“Monsieur de La Ramée,” queried L’Étoile, with a smile, “if you continue to be this angry, you’re going to produce so much bile it will ruin your digestion! Please taste these cock’s crests and kidneys, and these artichoke hearts. They’re such delicacies that I’m astonished the queen mother nearly died from eating them.”
“She just ate too many of them,” explained Ambroise Paré, “since she’s an ogress at table as, so they say, she was in Henri II’s bed. L’Étoile, you who know everything that’s going on in la Ville and at court, and who are a sort of living chronicler of our daily life, is it true that the bishop of Sisteron died last Monday, in Paris, and under the same cloud that he’d been under all his life?”
“Alas! It’s only too true,” replied L’Étoile. “Moral and morose as was his wont, this prelate was of all the epicurean pigs the dirtiest and foulest. Charitably visited on his deathbed by a beautiful and noble lady who asked what she could give him to help in his last moments, he replied shamelessly, ‘Give me your snatch. You could offer me nothing that would please me more. What was dear to the living ought to be the same for the dying.’”
“And did she give it to him?” asked Ramus, his eyes lighting up. “Did she push charity as far as that?”
“What would he have done with it?” said L’Étoile. “He was at the farthest extremity and was vomiting up a thousand other profanities at the moment he met his Maker.”
“And with what nasty grace this villain welcomed the good offices of this noble lady!” said Ambroise Paré, his voice quite calm and quiet, though his yellow-brown eyes looked very melancholic, as they did every time people around him talked of death, which he considered his great and personal enemy. “Isn’t it marvellous,” he continued, “that the lowest soldier shows more human gratitude than a bishop? I remember that in 1552—now twenty years ago—at the siege of Metz, where I was the surgeon of Monsieur de Rohan, I saw that they’d left a soldier in their company behind on the ramparts. Finding, upon examination, that he was still breathing, although a bullet had passed clean through his right lung, and that Monsieur de Rohan’s doctor had decided that he was lost, I had him carried to my house, where he spent a month, and at his bedside I served alternately as his doctor, his apothecary, his surgeon and his cook. God granted that in the end he recovered, and all the soldiers in his company, amazed that I had laboured so hard to snatch one of their comrades from the jaws of death, each gave me an écu, and the guards half an écu. Certainly,” he continued, “I have no complaints about the generosity of my more noble patients. I’ve received both money and jewels from them. But largesse is measured by the size of the purse, and is easier for a deep one. And so I’m all the more moved by the heart of these mercenaries, each one of whom pulled an écu from his poor purse, even though the wounded man was not related to any of them.”
“Well!” I thought. “How to measure the generosity of Ambroise Paré himself, giving so many days of unrelenting care to this humble man of arms from whom he expected nothing other than the joy of giving him his life back?”
“Venerable Maître,” I said, “what you told us about the wound to this man’s lung reminds me that, when I was watching his tennis game, I heard the king coughing with a raw, villainous and uncontrollable cough, which is said to be chronic with him.”
“It’s true,” sighed Ambroise Paré, “and I’m very distressed about it, being the king’s surgeon and not his doctor. For it’s my belief that a sickness of the lungs—whether it’s from a natural disease or from a bullet wound—can be cured and healed only if the patient rests without coughing, without talking, without tiring himself by running around a lot and sweating. Alas, the king does exactly the opposite: he coughs to break your heart. He roars instead of speaking. He blows himself breathless into his trumpets. He sweats at his forge. And he exhausts himself in his hunting and tennis games.”
“Have you told him, though?”
“Every day. But the king trusts only his physician in such matters, who is an ass of the most Sorbonnic type and who flatters the king’s penchant for the most violent sports. It would be wiser to push him to seek quiet refuge among the ‘learned virgins’, as your Périgordian Montaigne would say.”
“You mean Charles IX likes the Muses?” I asked, surprised.
“Oh, yes! He reads some poetry. He writes some as well. He loves to imitate Ronsard.”
