Although the dialects of Quercy and Gascony are quite different from their own, these gawkers soon discovered that our soldiers spoke the langue d’oc. And so, as they patted the horses, admiring the saddles and the iron hook Coulondre wore in place of his left hand, they rattled off innumerable questions which only Cabusse, with his quick wit and ready tongue, seemed inclined to answer.
“Are your masters going to purchase Mespech?”
“We don’t have masters. These gentlemen are our captains.”
“Are your captains going to purchase the chateau?”
“Perhaps.”
“Can they afford it?”
“I haven’t inspected their coffers.”
“It’s rumoured that Fontenac has 15,000 livres.”
“May God keep them for him.”
“Do your captains have more?”
“You’ll have to ask them.”
“Suppose your captains do acquire Mespech. We hear that Monsieur de Fontenac won’t stomach such an insult.”
“May God preserve his digestion.”
“You swear by God. Do you also swear by His saints?”
“Indeed so, by the saint of gawkers!”
“What religion are you?”
“The same as you.”
“They say your captains are afflicted with the scourge of heresy.”
“Only a fool would say such a thing.”
Whereupon Cabusse rose up and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Good people, get out from under our horses’ hooves and take your hands off our saddles!” And such is the authority of a large man with a loud voice that he was immediately obeyed.
As soon as the door closed behind La Boétie and his guests, the police lieutenant announced: “Gentlemen, I have just learnt from a spy that Fontenac intends to ambush you tonight at Taniès. If you wish, I will give you and your men lodging in my country house tonight and until the sale is completed.”
“I thank you infinitely for your offer, Monsieur de La Boétie,” replied Siorac, “but we cannot accept it. If Fontenac did not find us at Taniès, God knows what evil vengeance he would wreak on my uncle’s family and their poor villagers!”
“Siorac is right,” said Sauveterre, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that Siorac had spoken before consulting him. He added, “Thanks to you, Lieutenant, the surprise will not be ours tonight, but Fontenac’s.”
“Oh, he won’t be there,” cautioned La Boétie. “He’s too clever for that.”
“But if we eliminate his band,” countered Siorac, “we’ll dull his fangs a bit.”
Taniès, home to about ten families whose houses cluster around a squat church tower, is built on a hill from which a steep road descends to the banks of the les Beunes river. Now, the river gets its plural name by reason of the canals and millraces which seem to double its course. The name also designates the little valley watered by this river as far as the village of Ayzies. A fairly well-paved road runs the length of this river—the only means of access to the Château de Fontenac.
At dusk, our captains posted Cabusse and Uncle Siorac’s two sons at the foot of this hill, for they figured that their assailants would probably tether their horses there and creep on foot up the steepest and rockiest face of the hill leading to the village. Cabusse and his men were not to engage the enemy, but to let them pass by and, at the first sound of gunfire, to overpower anyone left on guard there and lead the horses to one of my uncle’s barns nearby. This done, they were to return and lie in wait for any of the assailants who might try to flee that way and to shoot them as they reached the bottom of the hill.
Cabusse, who later recounted this adventure (for the Brethren disdained any talk of their own exploits) laughingly told me that the hardest part of the whole affair was not to enter battle but to convince the villagers to join in, so terrified were they of Fontenac. However, once their minds were made up, nothing could stem their fury. After the battle, they coldly put to death all of the wounded and immediately set to stripping them of their clothes and boots, vociferously demanding their share of the plunder, not only arms but horses, despite the fact that it was Raymond Siorac’s two sons who, alone, had participated in their capture.
To each of these lads, the captains gave a horse and saddle, and to the village they presented another two horses to be shared by all in the fields. But the villagers, accustomed to the use of oxen, preferred to sell the horses and divide the money. The Brethren kept the rest, to wit, six handsome and powerful horses, as apt for working in the fields as for saddle riding and which would be useful when the time came to break ground at Mespech.
Without suffering a single casualty, they killed that night six of the outlaw baron’s band. And they took one prisoner: the horse guard, whom Cabusse had knocked unconscious along the les Beunes river. When he was returned to the village, it was extremely difficult to prevent the villagers from tearing him apart. But one prisoner had to be kept alive in order to have someone to bear witness against Fontenac. To judge by the number of horses, two of the assailants must have slipped away on foot in the darkness, despite the full moon. Of course, it must be pointed out that, once past les Beunes, the forest of chestnut trees provides a deep, well-shaded cover for the full five leagues that separate Taniès from Fontenac.
The following Monday, the date of the sale of Mespech, the captains had the bloodied bodies piled in a cart and delivered to La Boétie along with the prisoner. This latter was sequestered in the city jail, but La Boétie displayed the bodies at the gibbet in Sarlat, which stood in those days opposite the la Rigaudie gate. The populace immediately crowded around. The gawkers apparently included several young women, although the six ruffians were stark naked.
