Angelique - Part 5. The Court of Miracles Chapter 3 - Read online

OUTSIDE, Angelique could see the dilapidated shadow of the Tower of Nesle outlined against the almost complete darkness. She realised that the room where Nicholas had taken her must be situated at the top of the tower. One of the narquois explained to her obligingly that it had been Calembredaine’s idea to lodge the men of his gang in the old, medieval stronghold of Paris. It was in fact an ideal brigands’ lair. Half-ruined halls, crumbling ramparts, tumbling turrets, offered hiding-places which the other gangs, in the faubourgs, did not possess.
The washerwoman who, for a long time, had been putting her laundry out to dry on the battlements of the Tower of Nesle had fled before the terrifying invasion. Nobody had come to dislodge the rogues who made a practice of lying in wait for the carriages of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, hiding under the small, hump-backed bridge that spanned the ancient moats.
People confined themselves to whispering that this passage-way by the Tower of Nesle in the heart of Paris had become a real cut-throat alley. And the sounds of the violins in the Tuileries, on the other bank of the Seine, would sometimes mingle with the fiddling of Father Hurlurot or the refrains of Thibault the hurdy-gurdy grinder, playing for the beggars* dances on a night of revelry.
The bargemen of the small timber port, not far away, lowered their voices as they saw the fear-inspiring figures approach the banks. The place was becoming impossible, they would say. When would the city aldermen at last decide to dismantle those old ramparts and chase all these vermin away?
“Gentlemen, I greet you,” said Rat-Poison, approaching them. “Would you be good enough to conduct us to the Quai de Gesvres?”
“You’ve got money?”
“We have this,” said the Spaniard, placing the tip of his sword against the other’s belly.
The man shrugged his shoulders resignedly. Every day they were up against these rogues, who would hide in the barges, steal the merchandise, and get themselves ferried, like lords, from one bank to the other for nothing. When the boatmen were there in strength, it would usually end in bloody fights with knives, for the rivermen’s guild was not of a particularly patient disposition.
That night, however, die three men who had just lit their fire to watch near their barges gathered that it was to their interest not to seek an argument. A youngster rose at the sign of his chief and, not very re¬assured, untied his boat, in which Angelique and her infamous companions had taken their seats.
The boat passed under the arches of the Pont-Neuf and, close to the Bridge of Notre Dame, it drew alongside the foundations of the Quai de Gesvres.
“That will do nicely, my lad,” said Rat-Poison to the young ferryman; “not only do we thank you but we’ll let you go back safe and sound. Just lend us your lantern. We’ll let you have it back when we think of
• a
it. . . .
The immense arch that supported the quite recendy constructed Quai de Gesvres was a gigantic piece of work, a masterpiece of weight-pulling and stone-cutting.
As she stepped on to it, Angelique heard the roar of the river, which, as it flowed by in torrents, reminded her by its thunderous echo of the great voice of the ocean. 'Ibe noise of the carriages rolling over the vault with a sound of distant rumbling added to this impression. Inside, it was icy cold and damp. This grandiose cavern, isolated in the heart of Paris, seemed to have been created for the express purpose of providing a refuge for all the rogues of the great city.
The bandits followed her through to the end of the vault. Three or four dark passages, which served as sewers for the butchers’ shops of the rue de la Vieille Lantemc, disgorged great streams of blood. Farther on, there were narrow, foul-smelling passageways, hidden stairs in the recesses of houses, and river-banks where one’s feet got bogged to the ankles in mud.
When they emerged again into the open air, the night was black and
Angflique didn’t know where she was. There was probably a small square with a fountain in the middle, for the murmur of water could be heard.
Nicholas’s voice suddenly rose, quite close:
“Is it you, boys? You have the girl with you?”
One of the narquois held his lantern over Angelique.
“Here she is.”
She saw the tall figure and the frightful face of the bandit Calembre- daine, and she closed her eyes with horror. The sight made her panicky, even though she knew that he was Nicholas.
The chief slapped the lantern down with his hand.
“Have you gone out of your head carrying that dazzler? So the gentleman needs a light nowadays to go for a walk?”
“We didn’t feel much like falling into the water under the Quai de Gesvres,” the other protested.
Nicholas seized Angeliquc’s arm rudely.
“Don’t be afraid, my little pigeon. You know it’s me,” he said chaffingly.
He pushed her into the shelter of a porch.
“You, Peony-Jean, post yourself on the other side of the street, behind the comer-post. You, Martin, stay with me. Gobert over there. The others will stand watch at the cross-roads. You’re at your post, Barcarole?”
