Heretic Dawn

  We made quick work of that miracle, being so dry after our long nocturnal wanderings. Meanwhile, Giacomi suddenly noticed that the fellow who’d escaped was coming back with about forty of his fellows, all carrying picks and spikes, and all looking very determined to exact justice from us for the murder of their friends. We escaped up a small spiral staircase, Fröhlich going first, which was lucky for us because the tower was dark and, in his haste, he banged his head on the trapdoor at the top, which burst open without hurting him in the least, so hard-headed are these Swiss from Berne. Using his mace, he broke through the door and we all burst onto the roof, while, beneath us, the rascals were screaming “To the cause!” loud enough to wake the dead. Meanwhile we traversed the half-burnt roof at great risk of breaking our necks or being fired at from below, and eventually reached a dormer window, which Fröhlich smashed with his mace and, risking life and limb, leapt through… landing in a loft piled high with sweet-smelling hay! We decided to hide out there for the rest of the day and busily hollowed out a nest for ourselves in the thickest part of the hay, where we stretched out our tired legs on this soft (but prickly) bed, and were almost asleep when suddenly we felt our bed giving way beneath us. Fröhlich gave a shout of surprise and disappeared. We hardly had time to gather our wits before we, too, slipped through the funnel he’d created, landing on top of him and the hay he’d dragged with him in the manger of a mule that was stabled there. She was so surprised to see us that she lost both her bray and her appetite, and backed to the rear of her stall—her soft eyes a thousand times more benevolent than those of any man we’d seen since the bells of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois had begun tolling those many hours ago.

  Would you believe it? We began laughing! It would seem that joy is so deeply rooted in us and is so connected to our will to live that it cannot help but burst out of us at the slightest provocation, no matter how horrible the situation we believe we’re in.

  “Well,” I suggested, “let’s use this old ladder to climb back up into the loft.”

  “My brother,” said Giacomi, who was delicately removing hay from his hair, “I think we’d be better off here in the stable, hidden behind these barrels, which, being empty, won’t attract those flies, any more than a flagon of vinegar would.”

  “But why here rather than up there?”

  “Well, Pierre, if you were those rascals from the Écorcherie, where would you look for fugitives? In the hay, surely? This hiding place is better simply because it’s less obvious.”

  “’Sblood, you’re right,” I conceded, and, gathering up the hay that had fallen, we stuffed it behind the barrels to make a bed that would cushion us against the stone floor. Fröhlich was no help to us now, since he was whispering sweet words in the mule’s ears in his patois, while caressing them with his huge hands, no doubt because she reminded him of the mountains in Switzerland. We called him over when we’d finished his bed and he stretched out to his full length—which was considerable, not to mention his girth—with his mace by his side, and, looking very much like Hercules, he fell asleep in the blink of an eye, as peaceful as if he’d lain down on some grassy hillside in Berne.

  Meanwhile, we undertook to place some barrels in front of a little door that opened into this part of the stable, so as not to be taken by surprise from the rear, the larger door to the stable being off to our right, beyond the manger where the mule had gone back to feeding. We agreed that each one of us would keep watch in turn, me first, then Miroul, Giacomi and finally the Swiss, our weapons unsheathed and tucked in the crooks of our arms like tender wenches.

  Although I was comfortably stretched out and exhausted, I had no inclination to fall asleep, my mind rattled by all the horror I’d witnessed since Cossain had knocked on Coligny’s door and killed the poor La Bonne. I tried not to think about it so as not to suffer, and, fleeing the present, went back to thinking about all that had happened since I’d arrived in Paris, wondering about the rhyme or reason of all the joys and sorrows I’d experienced and if it would soon be my turn to be thrown into the Seine, naked and drowning—a thought that brought me back to my present predicament, from which I so desperately wanted to escape.

  At least I could take some comfort from the idea that my beloved Samson was safe and sound in Montfort. But even this idea wasn’t without its thorns, for I then began to fear that he might jeopardize his own safety if he learnt of the massacre in Paris, knowing that I was here. This fear made me angry at Dame Gertrude, since she’d gone off to Saint-Cloud to flirt with Quéribus, rather than returning to Montfort to be with my brother, where she could prevent him from any excesses to which his zeal exposed him.

