Heretic Dawn (22 page)

“And here are your hot pies. Monseigneur, be careful that no one steals your horse while you’re visiting Paris!”

“My valet will guard it for me!”

“He looks pretty skinny to me.”

“I’ll be less so,” said Miroul, “when I’ve eaten your pies! By the belly of St Anthony, I’m drooling all over my doublet!”

I gave him two of the pies and began devouring two of the others, which had delicious thick crusts and whose succulent contents did very well at calming my vehement hunger.

“Well!” laughed the pieman. “Don’t you have sharp teeth! Eat up! Eat up! You can only get pies like this in Paris and in Paris mine are the best! My good gentleman, I wish you good day with all my heart, and may the Blessed Virgin watch over you—unless, being from the south, you’re a heretic.”

“No more than you, good pieman!” I said as clearly as my full mouth would allow.

And off he went down the grand’rue Saint-Denis.

“No doubt,” I said, trying not to devour too quickly but to taste all the hot unctuousness of the crust and innards of my pie, “no doubt I’m only one of thousands of hungry people served by this pieman,
but Miroul, did you hear that scoundrel? Being from the south, we’re immediately suspected of heresy and just as quickly scorned. ’Sblood! He’s the heretic!”

“Monsieur,” spluttered Miroul through his mouthfuls of pie, “the stronger and more numerous decide who’s the heretic. Us in Nîmes, the papists in Paris.”

“You speak with golden tongue, Miroul!” I joked. “I’ll have you promoted to ‘doctor of good sense’. Hail that buxom girl peddling milk I see over there. Call her! I’ve got no voice left!”

“Dairy maid!” yelled Miroul though a mouthful of pie. “Over here, I beg you!”

At which the blonde girl turned round and headed our way carrying her two pots, each hanging from a kind of yoke she bore, which forced her to stand very straight, a posture that was much to her advantage! She danced towards us, despite the shouldered dairy, with a light step, chanting in her warbling voice:

And, on a higher note, she would repeat “Give ’em a pot!” her tremulous voice emphasizing the o in pot. The little chant wasn’t very sophisticated, the poet finding only “nurses” to rhyme with “nurses”, but I was enchanted both by the voice and by the maid.

“My friend,” I called, “even though I’m no longer in swaddling clothes, will you give me some of your milk?”

“Good gentleman, I cannot,” she replied, with a saucy eye, “I have pots but no goblets since I sell direct to people’s lodgings and not to passers-by.”

“Oh, good dairy maid, if only you were a young mother, I know where I’d get my milk!”

She laughed, pretending to be shocked, but couldn’t help looking at her bosom with evident pride.

“Well, Monsieur,” she answered, “clearly they’ll take it hot or cold in the provinces where you come from, but here we behave like civilized folk!”

“I’d mind my manners better,” I replied, “if I weren’t so thirsty. But who wouldn’t pardon an old drunk who drinks directly from his flask?”

Just then, someone hailed her from one of the nearby houses and off she went with her dancing step, balancing her shop on her shoulders, but she threw me a look that told me to wait and that she’d come back. I couldn’t help admiring her beauty as she went, warbling her street cry in such pure and sweet tones: “Quick! Give ’em a pot, you nurses!”

“Monsieur,” Miroul asked, “what did she mean by ‘They’ll take it hot or cold’?”

“That they don’t fear anything or anyone, I suppose. These Parisians have their own jargon, just as we do.”

“But it’s very nice to listen to, coming from her! Monsieur, shall I ask her to meet us somewhere?”

“Wait a bit. You haven’t seen anything yet, Miroul.
Quod coelom stellas, tot habet tua Roma puellas
.”
¶¶

Of course I translated this Latin verse for him, whose meaning and words pleased him enormously.

Meanwhile, our blonde milkmaid danced back to us, holding in her right hand a goblet she’d borrowed from one of her regulars, for which I offered my profuse thanks and compliments. I drank two servings, and Miroul as well, all of which cost only one denier. I gave her two, and with a smile she said, “My gentlemen, if you want to find me again, I’ll be
in this street every day at the same time.” And, saying this, she was off again, chanting in her clear voice, “Quick! Give ’em a pot, you nurses!”

