After we left the restaurant, we headed down towards the river and entered the Île de la Cité on the rue des Sablons, where Monsieur de Nançay had his lodgings. There we met a very strange procession: it was led by a wicker mannequin which measured a good two toises tall, was dressed in the red uniform of the Swiss guards of the Louvre, and brandished a bloody dagger; its face was represented by a grimacing mask that seemed as if were borrowed from some hellish devil. Pinned to the chest of this miserable creature was a placard proclaiming, urbi et orbi,* that he was an “assassin and heretic”. Behind this mannequin came a dozen priests in surplices, stoles and camails. They had their backs turned towards it and were walking backwards—which must not have been easy in these muddy streets—and so were facing a statue of the Virgin, carried on the shoulders of four powerful and moving caryatids who, considering their aprons and the knives in their belts, must have been butchers. On either side of the statue, little clerics were skipping along, swinging censers which created a constant odiferous cloud around it, but they seemed utterly unable to relieve the suffering of the good Virgin, whose face and breasts were mutilated and bloody, if the vermilion stains you could see lining Her body and filling the cracks in the statue, were, in fact, blood. “Se non è vero, è bene trovato,”† Giacomi whispered in my ear.
I found out later that the senseless attack on the statue that this parade was commemorating had happened 144 years previously: a Swiss guard, in the pay of the king, had lost his wages rolling dice, and, after leaving the tavern in the rue aux Ours where he’d been fleeced, angry and disappointed, and so drunk that he couldn’t tell a white thread from a black one, threw himself on the statue of the Virgin that blessed the passers-by, and unsheathing his dagger tried his best to kill Her. He almost did, but as we saw, Mary bled abundantly and, after a century and a half, has continued to bleed, in particular during the procession during which they carry Her, preceded by Her assassin in wicker, throughout the streets of the Saint-Denis quarter, to Her pedestal where, after some chanting, prayers and incense, they burn the Swiss guard in effigy.
A fairly large crowd was following the statue and the mannequin, chanting praises of the Blessed Mother and damning Her murderer to the execration of all people and to the infinite torments of hell. These chants were shouted, rather than sung, and in a manner not so much devout as bellicose: the chanters’ faces were inflamed and, a sight which completely stunned me, they brandished knives, hatchets, pikes here and there, with furious cries, promising to burn at the stake all atheists, Jews and Huguenots—these cries were accompanied by nasty and menacing looks at any passers-by, as if they suspected them of failing in their adoration of the martyred Virgin.
As this procession took up the entire width of the street, the four of us squeezed into a portico which gave onto two doors, a carriage gate and a pedestrian passageway, and thus we were able to let these fanatical papists and their bleeding icon pass by, and as I watched them, I tried to separate from my observations the disdain I felt at this superstitious masquerade. But achieving some neutrality would not be enough, for Giacomi, elbowing me roughly, whispered in Italian,
“My brother, these rascals are giving us very suspicious looks. For goodness’ sake, doff your cap and make the sign of the cross!”
I promptly obeyed, as did Miroul, but Samson remained as frozen as a block of ice, his body stiff, eyes blank and cap firmly on his head.
“Samson,” I hissed in langue d’oc as vehemently as I could, “remove your cap! I command you!”
“Absolutely not,” he replied, as hard as a diamond. “This is a matter of conscience. I shall not salute these idols.”
“Samson,” I cried, furious now, “once again—”
But I didn’t have time to say any more, for about thirty of these inflamed churls encircled us—or rather gathered in a half-circle around us, for luckily we had our backs to the doors. This crowd began brandishing their weapons, red-faced and vociferous, gnashing their teeth, their eyes practically popping out of their sockets, shouting with ear-splitting cries: “Eviscerate these heretics, these stinking demons who dare insult the Blessed Virgin!” Shouting as loud as I could in this infernal uproar but unable to be heard, I finally unsheathed my sword, as did Giacomi and Miroul, but these maddened fanatics scarcely retreated a step before our sword flourishes, continuing to shout their terrible insults at my poor Samson, who never thought to draw his sword, but stood straight up, head held high, and cap firmly in place, and faced them without giving way or moving at all, hoping no doubt for the happiness of martyrdom in his unshakeable zeal.
