Angelique - Part 2. Marriage in Toulouse Chapter 10 - Read online

“LOVE,” SAID JOFFREY DE PEYRAC, “the art of love, is that most precious characteristic of our race. I have travelled across many lands and it was acknowledged everywhere. Let us rejoice over it, gentlemen, and you, ladies, preen yourselves, but let us all be wary. For nothing is
more fragile than this reputation, if a discerning heart and a skilful body do not help to sustain it.”
His face, masked in deep black velvet and framed by his luxuriant mane, was thrust forward and revealed his sparkling smile.
“That is.%why we have gathered here in the Palace of Gay Learning. However, I Hid not invite you for a return to the past. No doubt, I shall recall the teaching of our master in the art of love who once roused the hearts of men to feelings of love, but we shall not overlook what the ensuing centuries have added to the perfection of this art: the art of con¬versation, of entertainment, of sparkling wit, or even those simpler enjoyments which also serve to foster an amorous disposition—good food and good drink.”
“Ah! this suits me better!” bellowed the Chevalier de Germontaz. “Sensibilities can go hang! I eat half a wild boar, three partridges, six chickens, I down a bottle of Champagne wine, and hop! to bed, my pretty
i*’
one!
“And when the pretty one is called Madame de Montmaur, her story is that you are a very good and loud snorer, but that’s all you can do in bed.”
“She says that? Oh, the traitress! It’s true that one night, feeling a bit heavy ”
A general burst of laughter interrupted the fat chevalier, who, assuming a brave front, lifted the silver lid of one of the dishes and seized a chicken¬wing between two fingers.
“When I eat, I eat. I'm not like you who mix up everything and who try to use refinement where there’s no need for it.”
“You oafish hog!” said the Comte de Peyrac softly, “how pleased I am to contemplate you! You so well personify all that we banish from our customs, all that we hate. Look, gentlemen, and you, ladies, here you have a descendant of the barbarians, of those crusaders who came in die wake of their bishops to light a thousand stakes between Albi, Toulouse and Pau. They were so fiercely jealous of this delightful land where every¬one sang of ladies* love that they reduced it to ashes and turned Toulouse into an intolerant, suspicious city, with the ruthless eyes of fanaticism. Let’s not forget it. . . .”
‘He should not talk like that,’ thought Angelique.
Everyone laughed, but she could see a cruel gleam in certain black eyes. It was something that always surprised her, this bitterness of the southerners over a past four hundred years old. But the horrors of the crusade against the Albigeois had been such that even now, in the countryside, mothers would threaten their children with the terrible Montfort. Joffrey de
Peyrac liked to stir up this rancour, not so much from a provincial fanaticism as out of his horror of all narrow-mindedness, stupidity and coarseness.
Seated at the other end of the table, Angelique looked at his crimson velvet costume studded with diamonds. His masked face and dark hair set of f the whiteness of his high collar of Flanders lace, of his cuffs and of his long, lively hands, each finger of which was ringed. She herself was dressed in white, and this reminded her of her wedding-day. As on that day, the noblest lords of Languedoc and Gascogne were present and sat at the two big banquet tables that had been set up in the gallery of the palace. But today there were neither old men nor ecclesiastics in this brilliant gathering. Now that Angelique was able to put a name to every face, she recognised that most of the couples around her that evening were not man and wife. Andijos had brought his mistress, a flamboyant Parisian, Madame de Saujac, whose husband was a magistrate in Montpellier. At the moment she was bending her brown head coquettishly over the shoulder of a captain with a golden-hued moustache. Some lone cavaliers drew closer to those bold and independent ladies who had come without a chaperone to the famous Court of Love.
An impression of youth and beauty rose from these sumptuously dressed men and women. Gold and precious stones sparkled in the torch¬light. The windows were wide open to the warm spring evening. To keep the mosquitoes at bay, lemon balm leaves and incense were being burned in perfume pans, and their intoxicating scent mingled with the smell of wines.
Angelique felt awkward and out of place like a wild flower in a rose- bed. Yet she was in the full bloom of her beauty, and her manner could stand comparison with that of the noblest ladies. The hand of the little Due de Forba des Ganges brushed her bare arm.
