“So these must be the gentlemen who are waiting for Monsieur de Nançay to make up a doubles game? What’s the name of the tallest of the three? He plays very well.”
“What?” said Delay almost indignantly. “You don’t know him? You’re kidding! Everyone in the world knows the Duc de Guise!”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve been in Paris only three days, though I’ve heard so much about him since my father, the Baron de Mespech, served under his father at Calais.”
“I’ll speak to Henri de Guise about you,” said Delay good-naturedly. “He’ll like you the better for it since he venerates the memory of his father, who was assassinated.”
“And who’s the gentlemen who’s returning his shots?”
“Well, this is the amazing thing! This lord is the son-in-law of the man who had his father killed.”
“But,” I said, now on my guard, “is it certain that it was Coligny who had François de Guise killed? The king tarnished him with this infamous insinuation.”
“Well,” said Delay, “the king plays his own game, and his game is to keep everyone guessing.”
He lowered his voice mysteriously as he said this, suffering from the same fever that afflicts everyone at court: wishing to appear well informed about everything. But other than this very Parisian weakness, I liked the master ball-maker well enough, if only for the fact that he was as round as one of the balls he produced: in his backside, his stomach and his face, with eyes that were a strange mixture of naive and sly.
“The Duc de Guise is very handsome,” I observed as I watched him bound here and there on the tennis court.
“A beauty which nearly cost him his life,” whispered Delay with a delicate smile. “The king nearly had him killed when he discovered his clandestine affair with Princesse Margot.”
In truth, this was common knowledge, even at Mespech, thanks to the letter d’Argence had sent us, but I let him go on, since I was finding among these scraps some useful bits of information.
As we talked, I watched the Duc de Guise at tennis, and found him a vigorous, agile and dexterous player, his face an apt image for turning the heads of the ladies at court, having soft, narrow eyes, fine features and a delicate moustache that ravishingly turned up at the corners.
Unfortunately his beauty far surpassed his talents, which, according to the Brethren, were few: Guise gave a poor account of himself on the papist side in the civil wars, having inherited from his father neither military genius nor political finesse. And yet it was miraculous how his dedication to his party made up for his insufficiencies. There wasn’t a Catholic church, cathedral pulpit, school, sacristy or seminary—or even confessional—which didn’t daily resound with his idolatrous praises, since Guise was seen throughout the kingdom as the only steadfast defender of the Vatican faith, Charles IX being quite suspect on this account, since Coligny had his ear. Guise let it be known that, as a direct descendant of Charlemagne, he had a better right to the throne of France than Charles. Monks and priests went about whispering this with such fervour that ultimately the tall, handsome duc couldn’t appear in the streets of the capital, looking so imposing on his black stallion, without the ignorant populace running up from all sides to kiss his hands, his feet and even his horse’s shoes! What a strange place Paris is—indoctrinated by its priests, it created for itself another king than the king of France!
“You will notice,” said Delay, “that Monsieur de Téligny doesn’t have much of a backhand and that his service is shaky. Do you play, Monsieur de Siorac?”
“Much better than Téligny, a little less well than Guise.”
“And your pretty brother?” asked Delay, leaning over to get a better look at Samson, who, dreamy, lost in thought and bitterly sad, was already imagining me, I suspect, with a sword through my heart.
“Very little.”
“Is he always this quiet?”
“Always.”
“Isn’t that marvellous!” said Delay. “I never have enough hours in the day to disgorge all the words that swell up my cheeks.”
I laughed at this, and he did as well, being a good-natured fellow, though proud and cunning. Turning the discussion away from my brother—so much did I fear that he would unleash some unfortunate remark about religion—I said, “So how does Guise consent to play tennis with the nephew of the man he believes killed his father?”
“The king wishes it so,” replied Delay, “and is preaching reconciliation. Monsieur de Téligny served as an intermediary between Coligny and the king before the present amicable arrangement between the Huguenots and us. And, from that point on, the king has showered benefits on this Téligny, who counts them as money in the bank.”