“Samson!” I cried, beside myself. “This is madness! Are we going to die for a bonnet?”
But he answered not a word, his face illuminated by the prospect of his eternal happiness at the right hand of the Father. “Oh, heaven!” I thought in my rage. “He’s as stupidly zealous as these idiots who are assaulting us!” And what was worse, I could see that his marvellous courage, far from impressing the populace, merely increased their hatred, since they preferred to see in my unfortunate brother’s serenity the proof that he’d given himself body and soul to Beelzebub, from whom he drew this supernatural strength. And just then, one among them, who, as always in this sort of crowd, is crazy enough to believe God has inspired him, shouted:
“Kill! Kill! The Virgin tells us to! I’ve heard Her voice!”
At this the rest of the fanatics, taking up his cry, immediately rushed us, despite our threatening sword points, until, retreating slowly, our backs were almost against the doors.
“Ah, Monsieur!” cried Miroul. “What shall we do? Kill them?”
I shook my head without responding, seeing clearly that we were in a desperate predicament since we either had to kill them or let them kill us—but in either case, whether or not we spilt their blood, these rascals were so zealous to avenge the outrage to their Virgin that, sooner or later, their numbers would prevail. I was trying to decide if we should knock at the doors against which we were pinned in the barest hope that some charitable Christian lived there, when I saw, bursting through the crowd, a huge devil of a sergeant of the French Guards, who, being at least six foot four, was a head taller than anyone else there, with broad shoulders and a head so large, a complexion so rosy and eyes so fierce that he might have served as the signpost for a tavern! He simply waded through the mob as if it were butter, using his cane to open the way before him and demanding passage with a voice that must have dominated all the drums of his regiment.
And what a marvel it is that such a large body, a splendid uniform and a loud voice can have such an effect on a mutinous multitude! For as drunk as it was with the carnage it sought, the crowd parted in front of the sergeant like the Red Sea before Moses, so completely that, as he approached, he made a gesture that we should lower our swords and, with his cane, dispersing our assailants, he stepped up to Samson and demanded in a stentorian voice the reason for this tumult, which was disturbing the king’s peace. As our enraged assailants withdrew and grew quiet, we rejoiced at the arrival of this gigantic French Guard, and I took advantage of this respite to take up a position on the sergeant’s right, while Giacomi moved to his left, thereby creating a rampart of our three bodies that hid Samson from the crowd. And Miroul slipped quietly behind my brother, who was immobilized, mute, his brain still in the mists of his vision of martyrdom, and took his cap from his head without his even noticing. Miroul then hid the offending bonnet in his doublet, which he quickly rebuttoned. It was a subtle ruse that worked wonders, as we shall see, but at the moment I didn’t see, my attention glued to the French Guard and the mob.
From among them, who were now growling like a mastiff on a leash, but afraid to come too close to the bewitched cane of the sergeant, there now emerged a fairly tall and strong fellow, whose blood-soaked apron and large knife identified him as one of the butchers, and I thought that his corporation must nourish a particular devotion for the Virgin, since I’d see four of his colleagues bearing t
he statue of Mary.
“These satanic monsters,” cried the butcher, “these sacrilegious demons had the temerity not to remove their caps when the Blessed Virgin passed!”
“But they’re all holding them in their hands,” observed the sergeant.
And as he said this, Giacomi, Miroul and I brandished our hats so all could see them. Seeing this, the crowd began to shout:
“It’s not them, it’s the other one!”
“Which other one?” said the guard.
“Sergeant,” I said, loud enough for the crowd to hear me, “sadly, they’re talking about my brother, who’s suffered from a cooling of the brain and has lost his mind.”