“All of the house of Valois are crazy about the arts,” said the honest L’Étoile, though I couldn’t tell, given his morose tone, whether he approved of this or not. “The queen mother is a patron of Bernard Palissy and Jean Goujon. Princesse Margot speaks Latin perfectly. And the Duc d’Anjou’s eloquence in French is very pleasing.”
This discussion was teaching me so much about so many things that I hoped it would never end. But, our repast at an end, Ramus apologized for having to leave, saying that he had a rendezvous in the grand’rue Saint-Denis with a merchant whom he was interested in, for the fellow, he believed, had a very fast and amazing way of calculating the relative value of different monies, measures and weights, since he daily did business with merchants from Italy and England.
“Dico atque confirmo,” he said with a smile as he stood up, “nullum esse in Academia Paris mathematicis artibus eruditum quem non familiarem carumque habeam.”
“Translate, please,” said Ambroise Paré.
“I said and I affirm that there’s not a man properly educated in mathematics in the Academy of Paris that I do not consider my familiar and my friend, were he,” he added “one of these ‘mechanicals’ that the uneducated Charpentier despises so greatly.”
Seeing Ramus leaving, Ambroise Paré, who would have delayed his departure since he was still chewing his meal, also arose, saying that he would accompany his friend, having, as he did, some business in the Saint-Denis quarter (which is called “la Ville”, as the reader perhaps remembers). Indeed, he’d been asked to reconnect the bones of a broken knee, which is why, that morning, he’d been studying the skeleton of a man who’d been tortured, which he kept in his study, and had made a drawing of the knee and its adjoining parts, which he showed me and I found excellent in every minute detail.
“Of the two,” said Pierre de L’Étoile, when he’d closed the door behind them, “the more celebrated is Ambroise Paré, since he’s our ally against the menace of death. But in my view, Pierre de La Ramée is the greater mind, since his intelligence embraces all the arts, even mathematics which he knows better than any other man in France. This reformist, the pride of his Church, would like to reform everything where abuses exist: teaching, grammar, spelling—being, with such a vast mind, a heretic in everything, as Ambroise Paré is in medicine. Which is why attempts have been made on both their lives, so hateful and so venomous are the champions of tradition in this country.”
“He seems very angry with this Charpentier,” I said.
“And for good reason!” replied L’Étoile. “But the cruellest thing about this chair in mathematics that is occupied by this unworthy fellow is that Ramus, having founded the chair at the Royal College, decided to endow it, as he departed (hounded out by the persecution of his people), with a 500-livre salary for whoever would succeed him. And so not only does this uneducated Charpentier not teach the science of mathematics, but, in addition, he pockets Ramus’s money according to a legacy that cannot be revoked.”
“Well,” I said, clenching my fists, “that would make the angels cry!”
Alas! The angels would cry much harder a few days later on the occasion that was so fatal for those of my religion: St Bartholomew’s eve. Ramus hid in a cellar to escape the massacre, but the students in the Royal College whom Charpentier had set in hot pursuit of him, after having inflamed them with hatred for his genial rival, found him, demanded a ransom with no promise of his life in return and, once his money was pocketed, eviscerated him with pikes; then, with his entrails bursting from his body, they dragged him through the streets. Finally, growing weary of
this monstrous game, they returned to his body and, in their abject fury, cut him to pieces.
It was already hot and the sun was shining brightly when I left Pierre de L’Étoile after a thousand thanks for the excellent meal and the amazing discussion that I’d been so happy to be present at.
“Ah, Monsieur de Siorac,” he said on the threshold of his lodgings, “times are so vile, rotten and corrupted that it’s a rare joy for me to converse with good and honest people who think only of the common good and the advancement of mankind. On the other hand,” he said, suddenly lowering his voice and looking around him at the passers-by in the street, “there are certain people whose zeal is at such an insane pitch that they foul the very air that one breathes. If you were to go next Sunday to hear the sermon at the church of Saint-Eustache, you would be strangely edified.”
