Angelique - Part 3. The Corridors of the Louvre Chapter 6 - Read online

IT WAS HORTENSE WHO HAD OPENED THE DOOR. A candle in her hand, her scrawny neck emerging from a rough linen night-gown, she followed her sister up the stairs, whispering in a hissing voice. She had always said so. A trollop, that’s what Angelique had been ever since her early youth. An intriguer. An ambitious schemer who only had designs on her husband’s fortune but was hypocritical enough to pretend to love him, when in fact she did not deprive herself of following libertines into the gutter of Paris.
Angelique hardly listened to her. Her ear was cocked to the noise coming up from the street; she clearly heard the clash of steel, then a cry, followed by a mad flight.
“Listen,” she murmured, nervously clutching Hortense’s arm.
“What?”
“That shout! Surely someone is hurt.” *
“What of it? The night belongs to rogues and brigands. No respectable woman would dream of going for a walk in Paris after sundown. No one except my own sister!”
She held the candle up to Angelique’s face.
“If you could see yourself! Fi! You’ve the face of a strumpet who’s just made love.”
Angelique wrenched the candlestick from her sister’s hand.
“And you have the face of a prim old prude who hasn’t made enough love. Go and join your lawyer of a husband, who can’t do anything but snore when he’s in bed.”
For a long time, Angelique remained sitting at the window, unable to make up her mind to go to bed. She did not cry. She re-lived the various stages of this dreadful day. It seemed to her that a century had elapsed since die moment when Barbe had come into the room saying: “Here’s some good milk for the baby.”
Since then Margot had died and she, Angelique, had been unfaithful to Joffrcy.
“If only I hadn’t felt so much pleasure!” she told herself over and over again, unable to stifle a recurring shiver of delight and terror.
Her body’s avidity filled her with horror. As long as she had been at Joflrey’s side, satisfied by his love, she had not realised how true the words were which he had so of ten uttered: “You are made for love.” She remembered a summer afternoon, when she had lain across the bed, swooning under his caresses. Suddenly he had stopped and asked her abruptly:
“Will you be unfaithful to me?”
“No, never. I love only you.”
“If you deceived me, I’d kill you!”
‘Well, let him kill me!’ thought Angelique. ‘It would be good to die by his hand. He’s the one I love.’
Propped on the window-sill, her face turned towards the sleeping city, she repeated:
“It’s you I love.”
Angelique managed to sleep for an hour, but at the first rays of dawn she was up again. Tying a scarf around her hair, she crept stealthily downstairs and left the house. Mingling with maidservants and the wives of craftsmen and shopkeepers, she went to Notre Dame to hear early Mass.
The narrow lanes, where the mist rising from the Seine was turning to gold, like a filmy fairy veil in the first rays of the sun, still exhaled the odours of the night. Vagabonds and cut-purses were repairing to their dens, while beggars, pedlars, cripples, set up shop on street-comers.
Rheumy eyes scowled after these prim, prudish women who went to pray to the Lord before starting their daily tasks. Craftsmen were removing the shutters from their stalls. Apprentice wigmakers, a bag of powder and a comb in their hands, were hurrying towards their bourgeois clientele to arrange the wig of a counsellor or a lawyer.
Angelique walked up the sombre aisle of the cathedral. Amid a rusde of slippers, the churchwardens were setting the chalices and cruets on the altars, filling the stoups with holy water and trimming the candles.
Angelique went into the first confessional-box. With throbbing temples, she accused herself of having committed the sin of adultery. After receiving absolution, she attended Mass, then went to order three services for the repose of the soul of her servant Margot.
When she found herself outside in the square again, she felt appeased. The hour of remorse was over. Now she would save all her courage to fight and wrest Joffrey from prison.
She bought some scones, still warm from the oven, from a little hawker. The bustle in the square was already at its height. Carriages were driving ladies of nobility to Mass. Outside the doors of the hospital, the Hotel-Dieu, the nuns were lining up the night’s dead, sewn up in their shrouds. A tumbrel would pick them up to carry them to the graveyard of the Saints-Innocents.
Although the Square of Notre Dame was enclosed by a low wall, it still preserved the disarray and picturesqueness which had made of it, in former times, the most popular square in Paris. Bakers still came there to sell last week’s bread at low prices to needy folk. Strollers still crowded in front of the great ‘Faster’, that enormous plaster statue coated with lead, which had stood there for centuries. Nobody knew what the monument re¬presented: it showed a man holding a book in one hand, and in the other a stick around which intertwining snakes were coiled. He was the most famous figure in Paris. He was credited with the power of speech on days of riots, and numerous pamphlets circulated at those periods signed: ‘The Great Faster of Notre Dame . . .*
Listen to the voice of a preacher Vulgarly called the Faster,
Because for a thousand years, so History says,
No food or drink he’s ever had.
