Fortunes of France 4: League of Spies, Page 4

  “Monsieur!” scolded Gertrude. “I won’t have you making light of this. Have you no appreciation for the evangelical charity of this angel of God, who’s laboured for five long hours in order to relieve the ailments of this simple servant?”

  And turning to Samson, she added with supreme illogic and with the same choleric tone:

  “Samson, aren’t you ashamed to have locked your door to me for a whole afternoon in order to concoct this horrible potion? Zara, take that flagon and put it on the table.”

  “Oh, but I cannot, Madame! My hands are covered with ointment,” protested Zara—an astonishing response from a chambermaid, to pretend that she had such delicate hands she couldn’t touch anything from dawn to dusk.

  “Good heavens, Zara! Well, at least run over to Samson’s chambers and fetch his collar!” said Gertrude, who, even when angry, tolerated a stunning degree of laxity from her lady-in-waiting, as she insisted on calling her chambermaid.

  Zara obeyed with obvious reluctance, little pleased with the prospect of leaving the warmth of Gertrude’s room to venture into the cold of the rest of the chateau. As for me, seeing the lady very hesitant to approach Samson as long as he was holding the flagon of greenish fluid, I suggested he place it on the table, which he did, seemingly still under the spell of the labour that had consumed the better part of his day.

  “Come here, my pretty sorcerer,” beckoned Gertrude, taking Samson by the wrist and making him sit on a stool before her lit mirror. After which she undertook to clean his stained fingers with spirits of wine.

  I took Quéribus’s arm and we left our beauty to her cleaning, having no doubt she’d need no help at it, especially since Zara reappeared with Samson’s lace collar and was preparing to put it on once she’d buttoned his doublet.

  We descended a little winding staircase, which felt absolutely glacial, as though the wind had found a way to pass right through the stone walls of its construction. But soon we stepped out into the warmth of the great hall, with its enormous fireplaces at each end. The various members of the household were already seated, each of them in their places at the lower end of the table, their hats under their arses, their hands washed and their lips sealed, while Sauveterre and Siorac walked up and down the room, not side by side, but in opposite directions. Each time they met in the middle they’d exchange a few rapid words and then continue, Sauveterre, as was his wont, careful to avoid stepping on the joints of the stone flooring, which forced him every few steps to shorten or lengthen his stride—not an easy task given that he limped from the wound he’d received twenty-seven years before at Ceresole.

  “Zounds!” he complained (this being the only swear word that he permitted himself). “What extravagance! Two fires in the same room!”

  “But isn’t that why two fireplaces were built?” asked my father as he passed him. “Each one warms half the room.”

  “But two fires!” grumbled Sauveterre. “When we might have made do with one!”

  “Yes, we might have,” replied Siorac over his shoulder as he continued, “but these ladies, whose bodices are so exposed, could not have.” That this response was calculated to set his brother off, I’m quite certain.

  “The plague take their ruinous bosoms!” muttered Sauveterre, continuing all the way to the far end of the room, his eyes fixed on the joints of the stones. “Can’t they put some wool over them to save on firewood?”

  “What a pity that would be,” said my father to himself as he reached the end of the hall.

  But Sauveterre’s hearing was too sharp.

  “At this rate,” he said, “our supply of firewood will scarcely last out the year!”

  “Come now, my brother,” objected Siorac, “we’ve got enough wood stacked out there for two winters!”

  “But not such a cold winter as this one will be,” warned my uncle. “Just ask Faujanet!”

  “Faujanet,” said my father, stopping short, his eyebrows raised, and turning to face the lower end of the table, “what do you know about the coming winter?”

  Faujanet, who was of dark complexion and had a limp like Sauveterre’s (which is doubtless why they had such affection for each other), rose from his seat. But before he said a word, he pulled his hat off the seat of his stool and held it in front of him with both hands, signalling that he was speaking to the baron with his hat respectfully doffed.

  “Monsieur, I was out this morning, working on the pathway to les Beunes and I came across a burrow. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘must be a rabbit.’ So I started digging, and dug and dug. But couldn’t reach ’im! ’Twas a marmot! And he’d dug down at least a good half a toise! Proof that winter’s come early this year and is going to be a cold one. The snow’s here to stay for a while.”

