Fortunes of France 4: League of Spies

  “The cadet branch!” smiled Angelina.

  “And a cardinal!” said Catherine.

  “And old!” laughed Quéribus.

  “And,” I added, laughing in turn, “having so little brain that he wouldn’t know how to boil an egg, being the most brainless dotard in creation!”

  “And,” concluded Quéribus, laughing still harder, “being thirty years older than the present king, whom he hopes to succeed, his head is so unsteady on his shoulders the weight of the crown would probably break his neck! Not to mention holding the sceptre with his frail arms. He’s got the strength of a hen—but not her brains! ’Sblood! I know why Guise is pushing this thick purple cushion onto the throne: it’s so it’ll be more comfortable when he himself sits on it.”

  And the four of us laughed our fill at the immense perils, troubles, wars and devastation that this problem of succession was creating for the kingdom.

  Our laughter had scarcely died down when my good Miroul (who, ever since his marriage to Florine ten years ago, had awakened every morning in such happiness that he himself was astonished at it) came to tell us that Samson, Gertrude and Zara had just arrived. I’ll leave you to imagine the noise and confusion this announcement provoked, as these ladies burst into the room with their silks and brocades and swept around embracing each of us in turn. Since Montfort-l’Amaury was a day’s carriage ride from Paris, I didn’t get to see Samson more than five or six times a year, so that our reunions were always accompanied by lengthy hugs and kisses and much rejoicing. Although we’d all passed the age of thirty, Gertrude was still quite beautiful, and Zara indestructibly seductive, but there was no danger in showering her with kisses, since Angelina was not the jealous type and Zara had no taste for men. When Giacomi joined us for dinner later, I could see that our pleasant mirth only served to sadden him, since Larissa would not be among our guests, as he would have hoped. So I rose from the table, took his arm and led him into the fencing gallery, which was situated in the loft, hoping to distract him from the disappointment of not having seen Larissa for three long months.

  “Ah,” he moaned, “what a pity to know the poor girl is in the hands of that miscreant, who, however religious he claims to be, is little better than a dagger-wielding brigand!”

  “My brother,” I reflected, “if he lives by the dagger, sooner or later he’ll die by it. You must give as good as you get!”

  “But Larissa!” cried Giacomi with a long face. “Since she’s inevitably mixed up in his affairs, she’ll end in the same way—or worse! What if she landed in jail? She’d fall back into her madness and would be burnt for being possessed by the Devil!”

  I found nothing to say to this, having no doubt that Samarcas was involved in some very nasty business that frequently required suspicious trips to London, so Giacomi’s fears seemed to me all too well founded.

  Our discussion was interrupted by Miroul, who announced that there was a fellow at the door in a large black coat, who’d asked him to tell me he had a matter of consequence to share with me concerning my family, but who refused to give his name. I stuck a pistol in my belt, giving one also to Giacomi, and the two of us unsheathed our swords and went downstairs. This nocturnal visit seemed so suspicious that I asked Miroul to put a lantern in the upstairs window to determine whether others might be waiting nearby.

  “Monsieur,” I said, opening the peephole but not putting my eye to it, fearing a pistol shot. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Are you the Chevalier de Siorac?”

  “The same!”

  “In that case, I have business with you and I beg you to let me in.”

  “Monsieur,” I countered, “it’s dark out, and you refuse to tell me your name. I must be careful. Are you armed?”

  “I have a pistol and a sword, just as you do… And as Giacomi does, and the Baron de Quéribus, and his escort of five men who are dining in your kitchens—and not counting your valet, Miroul, who’s armed with a lantern and an arquebus upstairs and who’d kill me in an instant on your signal.”

  “Monsieur, how is it you know so much about my household?”

  “And outside your household as well, Monsieur. It’s my business to know other people’s business, which is how I make my living. People pay handsomely for the information I have.”

  “Monsieur, are you alone?”