A voice answered, as if dropping from the sky:
“I’m here, chief.”
The dwarf was perched on a shop-sign.
From the porch, where she stood near Nicholas, Angelique could see right down the narrow street. It was feebly lit by a few lanterns hung in front of the smartest houses, and the central gutter, filled with refuse, gleamed like a dismal serpent.
The craftsmen’s booths were shut tight. People were going to bed; behind the window-panes could be seen the round lights of candles. A woman opened a window to empty a pail into the street. She could be heard threatening a crying child that she would send for the Gruff Monk.
“I’ll give you a taste of the GruffMonk,” growled Nicholas.
He added in a low, strained voice:
“I’m going to pay your dowry, Angelique. That’s the way it’s done in the beggars’ world. A man pays to have his girl. Just like you buy a fine object that you’re keen on.”
“And it’s about the only thing we do buy,” jeered one of the cut¬throats.
His chief silenced him with an oath. Hearing the sound of footsteps, the bandits froze and fell silent. They drew their swords without a sound. A man was coming up the street, hopping from one cobble-stone to another to avoid dirtying his high-heeled shoes in the puddles.
“That isn't him," Calembredaine whispered.
The others sheathed their swords. The passer-by heard the click of weapons. He jumped with fright, dimly perceived the porch swarming with figures, and ran away, screaming:
“Help! Thieves! Murderers! Coat-snatchers! I*m being murdered!"
“Silly b ," came Peony-Jean's indignant growl from the other side
of the street. “When we let someone pass quiedy for once, without even taking his coat, he's got to go and bray like an ass! It's enough to make you sick!"
A soft whistle from across the street reduced him to silence.
“See who's coming, Angflique,” Nicholas whispered, tightening his grasp on the young woman’s arm.
Frozen and so completely numbed that she did not even feel the touch of his hand, Angelique stood waiting. She knew what was going to happen. It was inevitable. The thing had to be done. Her heart would not come alive again until afterwards. For everything was dead inside her, and hatred alone had the power of reviving her.
In the yellow light of the street lanterns, she saw two monks appear, arm in arm. She had no difficulty in recognising one of them as Conan Bccher. The other, fat and voluble, was discoursing in Latin with ample gestures. He seemed to be slightly drunk, for he kept pulling his com¬panion now and then against the wall of a house, then with apologies led him back, wading in the gutter.
Angelique heard the alchemist's shrill voice. He too was talking in Latin, but his tone was one of outraged protest. As they came up to the porch, exasperation made him cry out in French:
“Now that's enough, Brother Amboise, your theories on baptism with meat-stock are a heresy! A sacrament is worthless if performed with water polluted by impure elements such as animal fats. Baptism with meat- stock ! What a blasphemy! Why not with red wine while you're at it? That would suit you well, since you seem to have such a fancy for it."
With a jerk, the gaunt Franciscan friar freed himself from the clinging arm of Brother Amboise.
The fat monk was stammering in a drunkard's maudlin voice:
“Father, you grieve me. . . . Alas! I would have liked to convince
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you.
Suddenly, he emitted a demented shriek:
“Ah! Ah! Deuscoeli!”
Almost at the same moment, Angflique noticed that Father Amboise was beside them under the porch. -
“He’s yours, boys,” he whispered, passing without transition from the purest Latin to thieves’ cant.
Conan Becher had turned round.
“What’s the matter with ”
He broke off, peering into the empty street with swimming eyes. His voice choked.
“Brother Amboise,” he called. “. . . Brother Amboise, where are you?”
His haggard, worried face seemed to become even more sunken, his eyes popped out of their sockets, and his breath came in laboured gasps, as he took a few steps forward, casting terrified glances around him.
“Whoo! Whoo! Whoo!”
The dwarf Barcarole appeared on the scene with his sinister owl’s hoot. He arched himself against the creaking sign, and with the bounding resilience of a giant toad he landed at the feet of Conan Becher.
The monk gave a start and flattened himself against the wall.
“Whoo! Whoo! Whoo!” repeated the dwarf.
Performing a hellish dance before his terrorised victim, he multiplied his capers, grotesque salutes, grimaces and obscene gestures. He encircled him in a truly diabolic round.
Then a second hideous freak emerged from the darkness, with a jeering laugh. He was a hunchback with knock-knees, his legs and feet, so deformed that he could move only by means of abrupt and horrible hip- jerks. But his figure was nothing compared with his monstrous face. For on his forehead he had a weird fleshy protuberance, red and pendulous.
The rattle that issued from the friar’s throat was no longer human.