“How sad, Madame,” he whispered, “that such a master should possess you! For I have eyes only for you tonight.”
She gave him a playful little tap on the fingers with the tip of her fan.
“Do not be in too much of a hurry to put into practice what you are being taught here. Listen rather to the words of experience: shame on him who rushes and veers with every wind that blows. Have you not noticed what a pert little nose and rosy cheek your right-hand neighbour has? 1 have been told that she is a little widow who asks only to be comforted for the death of a very old and cantankerous husband.”
“I thank you for your advice, Madame.” .
“ 4A new love chases the old/ says Monsieur le Chapelain.”
“Any teaching from your charming lips must needs be followed.
Allow me to kiss your fingers and I promise you I shall look after the little widow/*
At the other end of the table a discussion was in progress between Cerbalaud and Monsieur de Castel-Jalon.
“I am as poor as a beggar/* the latter was saying, “and I'm not hiding the fact that I sold an acre of vineyard to rig myself out decendy to come here. But I claim that I don't have to be rich to be loved for myself/* “You’ll never be loved with refinement. Your idyll will resemble, at most, that of a devout man who fondles his botde with one hand and his mistress with the other, while sadly musing over the hard-won coins he*ll have to pay out for both/*
“I claim that sentiments **
“Sentiments don't grow in penury. . . /*
Joffrey de Peyrac extended his hands with a laugh.
“Peace, gendemen, listen to the old master whose humane philosophy should sctde all our disputes. Here are the opening words of his treatise on the Art of Love: ‘Love is aristocratic. To concern yourself with love, you must have no material cares and not be harassed by them to the point of counting the hours of every day/ So be rich, gendemen, and deck your beautiful ladies with jewellery. The sparkle of a woman's eye at the sight of a bauble will soon turn into a sparkle of love. Personally, I adore the glance which a bejewelled woman casts at her mirror. Do not protest, ladies, and do not be hypocritical. Do you appreciate a man who so disdains you that he does not seek to enhance your beauty?**
The ladies laughed and murmured.
“But I am a poor man/* cried Castel-Jalon sadly. “Peyrac, don't be so harsh, give me some hope !**
“Get rich!** *
“Easy to say !**
“It's always easy for him who wants it. Or, failing it, at least don't be mean. ‘Avarice is love's worst enemy.* Since you are a beggar, don’t count your time, nor your prowesses; commit a thousand follies and above all make people laugh. ‘Boredom is the worm that gnaws at love.* Is it not true, ladies, that you prefer a buffoon to a solemn pedant? . . . And finally I give you this last consolation: ‘Merit alone makes you worthy of love.***
‘What a beautiful voice he has and how well he speaks,* thought Ang£lique to herself.
The little Duke's kiss had left a burning sensation on her fingers. Obediently he had turned away and was leaning towards the rosy little widow. Angflique was lonely, and her gaze, across the long table and the blue, perfumed smoke, never left the crimson silhouette of the master of the house. Did he see her? Was he sending her a mute appeal from behind the mask with which he had veiled his wounded face? Or was he merely savouring, casually, indifferently, the subtle joust of words, like a con¬tented Epicurean?
“Do you know, lam much bewildered,” cried the young Due de Forba des Ganges, half-rising. “This is the first time I’ve attended a Court of Love, and I was expecting, I confess, a pleasant libertinage and not words of strictness such as I have just heard. ‘Merit alone makes you worthy of love.’ Do we have to turn into saints to win our ladies?”
“Heaven preserve us, Due,” said the little widow laughingly.
“That’s a serious challenge,” said Andijos. “Would you care to see me wearing a halo, my dearest?”
“Certainly not.”
“What makes you think there is merit in altars?” criedJoffrey de Peyrac.
“There’s merit in being wild, gay, swashbuckling, cavalier, rhymester
and—that’s where I have my eye on you, gentlemen—a skilful and ever-
ready lover. Our fathers opposed courtly love to Gallic love. But I’ll
say to you: let’s partake of one and the other. One must love truly and
completely, and that means carnally.”