  “No. I have an escort waiting for me at the corner of the rue du Champ-Fleuri and the rue de l’Autruche. I beg you, open your door! The wet pavement’s seeping through my soles and the gutter stinks to high heaven!”

  “Monsieur,” I countered, “I must require you to open your coat and show your hands before you come in. Don’t be disturbed by the pistol I’m carrying. I’m not in the habit of dispatching men I don’t know.”

  “Your obedient servant!” the fellow replied, holding his hands up to the peephole.

  At this, I bade Giacomi to unbolt the door, while I stepped to one side, holding my pistol in my left hand and my sword in my right; the maestro opened the door just wide enough for the fellow to squeeze through, and then closed and bolted it immediately after the man had entered.

  I brought our guest into the little cabinet with locked windows where I occasionally retired to read or compose letters, so as not to be disturbed by the play and chatter of my children.

  “Monsieur,” said the stranger, seating himself on a stool, “since I’m not required to tell you my real name, you can call me Mosca.”

  “Mosca means ‘fly’ in Italian,” explained Giacomi.

  “But also in Latin, maestro,” said Mosca with a slight bow.

  He then fell silent, studying each of us in turn by the light of the candelabra, while I returned his look with great curiosity. He looked more like a fox than a fly, with slits for eyes, a shifty and searching look, a long thin nose, an untended, bristly moustache and huge ears. It’s as though his entire face had been pulled forward by his eagerness to see, hear and surprise others, and there was something about his walk that betrayed an aptitude for flight at the least sign of danger, oddly balanced by a sort of impudence, which must have stood in for courage on occasion. There was, moreover, a great deal of intelligence in his mobile and cunning expression. He was of medium height and slight of build, though not without some reserves of strength and agility, which led me to believe that this fly must have known how to sting with his sword and dagger. He was dressed all in grey, and could have been mistaken for a notary had it not been for his weapons.

  “Monsieur,” Mosca began with one of his usual little bows, “might I ask whether you’ve seen Larissa de Montcalm in Paris recently?”

  Needless to say, at the mention of her name Giacomi gave an involuntary start.

  “I saw her in Paris towards the end of January, I think—that is to say, about three months ago.”

  Mosca smiled at this, revealing a set of sharp little yellow teeth, and said, “She was here again three days ago.”

  “Where?” cried Giacomi.

  “Maestro,” replied Mosca, “I don’t give out information de gratis. I sell it for hard cash.”

  I could tell Giacomi was on the verge of throwing his entire purse at this fellow, so I put my hand on his arm and whispered, “Lasciatemi parlare,”‡ trusting to my Huguenot sense of economy when it came to bargaining.

  “Monsieur Mosca,” I proposed, “since I don’t know your name, I’d like at least to know your condition, since it’s clear that the value of your news must in some way be connected to it.”

  “Monsieur,” replied Mosca, after hesitating a bit, “I am called ‘the fly’ because I am the eyes and ears of my employer.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “The same man whom you serve,” said Mosca with his slight bow.

  “And you also sell your news to him?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “And you’ve already sold him the news we’re bargaining about?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, since
my master is very fond of me, he’ll give me this news de gratis.”

  “Not on your life! This news touches on state secrets, and our master is very tight-lipped about such things. Not even his mother would reveal this.”

  I had to think about this for a moment, but I couldn’t doubt that Mosca was telling the truth, since the king was of necessity very distrustful and secretive, surrounded as he was by so many traitors, even in his throne room.

  “Monsieur Mosca,” I ventured, “would you sell your news to the king’s enemies?”

  “Well, to do that I’d have to confess that I’d spied on them, which would be a rather dangerous enterprise for me.”

  “I would have thought,” I smiled, “that you wouldn’t wish to sell them these secrets, out of affection for our master.”

  “Monsieur,” said Mosca, “I won’t mince words. I am fond of the person you’ve mentioned, but I’m more fond of myself, of my neck—which I’d like to preserve—and of my purse.”