“And where is this brother?”
“He’s right behind us. He’s too stupid even to run away!”
The sergeant turned around, saw Samson and, struck by his appearance, took him by the arm and led him over to the crowd, where Samson remained just as immobile as before, his azure eyes gazing with inexpressible sweetness on these fanatics, since, having no doubt that they were going to kill him, he imagined himself too close to eternal happiness not to pardon his executioners. In truth, he didn’t look so stupid as he did simply absent from himself and the world, but it would have been easy to be mistaken about this, and the sergeant, very moved by his beauty and his uncanny calmness, didn’t know what to think of this devil who looked so much like an angel. However, a moment later, as he gazed at Samson’s copper-coloured hair shining in the August sun, he realized that my beloved brother’s head was bare, and, turning to the crowd, he yelled, “What nonsense is this? The gentleman is in keeping with today’s fashion: he has no hat.”
At these words, complete silence fell over the street as the entire crowd gazed at Samson with the most extreme stupor, eyes wide, while Samson himself, touching his head with both hands, said:
“My hat! Where’s my hat?”
And looking wildly all around him, he seemed completely lost. If he’d been play-acting, he couldn’t have done any better, nor could I, nor Giacomi, who fell speechless at this miracle and began looking here and there, and soon the crowd themselves began looking around them as well. Things had almost reached the point where these fanatics would have helped us find the very hat that had symbolized the sacrilege that minutes earlier they wanted to avenge.
We were in the midst of this strange predicament when a woman in the crowd, whom I remember vividly even today since she was so large of bosom and of derrière that it looked like she was carrying two enormous sacks in front and two that had slipped down her back behind her, suddenly raised her eyes heavenward and cried in a loud voice:
“What are you looking for? By my faith, I tell you you’ll not find a thing, you fat, silly men! It’s not hard to figure out what’s happened! One of God’s beautiful angels who was passing by, troubled that this poor red-headed madman—for he is a redhead, you see, as madmen often are—forgot to take his hat off before Notre-Dame de la Carole, so he snatched it from his head and carried it off into heaven as an offering and a trophy to lay at the feet of the Blessed Virgin, and the Lord Her Blessed Son.”
“Amen!” shouted the crowd with one voice, and yet I could tell that they were still in some doubt and hesitation, for these words had come from a mere wench, and according to popular opinion the only brains a woman had were between her legs. And so they stood there unmoving, uncertain as to whether they should kill Samson or let him go, yet still in a dangerous mood, in case someone else, in the name of the Virgin, should inspire them to further violence. And so I decided to seize on the rebound the heavy ball the woman had thrown, and to jump into the game of mystification and manipulation of these poor idolaters. To be sure, it would be lying, but shouldn’t a wise man speak to men according to their particular folly when common sense is lacking and would be of no help?
So, climbing quickly onto one of the ledges of the doorway, I cried:
“Good people, I feel that this good woman has spoken the truth! The beautiful angel she spoke of could have burnt my brother alive and reduced him to ashes instead of taking his hat. And if this angel didn’t, it was because he was so filled with pity for this poor lad, who, as I told the sergeant, is so afflicted with madness that he knows not what he says nor what he does, sometimes saying he’s a Huguenot, at others a Jew and still others a Turk. How can we hold a madman’s folly against him? Oh, good people, this innocent has a heart so pure that the Lord, having denied him his reason, gave him instead a face so beautiful and a body so vigorous that anyone could see that this poor fellow is himself an angel whom God will take right up into His Paradise when he dies.”
At this, the sergeant of the French Guards, whether persuaded by my speech or simply because he wanted to put this tumult to rest, shouted, “Amen!”
But the crowd was still hesitating when one of the men—who only moments before was calling for the death of my brother—now hearing talk of angels, said that nothing was more certain, for he himself had seen with his own eyes a great light on Samson’s head and, an instant later, his hat had vanished.