  I don’t know how long I was afflicted with these worries about Samson, which simply wouldn’t leave me but kept coming back to haunt me. In any case, such fears kept me feverishly awake, as did the image of the little child whom the bearded rogue had thrown into my arms after stabbing. But as these sad thoughts turned round and round like a top, the sun having now risen, as I could see through a crack in the stable walls, I heard some footsteps and some voices in the courtyard, and then someone rattled the little door that we’d barricaded. I woke my companions up, one by one, Fröhlich being the hardest to stir since he was so sound asleep, and, swords in hand, and all ready to spring, we gathered behind the barrels, our hearts beating madly.

  Peeking out between two of the barrels, I saw the door on the side of the mangers open and admit forty knaves armed with pikes, spears and firearms, who found the presence of the mule very comical. Two of them untied her and led her away to sell her, they said, and then stand a round of drinks for all to celebrate this bargain at the Golden Horse tavern. However, the rascal who appeared to be the leader of these thugs—a tall braggart who wore a butcher’s knife in his belt—told them that before heading to the tavern he wanted to search through the hay barn for the “Huguenot dogs” who’d killed his brothers; and, climbing up the ladder, the gang proceeded to thrust their swords into various parts of the hay loft, swearing by God and Mary that they’d have their “justice” with the heretics, severely disappointed that none of these thrusts emerged bloody from the hay.

  I thought with a shudder, as they came down the ladder, that these rogues wouldn’t be content until they searched for us among the barrels and that, when they did, we’d be done for, since some of them had pistols and arquebuses. My eyes met Giacomi’s and we both understood that the next sixty seconds would decide whether or not we’d die and be thrown unceremoniously in the river. At that moment I discovered how ashamed I felt to be, at the hour of my demise, so sweaty, filthy and covered with blood, and so heartsick; I clenched my fingers in fury around the hilt of my sword, telling myself that if I had to die, I wouldn’t go without taking with me a goodly number of these rogues. They were now coming down the ladder, the fat butcher ahead of the rest, who I swore would be the first to die by my sword, so vile was his demeanour. My heart nearly burst from my chest as I watched one of the rascals, thin as a fish bone, approach our barrels.

  “What the Devil are you doing?” growled the butcher.

  “Just takin’ a look, Cap’n,” said the fellow.

  “’Struth!” spat the butcher with a sneer. “Can’t you see? Those barrels are as empty as the head of an idiot!”

  At which, of course, his entire band burst out laughing like a swarm of flies.

  “Didn’t mean no disrespect, Cap’n,” he apologized, as he followed the butcher out of the stables, the butt of the others’ humour, who all jostled each other in their haste to get to the Golden Horse tavern to drink up the profits from the mule.

  Thank Heaven! We all gave a sigh of relief that would knock a windmill’s wings off their axle! After which we just sat there in silence, looking at each other, astonished still to be alive.

  The rest of the day we passed in fitful sleep (all except Fröhlich, who snored like a bellows in a forge), our eyes more open than closed, on the alert for any sound, like rabbits in a bush, our thirst s
o violent we thought our tongues were going to stick to the roofs of our mouths. Worst of all was the gnawing hunger, which was so tormenting that we would have accepted a crust of bread from a leper or a thief. All I remember is that, towards the end of the day, my head nodding off, I had a dream in which the child who had died in my arms suddenly became little Henriot, and Alizon was running after me with a huge knife, because she believed it was I who had killed him.

  At nightfall on Sunday, luckily not as luminous as the preceding one, we resolved to leave our hiding place like owls and accept the risks of trying to cross the bridges.

  We followed the rue de la Grande Joaillerie down to the Pont au Change, but, once there, decided not to cross all four together, so I sent Miroul to reconnoitre, to establish how well the bridge was guarded. Which he did, disappearing so completely into the shadows of the cantilevers of the bridge that I lost sight of him after a few yards and was completely surprised when he suddenly reappeared with the news that the bourgeois militiamen, who were supposed to be guarding the chains, had gone down to the riverbank to drag to shore any corpses they thought they could pillage.