La Boétie lingered awhile nearby with the captains, not so much to enjoy the spectacle as to listen to the townspeople and note which of them seemed to recognize friends among the hanged bodies of Fontenac’s men, with whom they had been drinking of late in the taverns of the town. And, indeed, as the winds began to shift against the robber baron, tongues began wagging.
As for the prisoner, the executioner began his inquisition an hour after arriving in Sarlat, and he told all and more than all. Indeed he revealed some well-nigh unbelievable atrocities committed two years previously, which weighed heavily on the conscience of this churl, clearly made of weaker stuff than his master.
In 1543, a rich burgher of Montignac, one Lagarrigue, had disappeared. A month later, his wife left the town alone on horseback never to reappear. The prisoner’s confession shed sinister light on these disappearances. Fontenac had kidnapped Lagarrigue on the way from Montignac to Sarlat at dusk one evening, killing his two servants and sequestering his captive in his chateau. Then, secretly, he alerted the wife to her husband’s plight. And, on condition that she breathe not a word of his whereabouts to a living soul, not even to her confessor, he promised to release the man for a ransom of 8,000 livres. She was to deliver this sum alone, and without anyone’s knowledge.
This unfortunate lady, who nourished an extraordinary love for her husband and who trembled at the thought of losing him, was mad enough to believe the robber baron to be a man of his word. She obeyed him in all particulars. Once the great doors of the chateau had closed upon her, and the ransom money was counted and locked away in his coffers, Fontenac, a man of uncommonly good looks, education and manners, told the lady, in the sweetest of tones, to be patient and that she should soon be reunited with her husband. But no sooner was Lagarrigue dragged before him, bloodied and chained, than Fontenac changed his expression and his tune. He threw the lady down before his servingmen telling them to take their pleasure of her if they were so inclined. And so they did—within plain sight of Lagarrigue, who struggled in his bonds like a madman.
So that nothing should be lacking in the complete torture of the poor woman, he then ordered her husband strangled before her very eyes and threatened her with a similar fate. Still, he kept her alive for two or three days for the amusement of his soldie
rs. But as several among them expressed pity for her, since she had maintained a Christian composure and dignity throughout her abominable ordeal, Fontenac, as if to provide a lesson in cruelty, plunged his dagger into her heart, turning and twisting the blade, asking her with terrible blasphemies whether he gave her thus her pleasure. The two bodies were then thrown into the dry moat and burnt so that no trace of this horrible crime should survive. And Fontenac, watching from the ramparts above the acrid smoke rising towards him, remarked snidely that Lagarrigue and his lady should be happy that they were now finally reunited.
Fontenac got wind of his henchman’s testimony and did not appear in Sarlat on that Monday at noon. Mespech was sold in broad daylight for 25,000 livres to Jean de Siorac and Jean de Sauveterre, a modest enough price for such a rich and extensive property, but not as low as Fontenac would have paid had he succeeded in his scheme to be the only bidder.
We might think that finally justice was about to be rendered on Fontenac in the form of capital punishment. But the prisoner who accused him died, poisoned in his jail two days later, and his death rendered ever more fragile the testimony brought against the robber baron. The parliament of Bordeaux called Fontenac to testify, but he refused to quit his crenellated hideout. He wrote to the president of the parliament a most courteous and elegant letter of regret, sprinkled, naturally, with erudite Latin phrases.
With profuse compliments, he regretted infinitely his inability to conform to their commandment, beset as he was with a grave malady which had him at death’s very door, praying for recovery. Moreover, he claimed to be the victim of a heinous plot in which the awful hand of heretics could be discerned from beginning to end. While it was true that the six men hanged at Sarlat had been in his service, these villains, driven by shameful promises, had quit his household the previous day, stealing blunderbusses and horses for their dark purposes. They had, he claimed, hoped to sign on in the service of some religionaries, who, hiding their real beliefs, wanted to settle in that province and contaminate it. But as soon as his faithless servants arrived at their rendezvous with these devious and bloodthirsty Huguenots they were treacherously assassinated, both to give the impression that Fontenac had attacked them and to make off with arms and horses rightfully his. As for the prisoner, even if one were able to accept his testimony, since it was unique and unsupported (testis unus, testis nullus—a single witness is of no value), his tongue had obviously been bought by the Huguenots to besmirch the timeless honour of the Fontenac name. If Fontenac had been able to confront this miserable wretch, he surely would have recanted all his lies. But a very suspicious death (fecit qui prodest—he who profits from the crime must be its author) had intervened, ensuring his silence for the evident benefit of his accusers.
In sum, Fontenac demanded that the president of the Bordeaux parliament issue an injunction to Messieurs Siorac and Sauveterre stipulating the immediate return of his arms and his horses. So powerful was the spirit of partisanship in the last years of the reign of François I, and so general was the parliament’s suspicion of any who even appeared to favour the heresy, that this brazen and specious letter from Fontenac shook the resolve of the Bordeaux president and his advisors despite Fontenac’s execrable reputation throughout Guyenne. They immediately convoked not only our two captains, but also La Boétie, the two consuls of Sarlat, and François de Caumont, as delegate of the nobility, to establish the facts of the case. In addition, the parliament refused to hear the case unless the two captains agreed to submit to an interrogation of their beliefs. They consented to this stipulation on condition that their testimony be privately taken by the counsellor assigned to this interrogation.