“Do you think he shouldn’t?” I asked turning to look at him.
“Good gentleman,” answered Delay with a somewhat bitter smile, “at the court, you can’t trust anything you hear. Everything is in constant movement: favour and disfavour. Moreover, whoever is loved by one king will find himself hated by the other.”
“What?” I asked amazed. “But we have only one king!”
“We’ve got four of them,” replied Delay, lowering his voice. “The crowned and sanctified one; the queen mother’s king, the Duc d’Anjou; the king of the Huguenots, Coligny; and then there’s Guise, the king of Paris.”
“As I watch him play tennis,” I said sotto voce, “the king of Paris is doing a lot of favours for the son-in-law of the king of the Huguenots. Look how he smiles and seems almost ashamed to have taken so many points from him.”
“He smiles at him,” said Delay, “but if he didn’t fear the king’s anger, he’d immediately slit his throat like a chicken. And Coligny’s, as well. And those of all the heretics.”
Thank God, Delay had said this so quietly that my brother didn’t hear it. Otherwise we would have been in great danger of his giving us away, and that would have been the end of the confidences that Delay was sharing with me, as well as of his jokes, which I found quite enjoyable, especially given how much this man, who was not of the court, knew about his clients, who were.
A closer look at these tennis players allowed me to see that, indeed, Guise’s smile was as false as Téligny’s was candid. This latter gentleman, who had just arrived from Rouergue, was a fairly agile person with a pleasant and benign face, and visibly proud (in the simplicity of his heart) to be so well received at court and favoured by the king and the lords.
“So,” I asked, “who is the gentleman acting as umpire of the match and who appears to be so impatient for Nançay to arrive for a game of doubles.”
“The Chevalier d’Angoulême. But they call him ‘the bâtard’ since he’s the fruit of fornication between Henri II and an Irishwoman.”
“He’s very dark,” I observed. “His hair, his eyebrows, his eyes and his skin.”
“And his soul,” added Delay. “Look at his eyes, deep-set in their sockets and unnaturally close together, a sign of cruelty of character. In any case, the king loves this dark fellow, and always wants him near him, and entrusts to him his basest assignments.”
“His basest assignments?”
“No one here is ignorant,” Delay whispered in my ear, “that the king ordered him to kill Guise when the duc had the impertinence to bed Margot. If Guise hadn’t got married immediately thereafter, the bâtard would have killed him.”
“Well!” I thought. “What a world has Fortune thrown me into! Guise would slit Téligny’s throat on a sign from the king, and, on a sign from the king, the bâtard would have dispatched Guise. But here they all are, playing tennis, with such courtesy and good grace. ’Sblood! What a royal court we have in France! All you see is fond embraces, smiles and kind words. But he who smiles at you on Monday could dagger you on Tuesday!”
The thought of daggers reminding me of my duel with Quéribus (which, however much I tried, never left my mind the entire time I was talking with Delay), I considered that my future in this treacherous city was very shaky indeed, which saddened me
no little bit given how much I love our earthly life.
“Well,” said Delay, “I can see that the bâtard is not a little impatient that Nançay’s not here. Monsieur, perhaps you’d consent to be the fourth, if these gentlemen are willing.”
I was so astonished at this that I could only agree, and straightaway Delay rose and trotted across the court, buzzing like a hornet around Guise’s, then the bâtard’s and then Téligny’s ears. He came straight back and informed me that it was all arranged, and that I should strip to my shirt, and added, to my great shame, “I don’t want these gentlemen to see you in this doublet.”
After which, and having taken up a very good racquet, Delay introduced me to the bâtard, to Coligny’s nephew and to Guise, partnering me with this last gentleman for the match.
“Well, Monsieur de Siorac,” said the Duc de Guise, graciously, “I’m very happy to meet the son of Captain de Siorac, whom my father never failed to mention when he told us about the siege of Calais: a story I must have heard a hundred times as a boy.”