Ah, reader, I never saw this pretty country lass again, who so lightly danced along the muddy streets of Paris selling her milk for a few sols—a small profit for so long a trek from her village to our Babylon—but in my memory I can see her just as clearly and with the same pleasure as on that day: her bright eyes, her blonde curls, her pretty bosom and, more than anything, that marvellously delectable smile by which she seemed to open both body and soul to the unquenchable joy of being alive among the living. Indeed, I cannot think of Paris, which was to fix indelibly in my memory of those days of late August such gruesome impressions, without recalling that sweet milkmaid with her nimble step and her sunny smile.

Monsieur de Nançay lived in the rue des Sablons on the Île de la Cité, and though it was still too early to visit him, I asked directions from a Guillaume or a Gautier whom we happened to pass, to be sure to arrive there quickly after visiting Notre-Dame. This fellow, I deemed from his dress and his bumptious and stupid expression, must be a shop assistant, and he answered my request for directions with a yawn, and, though I was on horseback and he on foot, looked me up and down and said indignantly, “What, Monsieur! You don’t know the rue des Sablons?”

“Would I be asking you if I did?”

“But, Monsieur, everyone knows where the rue des Sablons is!”

“Perhaps, but I’ve just arrived from Périgord.”

“Périgord,” he said even more haughtily. “Never heard of such a country.”

“That’s because it’s not a country but a province of our kingdom.”

“A province, Monsieur?” cried this brazen-faced Gautier, with utter disdain. “You live in the provinces? Oh, heaven! How does one live in the provinces?”

“Better than in Paris.”

“But, Monsieur! That’s not possible! Only an ass would be content to live in the country!”

“Monsieur,” whispered Miroul in
langue d’oc
, “should I give this rascal a good kick?”

“What’s that?” cried this Guillaume. “What’s that gobbledygook you’re babbling? What did he say?”

“He said,” I replied archly, “that he’s going to give you a good kick in the arse for your impertinence.”

“Oh, Monsieur, no offence was intended!” the fellow cried, quite crestfallen. And he quickly added, “At the Grand Châtelet, turn to the left, and take the Port-au-Foin. Then cross the river on the Pont Notre-Dame and go straight on. The rue des Sablons will be on your left. You can’t miss it. The Hôtel-Dieu is there, and Notre-Dame.”

“Thank you, good peasant,” I replied.

“What!” he cried, as though wounded to the quick. “Why do you call me a peasant?”

“Because,” I answered, “you’ve never left your village and you know nothing of what’s outside it.”

Hearing this, and doubtless believing me to be some madman fallen from the moon, the fellow hurried off, casting terrified looks behind him. With a laugh, Miroul and I turned our horses in the direction he’d indicated and headed towards the Pont Notre-Dame.

When I’d got to know Paris better, I realized a strange and absurd thing about this city that is traversed by a wide river. The right bank was lined with a quay that runs uninterrupted from the Louvre to the Célestins convent. The left bank had no quay except at the Tour de Nesle and at the Pont Saint-Michel, and the latter was only a dozen or so years old and replaced a plantation of willow trees which ran right down to the water. Everywhere else the banks were earthworks that sloped down to the river, which meant that at high tide the river
occasionally burst its banks so far that, in 1571 for example—according to what I’ve been told—you had to take a boat to cross the place Maubert.

As for the quay on the right bank along which we were riding, it was not much to behold. It was part masonry, part wood, but both parts looked to have been hastily and grossly thrown together, hardly worthy of the heavy traffic of hay, straw and wood that it supported. On the other hand, the Pont Notre-Dame, onto which we mounted, left me open-mouthed in admiration. It was so beautiful and so wide that three wagons could cross together, and it was lined, like the Pont Saint-Michel, with houses of matching heights, constructed of brick and stone, lined up evenly, and each having a number from one to sixty-eight, a novelty that should be extended throughout Paris since it’s so difficult, even when you know the name of the street, to find a friend’s particular lodging—especially at night, when everyone has withdrawn behind locked doors and is unwilling to open up or even to give directions. It’s even worse for the delivery of letters, for addresses can look like the following:

Isn’t it an incredible bore (and one that is a source of infinite indiscretions) to be obliged in broad daylight to ask a man’s neighbours where his dwelling might be, thereby exposing oneself to the unbridled gossip of the Parisians?—as I was to experience that morning in the rue des Sablons, where, having dismounted, I knocked on the door of a beautiful mansion to ask where Monsieur de Nançay might be found.