He fell silent for a moment, then continued in a lower voice:
“But let us not despise the exaltation of feelings which, though not alien
to desire, transcend and refine it. That’s why I hold that he who wants to
know love must submit to the discipline of heart and senses which Le
Chapelain recommends: ‘A lover must have but one mistress. A mistress
must have but one lover.’ Choose each other, love each other, part when
fatigue overtakes you, but do not be like those flighty lovers who indulge
in the drunkenness of passion, who drink from all the cups simultaneously,
and thus transform the courts of the kingdom into barnyards.”
“By Saint Severin!” exclaimed Germontaz, emerging from behind his
plate. “If my uncle the Archbishop were to hear you, he’d lose his wits.
There’s no sense in what you say. I’ve never been taught anything of the . »» sort.
“You’ve been taught so few things, Monsieur le Chevalier! . . . What is there in my words that shocks you so?”
“Everything. You preach faithfulness and libertinage, decency and carnal love. And then, as if you were suddenly in the pulpit, you attack the ‘drunkenness of passion’. I shall pass this term on to my uncle the Archbishop. He’ll probably refer to it next Sunday in the cathedral.”
“My words are those of human wisdom. Love is the enemy of excess. In loving, as in dining and wining, let’s prefer quality to quantity. The bounds where pleasure ends are those where the strain and nausea of profligacy begin. But can a man savour a knowing kiss, if he guzzles like a hog and drinks like a fish?”
“Am I to recognise myself in that description?” growled the Chevalier de Germontaz, with his mouth full.
Angelique thought that he was good-natured enough. But why did Joffrey seem to go out of his way to provoke him? He knew full well, after all, the dangers of this disagreeable presence.
“The Archbishop has sent us his nephew to spy on us,” he had declared to his wife on the eve of the banquet.
And he had added airily:
“Do you know that there is open war between us now?”
“What happened, Joffrey?”
“Nothing. But the Archbishop wants the secret of my fortune, or else my fortune itself. He won’t let go of me.”
“You’ll defend yourself, Joffrey?”
“As best I can. Unfortunately the man isn’t bom yet who can stamp out human stupidity.”
The footman had removed the plates. Eight little pages came in, some carrying baskets of roses, others pyramids of fruit. Before each guest was placed a plate full of spiced sugar-almonds and various sweet¬meats.
“I am glad to hear you speak so simply of carnal love,” said the young Cerbalaud. “Just imagine, I am madly in love and you see me all by myself at this gathering. I don’t think I lacked fervour in my declarations, and without boasting I may say I had the impression at times that my flame was shared. But my lady-love is a prude, alas! If I venture a daring gesture, I harvest cruel eyes and a marked coolness for days. For months now I’ve been circling on this diabolical carousel: winning her by proving my ardour, and losing her whenever I attempt to prove it!”
Cerbalaud’s misadventures amused everybody. A lady seized him with both arms and kissed him on the mouth. When the hubbub had subsided a little, Joffrey de Peyrac said with kindness: “Be patient, Cerbalaud, and remember that it is the shy ones who are able to reach the greatest heights of sensual pleasure. But they need a skilful lover to release in them what¬ever scruple it is that makes them confuse love with sin. Distrust those damsels, too, who so of ten confuse love with marriage. Now I shall quote you certain precepts: ‘In devoting yourself to the pleasures of love, do not go beyond the desire of your beloved; whether giving or receiving the pleasures of love, always observe a certain modesty/ And finally: ‘Always heed a lady’s commands/ ”
“I think you unduly favour the ladies,” opined a gendeman, who, for his pains, received several sharp cracks from a fan. “To hear you talk, one would constandy have to die at their feet.”
“But that's as it should be,” approved Bernard d’Andijos's mistress. “Do you know what we prkieuses in Paris call the young men who woo us? We call them‘the dying'.”
“I don’t want to die,” said Andijos glumly. “It's my rivals who will die.” ‘
“Must we allow women all their whims?”
“Naturally.”
“They’ll despise us for it ”
“And deceive us ”
“Must we allow ourselves to be deceived?”
“Certainly not,” said Joffrey de Peyrac. “Fight a duel, gentlemen, and kill your rival. ‘He who is not jealous cannot love.’—‘Suspicion of my beloved makes love’s ardour grow.' ”
“That infernal Chapelain thought of everything!”
Ang£lique raised a glass to her lips. Her blood was throbbing in her veins, and she began to laugh. She liked the end of a meal among these southerners, when their accent suddenly rang out with a flourish, challenges and quips were tossed about, and one nobleman would draw his sword while another tuned his guitar.