  This prediction—which seemed to all of us quite certain, no one doubting the wisdom of the hibernating marmot seeking warmth as deep as possible—led all of our people to put on long faces. Noticing this, my father immediately made a joke of it to ease their worries.

  “Cand avetz fred,” he said in Provençal, “cal tener lo tiol estrech.”‡ Which of course made them all laugh uproariously and, as they did so, look adoringly at their master, grateful that he knew the proverbs that had nourished their childhoods.

  “With your permission, Monsieur,” said Faujanet, whose turn it was to quote a proverb, given that he’d discovered the marmot burrow, “annada de neu, fe de jintilóme, annada d’abonde!”§ Well, this created another wave of laughter from the table, not because there was anything comic in this comforting maxim, but because our cooper had said, speaking in his own name, “fe de jintilóme”, and had said it as he addressed a baron. Nor were they sorry to take Faujanet down a peg or two since they could see he’d spend the winter all puffed up with pride for having made the prediction based on the marmot burrow, especially if it turned out to be true.

  The laughter ceased and the whole table rose to honour her, as the door opened to admit Gertrude du Luc, preceded by Zara and Samson, this last decked out in his lace collar and all buttoned up, his beautiful copper-coloured curls all brushed out, and carrying the two candelabra (which were dissipating with each flicker of their light the finances of the Brethren). Zara even deigned to open the door for him, which evidently her smooth hands could do without injury.

  To tell the truth, our people didn’t have to be forced to be silent at her arrival, since the golden locks of the Norman lady and all her splendid accoutrements recalled to the eldest of them my late mother in all her finery, and some of them—out of earshot of Sauveterre of course—opined that, however great the additional expenses were for meat, firewood and candles, one had to admit that the chateau seemed much gayer since the “ladies” had come to stay. Barberine, papist that she remained under her Huguenot crust, added that Dame Gertrude was “as beautiful and good as the Blessed Virgin”, and that it was a pity that the “Monsieur” (meaning François) couldn’t just go and marry her equal in Sarlat since Mespech could no more do without a baronne than a blind man without his cane.

  Since the only light in the great hall had been from the fireplaces, the arrival of Samson bearing the two “wasteful” candelabra suddenly illuminated Quéribus and me, who’d kept to the shadows to avoid disturbing the oscillating and disputatious stroll of the Brethren. Seeing us now, my father smiled graciously at us from across the room and, after placing a mustachioed kiss on the hands of the two ladies, hastened over to us and gave each of us a warm embrace. He was fond of Quéribus, despite the Parisian’s mannered and bejewelled affectations, and was happy to accept the invitation to the soirée on the 10th on behalf of both Brethren. Meanwhile, Sauveterre was making a stiff and deep bow to the ladies from far across the room, as though he felt there to be some peril to his soul were he to approach these ornately painted vessels of iniquity. We took our places at table, and, as we were sitting down, Samson suddenly slapped his forehead, murmuring “I’m crazy!” and sent Miroul off to retrieve the greenish flagon he’d left in Gertrude’
s room—no doubt forgotten given the attentions he’d received from Zara and her mistress.

  My valet was back in the blink of an eye, though he’d had no candle to light his way through the dark hallways, his variegated eyes able to see as well at night as during the day, like those of a cat, which he resembled as well in his remarkable agility. Neither of these traits would have described la Maligou, who, when she emerged from the kitchen with the soup tureen, walked with tiny steps and trembled at each like a bowlful of jelly, so swollen was the excess of flesh on her bones. As soon as she placed the soup on the table, Samson offered her the greenish concoction, explaining the why and how of its use. La Maligou listened with great reverence, and bestowed many benedictions on Samson for his good medicine, which, however, ended up having no curative effect. Her uncontrollable stomach troubles continued for days afterwards, getting worse and worse, and only seemed to improve when she swallowed a concoction of walnut leaves and blackberry brambles that Barberine was accustomed to giving her cows when they suffered from the same malady. So great was the respect our people had for Samson’s vials and flagons, however, that none of them made light of his failure. Barberine later explained that his remedy was too beautiful and too complex to cure a simple servant.