To the square too had come, in the course of the centuries, all the criminals, with fifteen-pound candlesticks in their hands, to make honour¬able amends to Our Lady before being burned or hanged. Angelique shuddered as she thought of that procession of sinister ghosts. How many had come and knelt there, amidst cruel clamourings under the unseeing eyes of the old stone saints!
She tossed her head to shake of f those lugubrious thoughts and started back to the lawyer’s house, when a cleric in civilian dress approached her.
“Madame de Peyrac, I present my respects to you. I was on my way to Maitre Fallot’s to converse with you.”
“I am at your disposal, Monsieur Г Abbe, but I don’t quite remember your name.”
“Don’t you?”
The priest lifted his wide-brimmed hat, which act also removed a short grey horse-hair wig. Angelique recognised with amazement the lawyer Desgrez.
“You! But why this disguise?”
The young man had covered Iris head again. He whispered softly: “Because yesterday there was need of a chaplain at the Bastille.”
He pulled from under his frock a small horn box full of grated tobacco, snuffed, sneezed, blew his nose and then asked Angelique:
“What do you think? Isn’t it life-like?”
“Yes, indeed. I was fooled by it myself. But ... tell me, you have been able to penetrate into the Bastille?”
“Hush! Let’s go to the proctor’s home. There we’ll talk more freely.” On the way, Angelique was at pains to control her impatience. Did the lawyer at last know something? Had he seen Joffrey? He was walking very gravely at her side, with the dignified and modest attitude of a pious vicar.
“Do you often disguise yourself in your profession?” asked Angelique. “In my profession, no. My sense of honour as a lawyer is much opposed to such masquerades. But one’s got to live. When I’m tired of ‘crowing’, that is to say of hunting for clients on the steps of the Palace of Justice in order to hook a brief that pays a miserable three livres, I of fer my services to the police.”
“Isn’t it rather reckless to dress up as a cleric?” inquired Angelique. “You might be led to commit some act dose to sacrilege.”
“I don’t present myself for the purpose of giving sacraments, but as a confidant. The frock inspires confidence. Nothing is more naive in appearance than a substitute fresh from the seminary. People tell him everything. Oh, I admit, of course, it’s nothing to be proud of . Nothing like your brother-in-law Fallot, who was a fellow-student of mine at the Sorbonne. Now there’s a man who’ll go far! So while I’m playing the frisky little abbe next to some charming damsel, that grave magistrate will spend the morning on his knees at the Palace, listening to Maitre Talon’s speech in some legacy action.”
“Why on his knees?”
“It’s a judicial tradition come down from Henri IV. The solicitor procures, that is to say prepares the case. The advocate pleads it. He has greater prestige than the proctor, who must kneel while the other speaks. But the advocate has an empty stomach while the proctor has a bulging paunch. No wonder! He’s earned his part on the twelve degrees of the procedure.”
“This seems very complicated to me.”
“Nevertheless, try and remember these details. They may have their importance if we ever manage to get your husband’s trial started.”
“Do you think we’ll have to reach the trial stage?” cried Angelique. “We’ll have to,” gravely affirmed the lawyer. “It’s his only chance of salvation.”
In Maitre Fallot’s small of fice, Desgrez removed his wig and passed his hand through his wiry hair. His face, which was naturally gay and spirited, wore an anxious mien. Angelique sat down near the small table and began to toy with one of the proctor’s goose-quills. She dared not question Desgrez. At last, unable to stand it any longer, she ventured: “You saw him?”
“Whom?”
“My husband,”
“Oh no, there’s no question of it: he’s kept in strict solitary confine¬ment. The Governor of the Bastille is answerable with his head if he communicates with, or writes to, anyone.”
“Is he well treated?”
“For the time being, yes. He even has a bed and two chairs, and he gets the very same meals as the Governor. I have also heard that he of ten sings, that he covers the walls of his cell with mathematical formulae by means of the smallest plaster pebble, and also that he lias undertaken to tame two enormous spiders.”
“Oh, Joffrey!” murmured Angelique with a smile. But her eyes filled with tears.
So he was alive. He had not become a blind and deaf ghost, and even the walls of the Bastille were not thick enough to stifle the echoes of his vitality. She raised her eyes towards Desgrez.
“Thank you, Maitre.”
The lawyer looked away moodily. ,»
“Don’t thank me. The case is extremely difficult. For these few, slender scraps of information, I must confess I have already spent all the advance you gave me.”
“Money is of no importance. Ask me for whatever you deem necessary to pursue your investigations.”