  “I’m beginning to enjoy your company, Monsieur!” I confessed. “You’re not a hypocrite… So how much are you expecting to add to your purse tonight?”

  “Ah, now that depends; if all you want to know is Larissa’s whereabouts, it’s twenty-five écus. If you want to know about Samarcas, it’s a hundred.”

  “One hundred écus!”

  “That’s because Samarcas is involved in the secrets I’ve mentioned.”

  “Monsieur Mosca,” I replied, “let’s start with the whereabouts. Then we’ll see about the Jesuit. Well? What’s the matter? You’re not talking?”

  “You’ll first have to untie my tongue.”

  And for this untying, we had to empty my purse and Giacomi’s. After which, handing my purse to Miroul, I asked my valet in Provençal to go and fill it immediately from the cache he knew about, in case I wanted to know more about Samarcas.

  “My thanks to you, Monsieur—and to you as well, maestro,” Mosca said, stroking his bristly moustache with his right hand. “And thanks as well for this money, and for not resorting to force and torture to get my secrets out of me.”

  “Monsieur,” I assured him, “I would never lay a hand on one of the king’s spies.”

  “You have my sincere thanks for that! And I’m also going to tell you more than I’d planned to. Dame Larissa and Samarcas set sail from Dover at daybreak on the twenty-eighth of April, and disembarked in Calais that afternoon, lodging at the Golden Ram. On the twenty-ninth, they rented a carriage to bring them to the capital, and the ostler who rented to him, being a fly from my swarm, gave them a coachman, who came and told me where they’re lodging in Paris—an address that surprised me, since normally they are lodged with Monsieur de Montcalm.”

  And, since Mosca fell silent, Giacomi cried, “So where are they, Maître Fly?”

  “Alas, maestro, you wouldn’t be welcome there, any more than our chevalier here would. The place is inviolable. It’s the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The king himself wouldn’t even dare ask such admission for members of his provostry, given how thoroughly he’s drawn and quartered by every priest in Paris on Sundays.”

  “So how,” I asked, beginning to regret the waste of my money, “can we know whether Larissa’s really there?”

  “Monsieur,” replied Mosca archly, “I don’t sell merchandise that isn’t guaranteed: my information rings as true and valuable as your coins. You won’t see hide nor hair of Larissa outside the walls, but if you were to post your valet near the gate of the abbey, you’ll see Samarcas emerging tomorrow, sword at his side and looking very much the gentleman. But for heaven’s sake, don’t have him followed. I already have a fly on his tail and your man would spoil everything.”

  “You’re having him followed? But why?”

  “I beg you, Monsieur, to remember our bargain.”

  “Well, Monsieur, 100 écus is a lot of money!”

  “It’s not so much when it’s a matter of state secrets.”

  “I know nothing about that, but have every interest in knowing!”

  “You have, Monsieur, the greatest interest in knowing this, since unfortunately, it’s linked to a lady in your family.”

  I saw Giacomi pale at this, and struggle to remain silent, as I had asked. And as for me, my heart was beating wildly at the thought of the peril that Larissa was in, caught in the middle of the web that the Jesuit was spinning.

  “Miroul,” I conceded, “count out 100 more écus for Monsieur Mosca.”

  Which Miroul did, but not without obvious reluctance and resentment, being deeply devoted to my interests. I wasn’t much happier at the sight of these gold coins passing from my purse to Mosca’s, but it was now evident that this fellow, far from being a common spy, flew far above the swarm, and was indeed their chief and guide, and that he conducted his dishonest dealings with a certain honesty—his information being both accurate and of immense consequence, not only for my family, but for the beloved sovereign whom I served. From what he’d said, Henri now appeared to be in extreme peril, and I placed no limit on the price of helping him escape from the treason and attacks that beset him on all sides.

  When my poor coins had tintinnabulated sadly into Mosca’s purse, he pulled the strings closed, as though he wanted to strangle it, stuffed it in a secret pocket in the side of his doublet and again stroked his fox-red moustache—with such pleasure that my stomach almost heaved at the sight.