  As my father was seated at the head of the table, he had Sauveterre on his right and Dame Gertrude du Luc on his left.

  “My brother,” ventured Siorac in French, “did you hear that Puymartin has invited us to a grand soirée at his chateau on the tenth?”

  “Humph!” growled Sauveterre, for whom “soirée” meant dancing, and dancing meant perdition, but who also knew that he could not refuse to appear, since Puymartin would be closely allied with us, should the marriage of François and Diane be celebrated.

  “Did you hear what I said, François?” asked Siorac with a knowing air.

  “I heard, Father,” replied my elder brother, opening his mouth to speak for the first and last time during the entire meal. In particular, he refused to speak to—or even look at—Dame du Luc, who, in his estimation, was not of noble enough birth to merit his attention, and even less Zara, who possessed no claim to nobility whatsoever. My brother’s eventual claim to the two baronies he would inherit apparently gave him the right to swagger like a peacock. But whom would he have talked to? Was I not his younger brother and Samson a bastard? The one a lowly doctor, the other an apothecary! Of course, there was Quéribus, but this gentleman had eyes and ears only for the Brethren and the ladies. The Parisian was so infatuated with his own nobility it didn’t occur to him to worry about their rank—it was enough that they were present, their sparkle embellishing his world.

  “My brother,” Siorac whispered in Provençal, since Dame Gertrude was momentarily in deep conversation with Quéribus, “you seem quite upset and out of sorts about this matter of the soirée.”

  “Well, not just about that,” grumbled Sauveterre, casting a disapproving eye on the two candelabra and the two fires. “I won’t hide from you, my brother, that I don’t like the way things are going here. Everywhere I look I see needless expense and dissipation. Non ego mendosos ausim defendere mores.¶

  “In that case,” replied my father, quoting Romans 12:15 in Provençal, “rejoice with those who rejoice! Our two papists will be leaving on the fifteenth with our friend here.”

  At which, Quéribus, who spoke some Provençal (since his own estate was near Carcassonne), threw a look at my father, another at me, smiled, and immediately continued his conversation with Gertrude.

  “I find this news infinitely comforting!” sighed Sauveterre. “Nulla fere causa est in qua non femina litem moverit.|| So, just between you and me, the end is finally in sight for this never-ending month. You know that our quarrel has never really been so much about the cost of candles and wood, but rather about the ‘odor di femina’** that has impregnated our walls.”

  “What?” exclaimed my father. “You mean you couldn’t detect it before, with Catherine and her chambermaids here?”

  “Yes, of course,” conceded Sauveterre, “but she never managed to subjugate you completely.”

  “Well!” replied Siorac with some gravity. “You’ve hit on a point of great consequence, and one that has always amazed me: it may be possible not to love women, but it’s not possible to love them without loving them excessively!” These words so perfectly captured Jean de Siorac’s nature (and mine) that to this day I still remember them, along with my father’s face when he pronounced them and Sauveterre’s as he took them in, for he would have preferred a response in which nature had not won out over virtue. On the other hand, at that moment he was so happy, in his jealous affection, to have learnt of the imminent flight of our pretty birds, that he didn’t press the argument with Siorac. Alas, poor Sauveterre was very nearly disappointed in this, as you shall soon learn.

  My little sister Catherine, whose odor di femina, to use my uncle’s phrase, didn’t seem to bother her uncle’s nostrils, wasn’t so little as I liked to imagine, but had become a woman from head to toe, svelte yet well rounded, her eyes like asters, her face ruddy with health and devoid of any interest in make-up or trinkets—other than the gold necklace I’d given her to compensate her for the ring I’d offered to Little Sissy. She overheard the Brethren’s exchange with that quiet, shy demeanour that we teach our girls from their infancy. But since I knew her well, I was all too aware that she was not the least bit sorry to see our ladies depart—though she liked to babble with them in their room, try on their finery and play with the colours that they used in their make-up—because she was convinced that her father, whom she adored, gave them the attention that should have been bestowed on her. Indeed, ever since my mother’s death, Catherine saw herself as mistress of Mespech, at least until she married, though this event did not seem imminent. Having reviewed with Barberine all the possible matches for her in the Sarlat region, she’d not discovered a single one worth sinking her claws into.