  So it was that we crossed the bridge without striking a blow or meeting a single soul, except for a foul-smelling, hideously thin and twisted fellow in rags, who was lurking in the shadows of the ravaged houses, a huge sack on his back, which he dropped when he saw us, falling on his knees and begging us to spare his life. He said that he was only pilfering the remains of what hadn’t already been pillaged, and that there was really nothing left to take, since the workers of the Écorcherie had got there first, and, after them, the nightwatchmen.

  “Friend,” I said to this poor fellow, who was so wretched that I couldn’t help feeling pity for him, “we want neither your sack nor your life. But, by my faith, tell us why there are so many sacked houses on the Pont au Change. I thought I’d heard that there weren’t many heretics here.”

  “Well, now,” said the fellow, “of heretics there may be none, but jewellers, now, that’s another story! Lots of ’em, and well heeled too, reason enough to baptize ’em, kill ’em and toss ’em out the windows into the Seine! The pillaging was very lucrative!”

  “What about the night watch?”

  “Oh, them!” laughed the fellow. “They don’t have the heart to fight to maintain order since they enjoy pillaging as much as the next man!”

  We continued on our way, since Miroul was pulling on my sleeve, worried to see me delaying, as was my wont, even in dangerous situations, to satisfy my curiosity.

  At the end of the Pont au Change, the shortest route to reach the Pont Saint-Michel was along the rue de la Barillerie, but as we headed that way we saw, some distance ahead of us, a group of torches, and could hear the clicking and clashing of swordplay, a sure sign there was a large detachment of the king’s guards in our path. So we quickly turned left down the rue de la Vieille Pelleterie, which is the darkest, most foul-smelling sewer of any street in Paris, and from there into a labyrinth of streets and alleyways, and some dead ends that forced us to retrace our steps in this night that was so dark you wouldn’t have been able to see a white cat. We had a difficult time of it, wading through the offal and excrement, tripping over the occasional corpse that had been left there after the massacre by assassins too lazy to drag it to the river. We lost a lot of time wandering around this maze like rats in a cage, and when we finally emerged we were so exhausted, hungry and thirsty that all we could do, despite the urgency of our situation, was fall onto a stone bench outside a very run-down dwelling and remain sitting there silent and haggard, trying to catch our breath.

  The sound of firearms had greatly diminished since the night before, the papists having killed off so many of our side on the first night, and most of the rest having fled or gone into hiding, but this street where we’d stopped (which I learnt later was the rue de la Licorne) seemed dead, all of the houses locked and boarded up. But after a few minutes we were surprised to see an unusually bright torch coming towards us along this street, although we were not alarmed since we heard no more than a single pair of footsteps on the paving stones, which, here, were clear of filth. We were somewhat surprised, however, to hear the sound of three steps rather than two, and, as the person drew nearer, we saw that the fellow was limping along on a wooden leg and using a halberd as a cane. He appeared to be quite old, but was still vigorous, his face tanned and scarred, and he was sporting a hat with more feathers than a cock’s tail. Holding his torch out ahead of him, he stopped about a yard from us, looking at us with surprise but without a trace of fear, though we were all armed, and he was old and alone.

  “On your feet, my children!” he cried in an abrupt and yet cordial voice. “You’d best be on your way! This is a bad place to be stopping!”

  And, raising his torch even farther, he showed us, hanging from the door of the lodging behind us, a black crêpe ribbon and a small basket, both of which indicated that within, sequestered with his family and prohibited from leaving, was a victim of the plague, who was hoping for some charitable nourishment to be left in the basket. These signs struck my companions with terror and they leapt up as if the flames of hell had suddenly scorched their backsides.

  I, however, rose slowly from the bench and said as calmly as I could:

  “Don’t be afraid, my friends. The plague can only be spread by contact with those already infected, or their clothes. It isn’t carried through the air as some have claimed.”

  At these words, which revealed my medical training, the fellow raised his torch again and looked at me, and when I returned his look, I realized that I knew him, but didn’t say a word, since his expression begged for my discretion.