  “Monsieur,” he said, seeing my discomfort, “I understand it’s painful for you to part from your money, good Huguenot that you are—though you ‘go under duress’, as those at court who ‘trim their sails’ say.”

  “That I ‘go under duress’,” I repeated. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s the term they use for going to Mass.”

  “Ha,” I laughed, “I had no idea! That’s very clever!”

  “Monsieur,” replied Mosca with a slight bow, “I’m delighted to give you a good laugh. And now, listen to my story, which now belongs to you since you’ve paid for it. In January of this calamitous year, Queen Elizabeth of England dismissed the Spanish ambassador, whom she suspected of being the origin of all the plots that Felipe II and the Jesuits had hatched against her. In February, she arrested a Welsh Catholic by the name of Parry, who’d tried to kill her in an ambush. This Parry was a hothead, but he’d been carefully guided by the Jesuits from the seminary in Reims.”

  “Reims!” I exclaimed, glancing at Giacomi.

  “Yes, Reims! And from that city and from Treves emanated a whole series of attempts on the life Prince William of Orange, who is the strongest ally of the reformed Church in the Low Countries. If he were killed, the Spaniard would find it easier to impose his will on that unfortunate country. And, likewise, if Elizabeth were dispatched, it would be easier for Felipe to place Mary Stuart on the throne and conquer England.”

  “Conquer England!” I gasped in disbelief.

  “No less, Monsieur.”

  “But I don’t see what interest the Jesuits would have in all this,” mused Giacomi.

  “The Jesuits have no interest in secular matters, but they possess infinite zeal regarding spiritual ones, and in their zeal they are sincere, devoted and valiant. Their aim is to re-Catholicize England and the Low Countries. And, sadly, to reach these ends, all foul means are acceptable: war, inquisition and murder.”

  “Well,” I said, looking Mosca in the eye, “you make me shudder, Monsieur! Queen Elizabeth, William of Orange, no doubt the Lutheran princes of Germany and… who knows? The king of Navarre! Do their dastardly plans stop with these sovereigns?”

  “Not at all!” replied Mosca, lowering his eyes meaningfully.

  “What?” I cried beside myself. “Our master? But he’s a Catholic!”

  “Not zealous enough, in the opinion of the zealots, to stamp out all the heretics, since the power of the Huguenots in his kingdom counterbalances the power of Guise.”

  “Will they kill him?”

  “No, all they want to do is c
loister him, since he loves monks so much. But you know as well as I do on what a thin thread the life of a prisoner of state hangs when he gets in the way of those in power. And, under the circumstances, those in power will be named Guise.”

  “Does the king know about this?”

  “About this and a lot more,” replied Mosca.

  “Well!” I thought, now wholly terrified by what I’d heard. “I’m not surprised by my poor sovereign’s distrustful and melancholy looks lately. How can one keep calm and maintain one’s appetite for life when one feels the sword of Damocles hanging over one’s head?”

  “But,” asked Giacomi, whose worries focused less on the king than on Larissa, “what’s Samarcas’s role in all of this?”

  “Samarcas, maestro, has just left the seminary in Reims, like the worm from the apple, and this fruit has been expressly cultivated to nourish those worms, whose principal and ultimate goal is to make the spiritual reconquest of England.”

  “By assassination?”

  “Among other dastardly methods. But I beg you to observe, Monsieur: Samarcas makes frequent visits to London, and when he comes to Paris, he visits Mendoza, who’s presently the ambassador of Spain to France, the same ambassador whom Elizabeth kicked out of England for having plotted against her. Which is why Samarcas is poking his nose around Paris, and why I’ve got a fly on his tail, given my master’s manifest interest in preventing the assassination of Elizabeth.”

  “God preserve her!” I exclaimed, believing as I did that this great queen was our prime and principal bulwark against further oppression by the Roman Church.

  “God,” observed Mosca, “and Walsingham…”