  For she possessed a set of sharp claws, and a pretty good mouth as well, treating her brothers tersely and haughtily, using the formal vous with us, scolding us, teasing us, tolerating neither kisses nor hugs, calling us stiffly “Monsieur my brother”, and at the least provocation turning on us a cold shoulder with an irritated swish of her skirts. When I say “her brothers” I do not mean François, whom she never graced with the slightest look, so much did she despise him, but rather Samson and me, whom she loved, though you’d have never guessed it, with a great and jealous love—yet another reason for demonstrating little affection for Gertrude and even less for my Little Sissy, whom she’d grown up with, being a mere three days older than her maid.

  When dinner was over, and while Alazaïs, Miroul and Florine were arranging our chairs in front of the fire—the library being too cold on this frigid, snowy night to permit us to withdraw there with the ladies—Catherine pulled me aside at the other end of the table, put her arm in mine and said:

  “My brother, I’ve heard from Samson that after he leaves Mespech with Gertrude du Luc, your thought is to set yourself up as a doctor in Bordeaux.”

  “That is, indeed, my plan,” I confirmed, somewhat annoyed that Samson had informed her of our intentions, since Catherine tended to twist what she’d heard according to her fancy.

  “How does it happen, then,” she demanded, withdrawing her arm from mine, shaking her blonde curls in annoyance and, doubtless, feigning an anger that she didn’t actually feel, “that Samson knew of this before I did?”

  “My sister,” I replied testily, annoyed that she was already accusing me of sins I hadn’t committed, “have we ever signed a contract that stipulates we’ll tell each other everything?”

  “Never! And yet brotherly love should have dictated that you do so,” she replied with a little pout.

  My stonily silent reaction to this taught her that this approach wasn’t going to work, so instead she took the road of reconciliation, extending her hand and a smile, and offering her cheek, saying:

 
; “’Tis of no consequence, Pierre, I pardon you. Give me a kiss.”

  Which I did, overcoming my own anger and embracing her sweetly, but, like a cat, prepared to retreat at a moment’s notice, whiskers bristling and inquisitive, put on guard as I was by her scolding of me, and wary of the sharp claws concealed within her velvet paws. It also worried me that I could see Little Sissy on my left, who seemed to be hanging about, all ears, apparently engaged, though she was normally so lazy, in vigorously polishing the long table behind us.

  “Pierre,” she continued after returning my kiss, “I know that you’re going to take up your medical practice in Bordeaux, and, until you marry Angelina, you’ll have no one to manage your household and your servants, Florine and Miroul. Why don’t you take me with you? I think I could manage things quite well!”

  Even if I’d known how to answer this question (which frankly astounded me), I wouldn’t have had time to get a word in, for suddenly Little Sissy had rushed between us, her black Gypsy eyes aflame with fury.

  “Madame,” she proclaimed, her hands jauntily set on her hips, “if there’s a woman in this house whom Pierre should take with him to Bordeaux, it’s assuredly me! I’m his wench and I can give him things a sister could never pretend to!”

  “What?” cried Catherine, startled and wholly beside herself. “You little bird! How dare you interrupt this conversation? And presume to confront me! Get yourself to the kitchen, slattern! Be gone, you toad! You viper! You slinking lizard!”

  “Madame,” Little Sissy replied, giving her a sarcastic bow, “a serpent I may be, but I’ve got a handsome gentleman in my bed, and have conceived his child!”

  “Scorpion!” screamed my sister. “Do you think your ugly sins give you any advantage over me?” And so saying, she stepped up to Little Sissy and viciously slapped her twice.

  “Well, Madame! Now you’re beating a pregnant woman! That’s treachery!” screamed Little Sissy, who would have returned her blows if I hadn’t stepped between them and held her arm, offering Catherine my back to block further assault, something she seemed eager to commit, trying to push me out of the way.