“Sing! Sing!” a voice clamoured. “The Voice of the Kingdom!”
On the balcony that overhung the gallery the musicians started to play softly. Angelique saw that the little widow had put her head on the shoulder of the young Due. She was picking up sweetmeats with dainty fingers and slipping them between his lips. They were smiling at each other.
Round and limpid, the moon appeared in the velvety sky. Joffrey de Peyrac motioned to a footman, who went about snuffing the candles. It became very dark, but eyes gradually grew accustomed to the soft moon¬light; voices had lowered their pitch and in the sudden tranquillity could be heard the sighs of couples in each other’s arms. Some of them had already risen from the table. They were roaming through the gardens or in the open galleries pervaded by the balmy breath of night.
“ladies,” said the grave, harmonious voice of Joffrey de Peyrac, “and you, gendemen, be welcome in the Palace of Gay Learning. For a few days we shall converse together and dine at the same table. Apartments have been prepared for you here. You will find there good wines, pastries and ices. And comfortable beds. Sleep there alone if your mood is morose.
Welcome there a friend of an hour ... or of a lifetime, if that be your wish. Eat, drink, make love ... but be discreet, for ‘love must not be told, if it is to retain all its flavour*. One more bit of advice for you, ladies. Remember that laziness, too, is one of love’s great enemies. In those lands where woman is still the slave of man, in the Orient and in Africa, it is most of ten her task to exert herself to lead her master to enjoyment. Under our civilised skies you’ve indeed been unduly favoured. Too of ten you respond to our ardour with a languor that is not far from listlessness. Learn therefore to give of yourselves lavishly, and your efforts will be rewarded by the delight of your senses: ‘Hasty men, passive women, make pleasureless lovers.’ I shall finish by confiding to you a gastronomical hint. Remember, gentlemen, that the wine of Champagne, of which you will find bottles to refresh you at your bedside, is endowed with imagin¬ation rather than with constancy. In other words, it is better not to drink too much of it to prepare yourselves for combat. But no other wine can vie with its glory for celebrating victory; refresh a happy night and sustain ardour and strength. Ladies, I salute you.”
He pushed back his arm-chair, abrupdy propped his feet on the table, and, taking his guitar, began to sing. His masked face turned towards the moon.
Angelique felt dreadfully alone. A bygone world was rising again from its ashes tonight in the shadow of the tower of Assezat. Hot-blooded Toulouse had found her soul again. Sensual pleasure had the run of the city, and Angelique’s youthful vigour could not remain insensitive to it. Almost all the guests had left the room by now. Some of them, still in the window-recesses, with a glass of rosolio in their hands, were indulging in playful flirtation. Madame de Saujac was kissing her captain. The long, warm evening, mellowed by fine wines, by dainty dishes accented with select spices, by music and flowers, completed its course by surrendering the Palace of Gay Learning to the magic of love.
The man in red continued to sing, but he, too, was alone.
‘What is he waiting for?’ Angelique thought. ‘For me to throw myself at his feet and cry to him ‘‘Take me!”?’
A long shiver went through her, and she closed her eyes. Within raged confusion and contradiction. While only yesterday she had been ready to surrender, she rebelled against seduction tonight: ‘He entices young women with his songs.’ It had seemed so terrible from afar, but from close by it was so wonderful. She rose and, in her turn, went out, telling herself that she was ‘escaping temptation’. But immediately afterwards, reflecting that this man was her husband before God, she shook her head in despair. She felt lost and afraid. Strictly brought up, she shied from too free a life.
She belonged to a time when scruples and remorse were the price of weak-ness.
Many a woman who would surrender herself tonight with a sob to her lover’s embrace would run weeping to confession tomorrow, clamouring for convent bars and the veil to expiate her sins. Ang£lique knew very well that the power to which Joffrey de Peyrac wished to subjugate her was not marriage, but love. Had she been married to another, he would have acted likewise. Had not her nurse been right in saying that this man was serving the devil? . . .