But the young man kept looking away as if, despite his volubility, he felt much embarrassed.
“To be quite frank,” he said brusquely, “I even ask myself whether I oughtn’t to try and give you your money back. I believe I was a little rash to take on this case, which now seems to me very complex.”
“You’d drop my husband’s defence?” exclaimed Angelique. ■#
Only yesterday she had not trusted this man of law, who, despite his brilliant diplomas, was most certainly a poor wretch who didn’t eat his fill every day. But now that he spoke of dropping the case, she was seized by panic.
Nodding his head, he said:
“In order to defend him, he’d first have to be attacked.”
“What is he accused of?”
“Officially, of nothing. He does not exist”
“But in that case they can’t do anything to him.”
“They can forget him for ever, Madame. There are people in the dungeons of the Bastille who’ve been there for thirty or forty years and who can no longer remember even their own names or what they’ve done. That’s why I say his greatest chance of salvation rests in provoking a trial. But even in that case, the trial will probably be private and a lawyer’s assistance refused him. So the money you are willing to spend will very likely be useless!”
She sat up straight and looked at him fixedly.
“You are afraid?”
“No, but I have been wondering. Hadn’t I, for instance, better stay a case-less lawyer rather than risk being involved in a scandal? Hadn’t you, on the other hand, better hide in the depth of some province with your child and the money you’re left with, rather than lose your life? As for your husband, hadn’t he better spend some years in prison rather than be dragged into a trial for . . . witchcraft and sacrilege?”
Angelique heaved an enormous sigh of relief.
“Witchcraft and sacrilege! . . . Is that what he’s charged with?” “That’s what served as a pretext for his arrest, anyway.”
“But that’s not at all serious! It’s merely the result of the stupidity of the Archbishop of Toulouse.”
She told the young lawyer in detail the main incidents in the quarrel between the Archbishop and the Comte de Peyrac: how the latter had perfected a method of extracting gold from rock and how the Arch¬bishop, envious of his wealth, had determined to obtain his secret, which was actually nothing more than an industrial formula.
“There is no magical action involved, just scientific research.”
The lawyer pursed his lips.
“Madame, I for my part am incompetent in this matter. If this research forms the basis of the charge, we would have to produce witnesses, make a demonstration before the judges and prove to them that there is no magic or witchcraft involved.”
“My husband is not a pious man, but he goes to Mass on Sundays, he fasts and receives Holy Communion on the great holidays. He is generous towards the Church. However, the Primate of Toulouse feared his influence and they have been at odds for years.”
“Unfortunately, it’s no small thing to be Archbishop of Toulouse. In certain respects, this prelate has more power than the Archbishop of Paris and perhaps even the Cardinal. Remember that he is the only one who still represents the Holy Office in France. Between you and me, who are modem people, such a tale doesn’t seem to hold water. The Inquisition is dying. It’s kept its virulence in certain parts of the south where Protestant heresy is widespread. But actually, it isn’t so much the Archbishop’s sternness or the enforcement of the laws of the Holy Office that I fear in this particular case. Here, read this.”
He extracted from a faded plush-bag a small square piece of paper, with the word ‘copy’ stamped in one comer.
Angclique read:
Sentence:
Between Philibert Venot, prosecutor-general for the Legal Office of the Episcopal Seat of Toulouse, plaintiff, in the crime of magic and sorcery, against Monsieur Joffrey de Peyrac, Comte de Moretis, defendant.
Whereas the saidJoffrey de Peyrac is sufficiently convicted of having renounced God and given himself up to the devil, and also of having several times invoked evil spirits and conferred with them, lastly of having resorted to several and divers kinds of witchcraft . . .
For which cases and others he is handed over to the secular judge to be tried for his crimes.
Pronounced this 26th day of June 1660 by P. Venot, the said de Peyrac not having protested nor appealed against it, has said that the will of God be done!
, f
Desgrez explained:
“In less sibylline language, this means that the religious tribunal, after judging your husband in absentia and without the accused’s knowledge, and after concluding beforehand that he is guilty, has handed him over to the King’s secular justice.”
“And you think the King will tolerate such nonsense? It’s just the fruit of envy on the part of a bishop who would like to rule over the whole province and who lets himself be swayed by the phantasies of a benighted monk like that Becher, who’s certainly mad into the bargain.”
“I can only judge the facts,” remarked the lawyer. “Now this proves that the Archbishop takes great care not to appear himself in this case: you see, his name is not even mentioned in this paper although there can be no doubt that he was the instigator of the first verdict pronounced in camera. On the other hand, the warrant of arrest bore the King’s signature as well as that of Seguier, the President of the Court. Seguier is an upright man, but a weak one. He upholds the forms of justice, but the King’s orders come first with him.”