“Monseigneur,” I said, bowing low, “I also heard the story from my father, who had enormous veneration for the military talents and courage of yours.”
This was, however true our statements were, in reality a kind of courtly balm, for Guise knew very well which religion my father embraced, and I knew that he was the sworn ally of the Pope and the Spanish king, dreaming only of acceding to the throne by means of the blood of the Huguenots: a long-standing plan that he dissimulated beneath the amiable mask of his courtesy. He could accept almost anything patiently—except not being king.
I played only a few minutes with them, enough at least for Guise to pay me some very pretty compliments on my game; he even told me, when Monsieur de Nançay arrived, that he’d happily have me as a tennis partner again should the occasion arise—a promise which seemed sincere enough, tennis being one of his passions.
Nançay didn’t arrive alone. Monsieur de Montesquiou followed him in and came over to me in the grandstand where I was donning my doublet, and said gruffly that the Duc d’Anjou had ordered him to bring me straightaway to see him, along with my brother, news that I heard with prodigious amazement, as did Delay, who, seeing Montesquiou approach, came over to hear what he had to say.
“But Monsieur,” I said, showing him the state of my doublet, “how can I appear before His Highness dressed as I am?”
“I have my orders,” replied Montesquiou, his tanned face barred with two black stripes: his eyebrows and his moustache. “The matter can suffer no delay. Were you to refuse to come,” he continued without a trace of a smile, “I would have to take you to His Highness by means of my guards.”
“What a nuisance for them!” I smiled. “And what an escort for me! Monsieur de Montesquiou, you’ve entirely persuaded me to follow you!”
But to my smile, Monsieur de Montesquiou responded only with a most serious and angry expression, so that, when Samson and I were walking ahead of him in the courtyard of the Louvre, I turned and asked quietly, “Monsieur de Montesquiou, is this a serious matter?”
“I know not,” he answered, his face inscrutable, “but His Highness looked very angry and his orders would admit of no delay.”
Slowing my pace so that he could catch up to me, I looked silently at these two black stripes on his face, which, at this moment, did not look very accommodating. Ultimately, his silence so weighed on me that I said, thinking it was a joke:
“From your expression, Monsieur de Montesquiou, one would think I were being taken to a judge who was going to send me off to the Bastille this very night!”
“I’m not sure,” replied Montesquiou, through his teeth. “Have you quarrelled?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, it’s possible.”
* “Our knowledge, compared to Thine, is but ignorance.”
† “Life is short.”
‡ “A poisoned tooth.”
§ “The clothing doesn’t make the monk!”
¶ “A brief prayer reaches heaven.”
|| “The third one.”
7
MONSIEUR DE MONTESQUIOU led us to the new wing of the Louvre, and into a suite of rooms inaccessible to most of the courtiers. The ceilings of these rooms were superbly decorated with golden panels, on which were painted depictions of an ancient victory containing images of helmets, lances, cutlasses and pikes; the walls were hung with magnificent tapestries, and the parquet floors were covered with sumptuous rugs—all ornaments that I would have enjoyed, I think, had I not been so worried, both about the predicament I found myself in and about the august presence before whom I was to appear. Samson walked quietly beside me, throwing me such piteous looks that my throat knotted up. I was, moreover, horribly ashamed to appear before His Royal Highness looking so ridiculous in my doublet, and would have preferred to have been wearing a simple black velvet costume, like my brother, rather than displaying this repaired clothing to the prince.
At first I couldn’t see the Duc d’Anjou, since he was surrounded by a group of brilliantly clad young courtiers, who, at our entrance, turned round to stare at us with as much curiosity as if we had been strange beasts brought that very morning from the Americas, and spoke quietly among themselves, shaking their heads, their bodies in constant movement, stroking their beards, rolling their hips, their soft hands caressing the ribbons, curls and pins in their hair, and exclaimed every other minute, “It weighs on my conscience!” or “I should have died of shame!”—phrases I’d already heard on the lips of the Baronne des Tourelles, and that they whispered with such suggestiveness you’d have thought these clichés were acquiring some new charm or authority.
