putting the two louis in his pocket.

  ‘Well, I’d like to know the cause of my sudden arrest.’

  ‘It would seem that you’re not aware of the death of poor Monsieur Richon,’ said the soldier.

  ‘Richon dead!’ Canolles exclaimed, with a cry of profound grief (as we know, they were close friends). ‘Was he killed, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘No, Commander, he was hanged.’

  ‘Hanged!’ Canolles muttered, going pale and clasping both hands, as he looked round at his ominous surroundings and the fierce looks of his guards. ‘Hanged! By God, that might mean an indefinite delay to my wedding!’

  XIX

  Madame de Cambes had completed her toilet, dressing in a manner that was both simple and charming. She threw a kind of cape across her shoulders and signalled to Pompée to go ahead of her. It was almost night, and, thinking that she was less likely to be noticed on foot than in a carriage, she had given orders for her coach to wait for her only when she was leaving the Carmelite church, near a chapel in which she had obtained permission for them to be married. Pompée came down the stairs, and the viscountess followed. This task of pathfinding reminded the old soldier of the famous patrol that he had undertaken on the eve of the Battle of Corbie.

  At the bottom of the stairs and as the viscountess was walking past the drawing room, in which there was a great commotion, she met Madame de Tourville, who was pulling the Duke de La Rochefoucauld towards the princess’s private chamber, talking to him as they went.

  ‘Oh, Madame,’ she said. ‘One word, I beg you. What has been decided?’

  ‘My plan has been adopted!’ Madame de Tourville exclaimed in triumph.

  ‘What was your plan, Madame. I do not know it.’

  ‘Reprisals, my dear! Reprisals!’

  ‘Forgive me, but I am unfortunately not so well acquainted as you with the terms of war. What do you understand by “reprisals”?’

  ‘Nothing could be simpler, my child.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘They hanged an officer of the princes’ army, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes. But what then?’

  ‘Well, let’s look for an officer of the king’s army in Bordeaux and hang him.’

  ‘Great heaven!’ Claire cried, in horror. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Tell me, Duke,’ the dowager went on, apparently without noticing the viscountess’s state. ‘Haven’t we already arrested the governor who was in command at Saint-Georges?’

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ the duke replied.

  ‘Monsieur de Canolles has been arrested!’ Claire exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ the duke said coldly. ‘Monsieur de Canolles has been arrested or shortly will be. The order was given in my presence, and I saw the departure of the men charged with carrying it out.’

  ‘But did they know where he would be?’ Claire asked, grasping at a last straw.

  ‘He was in the private house of our host, Monsieur de Lalasne, where I am told he was even enjoying great success at quoits.’

  Claire gave a cry, and Madame de Tourville turned round in astonishment, while the duke looked at the young woman with a barely perceptible smile.

  ‘Monsieur de Canolles has been arrested!’ the viscountess continued. ‘But what has he done, for goodness’ sake? What connection is there between him and the dreadful event that is upsetting all of us?’

  ‘What connection? Every connection, dear. Isn’t he a governor, like Richon?’

  Claire tried to speak, but her heart was so crushed that the words froze on her lips. However, grasping the duke’s arm and giving him a terrified look, she managed to murmur:

  ‘Oh, but surely it’s a ruse, isn’t it, Duke? A show, that’s all. They can’t do anything – as I understand it – they can’t do anything to a prisoner on parole.’

  ‘Richon was a prisoner on parole too, Madame.’

  ‘Duke, I beg you…’

  ‘Spare your entreaties, Madame, they are useless. I can do nothing in the matter: the council alone will decide.’

  Claire let go of Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld’s arm and hurried to Madame de Condé’s private chamber. Lenet, pale and agitated, was striding up and down, while Madame de Condé was talking to the Duke de Bouillon. Madame de Cambes slipped in beside the princess, light and pale as a ghost.

  ‘Oh, Madame,’ she said. ‘In heaven’s name, I beg you: just a word…’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, dear girl,’ the princess replied. ‘I have no time at the moment, but I shall be all yours after the council meeting.’

  ‘But, Madame, I must talk to you before the council meeting.’

  The princess was about to relent, when a door opened in front of the one through which the viscountess had entered, and the Duke de La Rochefoucauld appeared.

  ‘The council is assembled, Madame,’ he said. ‘It is impatiently waiting for Your Highness.’

  ‘You see, my dear,’ Madame de Condé said. ‘I really can’t listen to you at the moment. But come into the council with us, and when it is over we shall leave together and talk.’

  There was no way for Claire to insist. Dazzled, fascinated by the horrifying speed with which events were proceeding, the poor woman was starting to feel dizzy. She looked around wildly, her mind seeing and understanding nothing in the eyes and gestures that she saw, and without the strength to rouse herself from this frightful dream.

>   The princess went towards the salon. Claire followed her like an automaton, without noticing that Lenet had clasped in his hands the ice-cold one that she had hanging at her side, like the hand of a corpse.

  They entered the council chamber. It was around eight o’clock in the evening.

  The council chamber was a huge room, already dark in itself, but made darker still by vast tapestries. A sort of dais had been raised between the two doors opposite the windows, through which came the last light of the dying day. On the dais were two high chairs, one for Madame de Condé, the other for the Duke d’Enghien. On either side of these chairs was a line of stools for the women who formed Her Highness’s private council. All the other judges were to sit on benches lined up for that purpose. The Duke de Bouillon stood behind the princess’s chair and the Duke de La Rochefoucauld behind that of the little prince.

  Lenet had taken his seat opposite the clerk, with Claire beside him, standing, trembling and confused.

  Six officers of the royal army, six officials of the municipality and six aldermen of the town were shown in. They sat on the benches.

  The only lighting for this improvised assembly was provided by two candelabra, each with three candles. These were placed on a table in front of the princess, casting their light on the central group, while the remainder of those in the room faded progressively into the gloom, according to how near or far they were from this feeble source of light.

  Soldiers of the princess’s army were on guard at the doors, pikestaffs in hand. Outside, you could hear the braying of the crowd. The clerk called the roll, and everyone rose in turn to answer his name.

  Then the reporter outlined the case. He described the capture of Vayres, the way in which Monsieur de La Meilleraie’s word had been dishonoured, and the shameful death meted out to Richon.

  At that moment an officer, who had been given an order in advance and posted there for that very purpose, opened a window, and a gust, as it were, of voices entered, shouting: ‘Revenge for brave Richon! Death to the Mazarins!’ (which was their name for the royalists).

  ‘Can you hear that?’ said Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld. ‘That is what the great voice of the people is demanding. And in two hours either the people will have shown its contempt for our authority and taken the law into its own hands, or it will no longer be the moment for reprisals. So let’s reach a verdict, gentlemen, without further delay.’