This testimony carried the day. The entire crowd was overcome with amazement at this miracle and began to see Samson with new eyes, some of them praising his angelic beauty, others bemoaning his poor clouded brain, and some of the women even came up to him and wanted to touch his shoulder or take a hair from his head (since red hair brings luck), and because Samson was so confused he simply let this all happen with the most edifying patience. They even brought him some milk and someone slipped some coins into his hand (which he didn’t refuse), while others anointed him with musk and benzoin, my brother thanking each one profusely.
Believing in his simplicity that the scales had simply fallen from the eyes of these people and that they had renounced their idolatry, he called them “my brothers” and “my sisters” with his sweet voice, while his blue eyes looked at them with infinite beneficence. “Oh, Lord Jesus!” said one. “It’s true the poor fellow is a lunatic! Would he love us if he hadn’t lost his mind?” And he kissed his hand and his doublet. So touched were they by his candour and beauty and by the sweetness of his nature that I thought for a moment that they were going to take Samson on their shoulders and carry him through the streets in witness to this new miracle of the Blessed Virgin.
However, the priests, none of whom had been able to witness this scene, because it had all happened at the very tail of their procession, became worried, as I heard later, by the discovery that many of their following had dropped away, and sent some clerics to bring this little flock back into the fold, which the missi dominici‡ did with marvellous speed—so great, alas! is the authority, in this papist city, that the clergy wields over its bloodthirsty sheep.
When the last of these had departed to help set fire to the wicker mannequin—a poor sacrificial victim, I concede, when they could have had my brother’s beautiful red blood to avenge the blood that was spilt 144 years before by the martyred marble of their idol—I asked the sergeant of the French Guards if he’d do me the favour of having a drink with us to help settle our emotions. Though he hesitated, he consented, and with a thousand thanks, he led us to a nearby tavern, where he must have been a regular, since scarcely had he entered before a very forward wench brought him, with many smiles and glances, an excellent wine that, for once, I didn’t have to order at Parisian prices.
The five of us finished the flagon in the blink of an eye, and out of courtesy I would have ordered a second had the sergeant not raised his hand and opposed it, saying that, as a master-at-arms at the Louvre, he drank little, and particularly not in the afternoon or before fencing lessons, wishing to conserve his wind and breath. I almost told him who Giacomi was, but changed my mind, observing that Giacomi himself said nothing and maintained an inscrutable expression, the maestro being very particular about the quality of people with whom he condescended to cross swords—not out of self-importance, as we’d seen, but because he so valued his art that he didn’t want to lower it t
o the level of some unpolished swashbuckler. And yet, by almost imperceptible signs, it seemed to me that he liked the sergeant well enough, who appeared to have manners and a bearing above his condition, and who was polite, quite reserved—reticent about himself, not inquisitive about others—and little inclined to parade his prowess, as one might have expected from his height and strength, which surpassed any I’d ever seen before. As deep as his voice was and, as we’d observed, capable of thunderous shouts when necessary, he spoke gently in company, gestured little, and maintained a serene expression.
I told him my name and whose son I was, which he found very interesting since his father, who’d preceded him in the military, as his grandfather and great-grandfather had done, had fought at Calais. It seemed that the word “Calais” untied his tongue, for he told me he was from Toulouse and that he was called Rabastens. Surprised that he was from the south, I asked him how it happened that he spoke French in the Parisian manner; he smiled and told me that he’d had to work very hard at it since the Parisians, in their arrogance, were quite intolerant of any accent but their own. We all laughed, and he along with us, knowing full well what we speakers of langue d’oc thought of this attitude.
After this we felt more at ease with each other, and noticing that he asked questions neither about the incident in the street nor about Samson (though he must have noticed that my handsome brother, on closer inspection, was not in the least demented), I decided that I could trust him completely, and told him that I was on my way to visit Monsieur de Nançay in the rue des Sablons, and why.