“I shan’t fail to do so,” I promised in a respectful tone, but secretly amused since I could clearly see the drift of Pierre de L’Étoile’s sympathies, despite his papism.
I headed now, however, in the sultry heat of the noonday sun, towards the rue de la Ferronnerie to meet up with my beloved brothers at Maître Recroche’s lodgings. Samson was very happy to be able to spend an afternoon with me, and Giacomi was delighted at the idea of crossing swords with Rabastens at the Louvre. Seeing how happy they were, I decided to make the fourth member of our band happy as well, and invited Miroul to join us, though his presence wasn’t required to guard our horses. But my good valet has always been more than a valet to me—and hadn’t my father ordered him never to leave my side, so that his wisdom could, if necessary, calm my hot temper?
The Louvre gates were wide open, and a crowd of brilliantly clothed people were pouring in and out; but whereas the mass of those leaving flowed freely through the massive archway, the way in, which was through the smaller gate, was much slower, one by one, and was controlled by two gentlemen: one very corpulent, seated on a stool, and the other, standing by the first, with a red cape thrown over his shoulder. When it was my turn, I told them my father’s name and the nature of my business, and the man seated on the stool studied me from head to toe with a wry smile at my doublet, and said to his companion, “Do you know a Siorac, Baron de Mespech in Périgord?”
“Not personally, no,” said the other, “but I’ve often heard his name on the lips of d’Argence. Mespech fought under Guise at Calais.”
“Ah,” said the other, “Calais! Now that you mention Calais I remember that Nançay spoke to me yesterday about Siorac’s son here, and about his repaired doublet.”
Of course, I blushed deeply to have such a tawdry description of me circulating around the Louvre.
“Monsieur,” said the seated gentleman, seeing my intense embarrassment, “don’t take offence. I don’t judge a man by his clothes. I heard from Nançay that your father is a very brave man, and that you follow in his footsteps, being a brave and proud young fellow.”
“In any case,” counselled the other gentleman, who, despite the sultry weather, was still wearing his heavy red cape, “if you want my advice, don’t get in a lather when some gentlemen here, who enjoy a good joke, as we’re wont to do in Paris, smile at your doublet. Neither the king, nor his brother, the Duc d’Anjou, tolerates quarrels. It’s a capital crime in the Louvre, so near such august persons.”
“Monsieur,” I replied, bowing to him, “I shall try to follow your advice.”
I passed through the gate after naming the other members of my party: my brother, maestro Giacomi and my valet—the last of whom, as we passed through the courtyard of the Louvre, suddenly disappeared completely. And so, when we were at the door that led to the gallery where Giacomi was to do his fencing, I had to wait for several minutes, looking anxiously around, impatient and getting more and more annoyed, my foot tapping the pavement. But when I had decided to call him, he appeared at my side, as suddenly as he’d disappeared a moment before. His brown eye looked very happy and he said to me in langue d’oc but speaking as fast as any urchin in the capital:
“Monsieur, I beg you, don’t scold me. I only disappeared for your own good, and went to ask one of the footmen, who I thought was from our provinces, who the two men were who admitted us at the gate.”
“And did you find out?”
“Yes, certainly, Monsieur,” said Miroul, who was now taking his time, with his brown eye clearly indicating his pleasure.
“Well, then! Tell me!”
“Well, Monsieur, it depends,” said Miroul, his eye sparkling. “Was I right to leave you or not? I could see you the entire time from across the courtyard.”
“Miroul, you’re making fun of me! Speak!”
“Ah, Monsieur, I see you’re still angry.”
“I’m going to be if you keep me waiting any longer!”
“What, Monsieur? You’d punish me for taking such pains and trouble to find out the who, the what and the why?”
“Ah, Miroul,” I laughed, “How dearly you’re making me pay for this little frown! What would you have done if I’d really been angry?”
“Monsieur, would you like to know what I found out?”
“Didn’t I already ask you twice?”