“Haaah! . . . the demons!” he shrieked.
His long body suddenly caved in and he fell to his knees on the muddy pavement. His eyes bulged. His complexion turned waxen. Between the corners of his lips, dilated in a grimace of abject terror, two rows of rotten teeth could be seen chattering. Very slowly, as in the grip of a nightmare, he raised his two bony hands with their splayed fingers. His tongue moved with difficulty. He articulated:
“Have pity . . . Peyrac!”
The pronunciation of this name by the hated voice pierced Angelique’^ heart like a dagger. The gruesome scene released a reflex of madness in her. She began to scream wildly:
“Kill him! Kill him!”
And, without realising it, she bit into Nicholas’s shoulder. He dis¬engaged himself with a rough thrust, and pulled out the butcher’s cutlass that served him as a weapon.
But suddenly there was a heavy silence in the street. Barcarole’s voice rose:
“Why, I’m damned!” he said.
The monk’s body had toppled over on its side at the foot of the wall.
The bandits drew closer. The chief bent over him and lifted up the motionless head; the lower jaw fell, showing the mouth wide open on a last cry of anguish. The eyes were staring and already glazed.
“No doubt of it, he’s dead!” Calembredaine declared.
“We didn’t even touch him,” said the dwarf. “Isn’t it true, Cockscomb, that we didn’t touch him? We only made faces at him to get him into a funk.”
“Well, you succeeded too well. He’s died of it . . . died of funk.”
“Damn funny,” Barcarole repeated.
A window opened. A trembling voice queried:
“What’s going on? Who’s talking of demons?”
“Let’s be off,” Calembredaine ordered. “There’s nothing left for us to do here.”
In the morning, when Friar Becher’s body was found lifeless, yet carry¬ing no trace of blows or wounds, people in Paris remembered the words of the sorcerer who had been burned on the Place de Greve: “Conan Becher, I shall meet you before God’s tribunal ere the month is out.”
They consulted die calendar and saw that the month was ending. And crossing themselves profusely, the inhabitants of the rue de la Cerisaie, near the Arsenal, told of the strange cries that had pulled them out of their first slumber the night before.
The grave-diggers had to be paid double the fee to bury die cursed monk, and on his tomb was put this epitaph:
“Here lies Father Conan Becher, a Franciscan monk, who died from the vexations of the demons, on the last day of March 1661.”
1’he gang of Nicholas Calembredaine, the Illustrious Scamp, ended their night in the taverns.
All the public-houses between the Arsenal and the Pont-Neuf received a visit from them. They surrounded a white-faced woman with loose untidy hair, and made her drink.
The night was no longer black. It was red, red like wine, it blazed like ? fire. Tables swayed, hearths revolved around their fiery axis, the stone floors rose to face-level.
Angelique was dead-drunk, and finally vomited helplessly. With her forehead resting against the wooden top of a table, a thought was born in her and rolled through her in a long wave of despair:
‘Degradation! Degradation. . . .’
Nicholas’s imperative grip pulled her up and he stared at her with surprise and alarm.
“Are you sick? We haven’t drunk anything yet, though. . . . We must celebrate our wedding. . . .”
Then, seeing that she was exhausted and that her eyes were closed, he picked her up in his arms and walked out.
The night was cold, but against Nicholas’s chest she felt warm.
The Gutter-Poet of the Pont-Neuf, lying between the feet of the bronze horse, saw the great bandit pass, holding in his arms, as lightly as if she were a doll, a white form with long, untidy hair.
When Calembredaine walked into the big hall of the Tower of Ncsle, a good many of his rogues and bawds were gathered around the fire. A woman rose yelling and threw herself upon him.
“Swine! You’ve taken another woman . . . they told me. And this while I was wearing myself out with a vicious party of musketeers . . . but I’ll bleed you like a pig, and her too!”
Nicholas quietly put Angclique down on the ground and propped her up against the wall to prevent her from falling. Then he raised his big fist and the girl toppled over.
“Now, listen, all of you,” said Calembredaine. “That girl over there— she is mine, and nobody else’s. Anyone who dares to touch a hair of her head, or any woman who tries to harm her, will have to deal with me. And you know what that means! ... As for the Marquise of the Polacks . . .”
He grabbed the girl again by a flap of her jacket and with a rough contemptuous shove sent her reeling among a group of card-players.
“. . . you can do as you like with her.”
Then, triumphantly, Nicholas Merlot, native of Poitou, former shepherd turned wolf, swung round towards the woman he had always loved and whom fate had restored to him.