  “In any case,” he said, “this is a pretty shabby resting place for honest men who look like they’re exhausted.”

  “Ach!” cried Fröhlich. “It’s not so much the fatigue—it’s the hunger that’s eating at us!”

  “My good friends, if you’re all suffering from the same complaint as this fellow, who reminds me of myself when I was younger, I’d like to invite you to come to my humble lodgings to enjoy a meal with me. It won’t be a banquet since my wife’s not there and I’m not very competent in the kitchen when she’s not around.”

  The four of us were all too happy to follow him with a lively step and our mouths watering, and were not ashamed, once we reached his poor but respectable lodgings, to sit down at his table and take a crust of bread, a few slices of ham and a goblet of claret, all trying hard not to wolf down our food, to make it last as long as possible. While we ate, our good host watched us with beneficence, leaning his halberd against the wall and removing his feathered hat, revealing a head as bald as a tennis ball and furrowed by a long white scar.

  “My friends,” he announced, “the king has proclaimed with great pomp a ban that prohibits the inhabitants of his good city of Paris from hiding, feeding or giving any kind of assistance to the fleeing heretics, on pain of death. That’s why I was so happy to see your white armbands, which tell me you’re good Christians—like myself—without which I would have found it impossible to comfort you, not wishing to risk my neck in such a dangerous act of charity. As for me, as a veteran of the king’s guards”—at which words Fröhlich suddenly pricked up his ears—“I have no desire to stick a white ribbon on my arm and go running around killing unarmed people in their beds, doubting there’s much glory in such sport, and, frankly, lacking sufficient religious zeal or appetite for others’ possessions, since the little that I have is quite enough for me.”

  “Monsieur,” I replied (avoiding referring to him as “scorekeeper”, since I could see he didn’t wish to reveal that he knew who I was so that he could claim ignorance of my religion if he was accused of disobeying the royal ban), “you’re a good man and I admire your beneficence, which I find all too rare in these troubled times. As for me and my men, we’re not very happy wearing these brassards.”

  “I suspected as much,” he said with a smile and looki
ng me in the eye. “Didn’t I hear you say,” he continued in his clever and jocular way, “that you were hoping to return to your native Périgord?”

  To this I nodded “yes”, matching his smile and looking him in the eye in return, never having said any such thing.

  “So you know the Caumonts?” said the scorekeeper.

  “They’re my cousins and allies.”

  “Well, Monsieur,” he replied, now quite serious, “you’ll be very happy to hear from me, good Catholic that you are, that Jacques Nompar de La Force is safe.”

  “What about his father and older brother?” I cried.

  “Alas!” he said, and, sitting down on a stool, his eyes riveted to the ground in sorrow, he added, “Yesterday afternoon in the rue des Petits Champs, Monsieur de La Force and his two sons, all three on the run, were stabbed by good Christians. But it happened that the younger son wasn’t actually wounded, but had the marvellous presence of mind to scream ‘I’m killed!’ and to fall between his father and brother, who bathed him in their blood. After which, their assassins stripped them of all their possessions, and, with clear consciences, departed. In the evening, one of my friends happened to be passing by, and, coveting the stockings that were still on the boy, took them off him. But while he was thus engaged, he took pity on this handsome youth and said quietly, ‘Alas! What a pity! So young! What could this child have done to merit such a death?’ Whereupon the lad raised his head and whispered, ‘Good man, I’m not dead yet! Can you help me?’ ‘Yes,’ said my friend. ‘Be patient. Don’t move. I’ll come back tonight.’ So he returned with a ragged old coat in which he wrapped the boy, and was taking him to the arsenal, to give him to Biron, the captain of the artillery, who is the boy’s relative, when he met some of the assassins, who, seeing the boy all wrapped like that, asked: ‘Who’s this? Why’s he all bloody?’ So my friend replied: ‘He’s my nephew. He got drunk. Look how he ended up. Isn’t it awful? I’m taking him home for a whipping!’ So they let him pass, and Biron welcomed his cousin and was able to guarantee his safety behind all his walls and cannon.”