“Ask, Monsieur? Did you ask me? Brevis oratio penetrat caelos.¶ But, Monsieur,” he continued, seeing me frown again, “enough joking. I don’t want to exhaust your patience.”
“My patience! Good God!”
“Well, Monsieur, here’s what I learnt. The gentleman who was seated at the gate to take the weight of his great stomach off his feet is Monsieur de Rambouillet. He belongs to the king. As for the tall, gaunt fellow standing with his hands on his hips, looking very superior, that’s Monsieur de Montesquiou. He’s the captain of the guards of the Duc d’Anjou, which is why he’s wearing that red cape, even in August.”
“What? Montesquiou?” I whispered. “The assassin of Condé! I didn’t like the look of him.”
“I liked him well enough,” countered Miroul. “Bravaccio as he is, he has an honest look.”
At this I fell silent, thinking about this Montesquiou, whose very name seemed synonymous with our defeats at Moncontour and Jarnac.
Miroul continued:
“Monsieur, would you like to know why such important gentlemen are standing guard at the gate today instead of a simple sergeant?”
“Tell me.”
“Because they’re expecting the papal nuncio, who is supposed to visit the queen mother.”
“Ah,” I said sotto voce. “No good can come of this! As everyone knows, the Pope and Felipe II of Spain are working together to get the king to agree to the eradication of our people.”
“But how could they get his approval,” asked Miroul, “when Coligny has the king’s favour?”
All of this was spoken in langue d’oc and in a whisper, but we could just as easily have yelled it at the top of our lungs from the middle of the courtyard given how loud and resplendent the crowd of courtiers was, whose members, though they entirely surrounded us, were wholly occupied in their own affairs, however unimportant.
The gallery where the maestro and Rabastens had begun their fencing match, while Samson looked on amazed, was a long hall well lit by a series of tall windows overlooking the Seine, but the room was entirely unfurnished, not even with stools, so that the fencers who had no valets to hold their doublets had to simply drop them on the floor.
As there were three or four matches going on simultaneously in the gallery, the clash of steel, the heavy breathing and shouts, and the odour of sweat mingled with the smell of sawdust spread on the floor all produced a sort of excitation that I found most refreshing.
I couldn’t help being amazed by the strength that emanated from Rabastens as he faced off against Giacomi, and not artlessly as far as I could tell. But Giacomi was so serene, and gave way so little, keeping his body well aligned, his long arm beautifully deployed and his blade miraculously present, ready for every lunge by Rabastens, that I felt no doubt as to the outcome of this friendly match—
though Giacomi was constantly on the defensive, I’ll wager, so as not to offend the Frenchman’s pride with too many touches.
The combatants fought near the windows, and the spectators were grouped against the opposite wall and separated from the matches by a red rope stretched a few inches above the floor. But between the duellists there was no barrier, so that some, breaking away from a furious assault, might bump into the backs of gentlemen engaged in another match and seriously upset them. In such cases, the match was interrupted and with ceremonious excuses and bows from each side. I was astonished at such polite behaviour, no doubt introduced by the Italian teachers, for the custom of the courtiers, despite their colourful and brilliant costumes, was, whether at tennis or in the courtyard of the Louvre, much more aggressive and crude, with elbows given to women and men indifferently, feet stepped on indiscriminately, and spitting and sneezing done with little regard for the people on whom the phlegm landed. At times men would go so far as to lift a lady’s mask with one finger, or administer with a wayward hand a pat on her backside. Of course it’s true that these offences were more for effect than they were real affronts, since our refined ladies were, as I’d been told, padded in this place with a kind of false arse, which was made of material that made their backsides look more rounded, and must have also served as a bastion or shield against impertinent assaults.
Meanwhile, Miroul left my side again without giving me his usual warning, and I watched him as he went to mingle with some of the other valets who were holding their gentlemen’s doublets. I surmised that he was going to collect some pollen of news, and indeed he was back as quick as a bee to the hive and divulged what he’d learnt.