Walking down the wide staircase, she passed a couple in a close em¬brace. The woman was murmuring something like a plaintive little prayer. In the palace filled with sighs, Angelique in her white dress wandered through the garden. She perceived Cerbalaud alone too, walk¬ing, through the avenues, no doubt musing over the speeches he would make to his prudish lady-love. She smiled.
‘Poor Cerbalaud. Will he remain faithful to his love, or jilt her for a more cruel girl? . . .*
With faltering steps, the Chevalier de Germontaz was coming down the stairs. He stopped before Angelique, breathing noisily.
“A plague on these southern mummeries and simperings. My little lady-friend, who had shown great willingness up to that point, has just struck me across the face. It appears I’m no longer delicate enough for her.”
“It is true that ribaldry and religiosity seem to be the only means at your command. The trouble with you, perhaps, is that you have not yet really made up your mind about your future vocation.”
Very red in the face, he came close to her and she felt his wine-soaked breath full in the face.
“The trouble with me is that I let myself be prodded like a bull by little frippets of your kind. Women! This is how I treat them.”
Before she could make a move, he had rudely grabbed her and planted his moist, fat mouth on her Ups. She struggled wildly, sickened with disgust.
“Monsieur de Germontaz,” said a voice suddenly.
Maddened with fear, Angelique saw the scarlet figure of the Comte de Peyrac at the top of the stairs. He raised his hand to his mask and flung it back. She saw the fearsome face which could cause even the most hardened to shudder when he convulsed his disfigured features. Slowly and with an emphatic limp, he came down the stairs; on the last step she saw a metallic flash as he drew his sword.
Germontaz had recoiled, reeling a little. Behind Joffrey de Peyrac,
Bernard d’Andijos and Monsieur de Castel-Jalon appeared. The Arch¬bishop’s nephew cast a glance towards the gardens and saw Ccrbalaud, who was also drawing closer. He panted hoarsely.
“This . . . this is a trap,” he stammered. “You want to murder me! . . .
“The trap is within yourself, you swine,” answered Andijos. “Who asked you to dishonour the wife of your host?”
Tremblingly Angelique tried to gather up her tom bodice over her bosom. It wasn’t possible! They were not going to fight! Someone must intervene. . . . Joffrey was risking his life with this strapping big brute! . . .
Joffrey de Peyrac continued to advance; and suddenly it was as if a juggler’s agility had entered the long, misshapen body. When he stood before the Chevalier de Germontaz, he pressed the tip of his weapon against the other’s stomach and said simply:
“Defend yourself.”
Responding to the reflexes of a military education, the other drew his sword, and the weapons crossed. It was an equal fight for a few moments, and so heated that twice the hand-guards clashed and the duellists’ faces were within a few inches of each other.
But, each time, the Comte de Peyrac broke away nimbly. His swift¬ness made up for the handicap of his game leg. Once Germontaz forced him back against the stairs and compelled him to mount a few steps, but he vaulted the balustrade, and the Chevalier barely had time to wheel round to face him again. Germontaz was beginning to tire. He was well versed in all the subtleties of fencing, but this rapid play bewildered him. The Comte’s sword slashed his right sleeve and scratched his arm. It was only a surface wound, but it bled profusely; the wounded arm which held the sword soon grew numb. The Chevalier fought with increasing difficulty. Panic appeared in his great, popping eyes. Joffrey’s, burning with a sombre fire, were unrelenting. Angelique read in them the death sentence.
She bit her lips till she almost cried out with pain, but she dared not make a move. She closed her eyes. There followed a sort of deep, raucous cry like a woodcutter’s grunt of strain. When she looked again, she saw that the Chevalier de Germontaz was sprawled out on the mosaic- tiles with the hilt of Joffrey’s sword protruding from his side. The Great Lame Man of Languedoc bent over him with a smile.
“Mummeries and simperings!” he said sofdy.
He gripped the hilt of his sword and pulled it up with a jerk. There was a crimson spurt, and Ang£lique saw her white dress splashed with blood.
She almost fainted and had to lean against the wall. Joffrey de Peyrac’s face loomed over hers. It was streaked with sweat, and she could see his lean chest rise and fall under the red velvet coat like the bellows of a forge. But the watchful eyes kept their mordant, merry light. The Comte smiled quietly as he met her emerald glance, still dim with emotion.
He said imperiously:
“Come.”