A chambermaid opened the door, and, having heard my request, went straightaway to find a governess, who, having heard my query, disappeared in search of the daughter of the house, who, rather than answering any more than the first two, looked askance at me and said, “Monsieur, what strange French is this you’re speaking? And where did you acquire this bizarre doublet you’re wearing, which is so far from being in fashion here?”

“Madame, I am from Périgord, and my doublet, which, I regret, is not to your liking, was made in Montpellier by Monsieur de Joyeuse’s tailor. Might I enquire, Madame, where I might find Monsieur de Nançay?”

“Montpellier?” she replied, opening her beautiful eyes wide in surprise. “Where is this mountain, then?”

“It’s a city, Madame, near the Mediterranean.”

And whether she’d heard of the Mediterranean to this day I remain in doubt, for, making a profound reverence (which was sure to please), she told me that before she could answer my question, she must ask her mother, who appeared soon after on the threshold, all decked out in a pale-blue morning dress, which was constructed to display, as best it could, her more than ample proportions. Her face was overly made up and her hair too blonde to be honest.

“Madame,” I said, bowing almost as low as the cobblestones, “I am your humble and obedient servant. May I ask you—”

“Monsieur,” she cooed importantly, inspecting me from head to toe, and appearing satisfied with her inquisition, “if, despite your strange accent, which tells me you’re from the provinces, you are, as I believe, a gentleman, I’d like to know who you are.”

“Madame,” I said, secretly grinding my teeth, but outwardly maintaining my most suave and beneficent manners, “my name is Pierre de Siorac, and I’m the second son of the Baron de Mespech in Périgord.”

“Good,” she breathed in relief, “you’re not just any Guillaume or Gautier. But, Monsieur, she said with extraordinary eagerness, what business have you with Monsieur de Nançay?”

“Madame,” I replied, “with all the respect in the world, should I not reveal my affairs to Monsieur de Nançay himself?”

“Nay, Monsieur,” she assured me without the least sign of annoyance, “I am one of Monsieur de Nançay’s intimates, and I would be remiss if I allowed an intruder into our house.”

“I am no intruder, Madame,” I replied, feeling somewhat prickly. “My father knows Monsieur de Nançay. They fought together at Calais under the command of the Duc de Guise.”

“The Duc de Guise!” she cried, overcome with emotion, her breasts heaving. “Your father served with the Duc de Guise! Ah, Monsieur! He is my hero! The greatest, the handsomest, the holiest of gentlemen in France! The saviour of the kingdom! The shield of the Catholic faith! The true king of Paris! Monsieur, for the love of the Duc de Guise, ask me anything! There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you!”

“But Madame,” I said, “I only want to know where Monsieur de Nançay lives.”

“Ah, Monsieur, this is a very delicate question! I’m not at liberty to decide this by myself. I ask only your patience”—Holy God, I’d developed enough of that commodity to sell some off!—“and with your permission, I shall go straightaway to ask my husband.”

And so off she went, and after so many repeated consultations, all Miroul could do was hide his head in Pompée’s mane to hide his laughter. The daughter had returned, her mother gone, and stood on the threshold, silently observing us, as if we’d arrived from some other planet, which was all the more strange given the multitudes of Huguenots who had come to Paris from the farthest reaches of the kingdom to attend the wedding of Princesse Margot.

The husband, who at length made his appearance, was a portly, bald man, with piercing eyes—a rich merchant I supposed—clothed in an austere brown doublet and ruff. He, too, felt compelled to ask me an endless series of questions, so that, in the end, so as not to offend a man who claimed, as his wife had done, that he was “a close friend of Monsieur de Nançay” (both of them lying), I was forced to tell my entire story, to which he listened with the greatest interest; he then called his wife in order to repeat it in its entirety to her, embroidering considerably the details of the duels, a subject that appeared to be dear to his heart.