I noticed that, despite the stifling heat, all of these gentlemen were wearing capes that were so short that they scarcely reached the waists of their wasp-like figures. On the other hand, some of them wore their capes attached only at the right shoulder, so that they fell lower and fluttered about when they turned on their heels, giving the impression of multi-coloured birds with red tails. I also noticed that almost all of them affected having one sleeve of their doublets unbuttoned with the other buttoned up tightly, so that each sleeve was of a different colour, as were their slashes, and so ample around the shoulders that they could have kept a purse under their armpits. They wore their leggings very tight about their thighs, almost like a woman’s girdle, their stockings a different colour from the leggings, and the left a different colour from the right. Their ruffs, on which their heads were set as if on a plate, were quite wide, the plaits bleached the purest white. On their heads, atop their resplendent coiffures, they wore Italian caps surmounted by a plume that reminded me of the bonnet my mother used to wear.
Their eyebrows were trimmed into thin, delicate arcs, and their faces made up discreetly with white and red powders, and framed on only one side by a pearl or diamond earring. They all had sweetly suspicious looks on their faces, with their delicate hands posed on the hilts of their swords, which, from what I’d heard, these dangerous popinjays all wielded to perfection. All in all, despite the fact that they looked so soft and arrogant, they were a courageous lot, and valiant to the death, as many of them demonstrated during our wars.
My Samson was dumbfounded to see all of these refinements and trinkets on these dandies, the likes of which he’d never encountered, even in the Louvre, where the typical courtier, however decked out, would have looked like a worn-out rooster in the barnyard compared to these parading swans. As for me, horribly ashamed to see all these eyes on me, nearly suffocated by all the perfumes these peacocks sprayed on themselves, and struggling to understand their way of speaking, which was stuttered, mannered and lazy, their words falling almost inarticulately from their mouths, I dared not advance into their midst, but tried nevertheless to maintain my dignity as I confronted them in all their plumage.
“Messieurs, let us pass!” cried Montesquiou, whose tanned face and bushy eyebrows gave him the appearance of a crow among all these canaries, for
whom, moreover, he seemed to have no liking—nor did they for him, given the lack of good grace they displayed in allowing us room to pass, some putting on faces and even holding their noses as if the captain smelt bad, and others putting their hands on their sword hilts as if they were suddenly going to pierce him through. Montesquiou scornfully refused to look at all these antics, but went straight to his prince, to whom he said, with a deep bow: “Your Highness is obeyed: here are the Messieurs de Siorac.”
At these words, a complete silence fell over the gallery, all the pretty lordlings showing an almost devotional respect, ceasing their cacophony as the Duc d’Anjou, with a gesture of his hand, signalled that he was going to speak.
In fact, however, he didn’t say a word, but stood, looking Samson and me over with intense curiosity, and perhaps attempting to gauge the extent of his power over us, for there are two ways of being quiet in this world: that of the subject and that of the prince. Although the Duc d’Anjou was sitting on an unadorned high-backed chair that was so low it was close to the floor, this chair looked like a throne given the majestic way he sat there—wholly different from his brother Charles IX, who, even when he was most angry, seemed childish. Nor could the duc be distinguished from the lordlings that surrounded him by his dress, for all the extravagances I’d noticed in them could be found in him as well (though his dress was clearly the origin and source of theirs), except that today he was dressed all in one colour: a white satin doublet with innumerable pearls and other jewels set in rows over his chest and shoulders. He didn’t seem as handsome as I’d been told: his Valois nose was long and heavy like his father’s and grandfather’s—but his eyes made up for this imperfection, being very Italianate, large and black, and expressing almost simultaneously liveliness, mistrust, suspicion and a kind of gracefulness that had a way of winning you over even before he said a word, so that all he had to do was look at you to seduce you.