“None the less, if it does come to a trial, the views of the jurors will be what counts?”
“Yes,” admitted Desgrez reluctantly, “but who will select the jurors?”
“And, according to you, what are the possible risks involved in such a trial for my husband?”
“First torture, by ordinary and extraordinary question, then the stake, Madame!”
Angelique felt herself blench, a feeling of nausea rose in her throat.
“But after all,” she repeated, “you can’t condemn a man of his rank on such silly gossip.”
“Which, therefore, merely serves as a pretext. Do you want my opinion, Madame? The Archbishop of Toulouse never intended to deliver your husband to a secular court. He was no doubt hoping that an ecclesiastical judgment would be sufficient to bring your husband’s pride to heel and make him tractable to the views of the Church. But Mon¬seigneur, in fomenting this intrigue, found his expectations overridden, and do you know why?”
“No.”
“Because there is something else” said Francois Desgrez, raising his finger. “Most certainly, your husband must have had ill-wishers in very high places, a quantity of enemies who’d sworn his downfall. The intrigue of Monseigneur of Toulouse has supplied them with a marvellous spring¬board. Formerly one used to poison one’s enemies in the dark. Now everyone loves doing it according to the rules: you accuse, try, and condemn. Thus, your conscience is at rest. If your husband’s trial takes place, it will be based on this charge of witchcraft, but the real motive for his condemnation we’ll never know.”
Angelique had a fleeting vision of the poison-casket. Should she mention it to Desgrez? She hesitated. Mention of it would mean giving form to unfounded suspicions and might even further entangle the threads that were already so hopelessly complex.
She asked in an uncertain tone:
“What kind of thing do you suspect?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. All I can say is this: that even after barely sticking my long nose into this business, I’ve already had time to shrink back with fright from the high personages who are mixed up in it. In short, I repeat what I said to you the other day: it starts with the King. If he signed that warrant of arrest, it means he approved it.”
“When I think,” murmured Angelique, “that the King asked him to sing and covered him with glowing words! He already knew that he would be arrested.”
“No doubt, but our King has been to a good school for craftiness. However this may be, he alone can revoke such a summons of special and secret arrest. Neither Tellier, nor Seguier, nor any other gentleman of the Gown would do. Failing the King, you would have to try and approach the Queen Mother, who has much influence over her son, or her Jesuit confessor, or even the Cardinal.”
“I saw the Grande Mademoiselle,” said Angelique. “She promised to make inquiries for me. But she said that nothing could be hoped for before the celebrations for the . . . King’s entry . . . into Paris.”
Angelique found it hard to finish the sentence. For some moments, ever since the lawyer had mentioned the stake, she had felt a growing faintness. Drops of sweat beaded on her temples and she was afraid she might swoon. She heard Desgrez’s voice:
“I share her opinion. Nothing can be done before the celebrations. The best thing for you would be to wait here patiently. For my part, I’ll try and complete my inquiries.”
Angelique rose in a haze and held out her hands. Her cold cheek met the severe clerical cloth.
“So you will defend him?”
The young man was silent for a moment, then said in a gruff voice:
“After all, I have never been afraid for my own skin. I’ve risked it no end of times in stupid tavern brawls. I may as well risk it once again for a just cause. But you’ll have to give me money, for I am as poor as a church mouse, and the old-clothes dealer who hires out costumes is an inveterate thief.”
These strong words revived Angelique’s spirit. The fellow was much more reliable than she had at first believed. Under an appearance of cynicism and casualness he hid a very thorough acquaintance with legal procedure, and he devoted himself conscientiously to the tasks he was entrusted with.
Recovering her self-control, she counted out a hundred livres. With a quick bow, Francois Desgrez departed, but not before throwing an enigmatic glance at the pale face whose green eyes glowed like precious stones in the dull obscurity of this of fice which reeked of ink and sealing- wax.
Clutching the banister Angelique went up to her room. This faintness was surely due to her experiences of the night before. She would lie down and try to sleep a little, even if she had to put up with Hortense’s sarcasm. But she had hardly reached her room when she was again overcome by nausea and barely had time to rush to the washstand.
‘What is the matter with me?’ she wondered, frightened.
Suppose Margot had been right? Suppose someone really was deter¬mined to kill her? The carriage accident? The attempt on her life at the Louvre? Perhaps they were trying to poison her?
Suddenly her tense face relaxed and a smile brightened her features.
‘What a fool lam! Iamsimply going to have a baby!’
She remembered, before leaving Toulouse, that she had already won¬dered whether a second child might not be on the way. Now the thing was confirmed without any possible doubt.
‘How happy Joffrey will be when he comes out of prison!’ she said to herself.