This counsellor was a thoughtful, grey-haired gentleman of impeccable manners who apologized profusely to the two brothers before beginning his interrogation.
“Good Counsellor,” said Siorac, “how can an accusation coming from such a thorough scoundrel be given any credence whatsoever?”
“Well, he is a good Catholic, however great his sins! He goes to Mass and to confession and takes Communion—he even attends retreats in a convent.”
“What a pity that good works do not follow upon good words.”
“I am happy,” rejoined the counsellor, “to hear you speak of works. In your mind, is it by good works that a Christian can hope for salvation?”
Sauveterre’s look darkened considerably, but Siorac responded without hesitation: “Certainly, that is how I understand the matter.”
“You reassure me, Monsieur,” smiled the counsellor. “But after all, I am not a great clerk and ask only the simplest questions which you can easily answer. Do you yourself regularly attend Mass?”
“Indeed so, Counsellor.”
“Let us not stand on ceremony, I beg you. Do you mind answering simply ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”
“As you wish.”
“I shall continue, then. Do you honour the Holy Virgin and the saints?”
“Yes.”
“Do your prayers invoke the intercession of the Virgin and the saints?”
“Yes.”
“Do you respect the medallions, paintings, stained-glass windows and statues that represent them?”
“Yes.”
“Do you accept spoken confession?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe in the real presence of God in the Eucharist?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe in Purgatory?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe that the Pope is the holy pontiff of the Roman, Apostolic, Catholic Church and that every Christian owes him obedience?”
“Yes.”
“Do you worship the saints and the martyrs?”
“Yes.”
“Next August in Sarlat, will you follow the procession in honour of the Virgin devoutly, bareheaded, candle in hand?”
“Yes.”
The counsellor wanted to turn next to Sauveterre in order to pursue his inquisition, but Sauveterre rose and limped forward, speaking quite firmly and staring him down with his dark eyes: “Counsellor, my brother has responded excellently to all of your questions. Take his replies for my own. And pray conclude that our religion is in every respect the same as that of the king of France, whom we both served faithfully in the legion in Normandy.”
This aggressive parry caught the counsellor quite off guard and he sensed that nothing was to be gained by pursuing the matter further. And yet he was not satisfied. For he was accustomed to the type of men who were drawn to the reformed religion like a nail to a magnet, and from this perspective the very virtues of the captains, their seriousness, knowledge and tranquil courage did not speak in their favour.
“These are honest men to be sure,” the counsellor reported to the president of the parliament at the conclusion of his inquest. “They are free of any frivolity, weakness or faults of any kind. And yet they give lip service to the religion of the king. I detect a Huguenot odour about them.”
“Despite your keen sense of smell,” replied the president, “an odour is not sufficient to convict them. As long as they refrain from professing the plague of reform, they are not rebels against the king. Leave these questions of zeal to churchmen.”
Whatever odour the parliament detected on Baron de Fontenac and whatever support this bandit received from them remained a mystery. “Lacking any material proof or irrefutable testimony”, the parliament ultimately banished him for twenty years from the seneschalty of Sarlat and from the domain of Domme, an act deemed excessively clement throughout Guyenne.
On the way home, La Boétie left the consuls of Sarlat and Caumont at their homes and then set out in advance to prepare lodgings for the little company at Libourne, followed at some distance by the “Brethren”, as they were now popularly called, touchingly joining them in a single noun as if they were one and the same person.
“What a pity we are in such haste,” remarked La Boétie, “for otherwise we might have passed through Montaigne, and I could ha
ve introduced you to a funny little twelve-year-old who has learnt Latin from his father, and amazes everyone with his readings from Ovid’s Metamorphoses.”
“This gentleman,” said Siorac, “does very well to take the trouble to instruct his son. We badly need knowledgeable men to lead us out of our barbarism.”
“Alas, knowledge and morality are not always sisters,” lamented La Boétie. “Fontenac is well enough educated.”
“And the scoundrel used his letters well enough,” cried Sauveterre. “Twenty years of banishment for so many murders! My blood boils at such evil.”
“And he has only killed ten people,” rejoined La Boétie. “What should we do with the Baron d’Oppède, who has massacred the peasants of Luberon by the hundred, confiscated their lands in the name of the king and then secretly purchased them himself? He is on trial now, but you can rest assured he’ll emerge from it all as white as the new-fallen snow.”
“So it is in our sad world,” said Sauveterre, “ceaselessly dragged through blood and mire, and through the mendacious superstitions that have corrupted the pure Word of God.”
A silence followed these words. No one, not even Siorac, felt like picking up on Sauveterre’s lead, least of all La Boétie.