Angelique - Part 6. The Inn of the Red Mask Chapter 8 - Read online

“I HAVE PROMISED MONSIEUR D’AUBRAY, the Civil Lieutenant of Paris, who in turn has given a similar pledge to the King, that the last three names of the list will not be disclosed to the public. This morning, despite the hanging of the author of these pamphlets, the name of the Comte de Guiche has been flung to the public for Parisians to feast on. His Majesty has fulfy realised that the condemnation of the principal offender would not stop the hand of imminent justice from descending upon Monsieur, that is to say, his own brother. On my part, I gave His Majesty to understand that I knew the accomplice or accomplices who, despite the pamphleteer s death, were determined to continue his work. And, I repeat, I promised that the last three names would not appear.”
“They shall appear!”
“No!”
Angclique and Desgrez once more faced each other, on the very spot where Angelique had put her head on the policeman s shoulder the night before. The eyes of the two antagonists were like crossed swords.
The house was empty. Only David, wounded and feverish, was up¬stairs in the loft. There was hardly any noise from the street. The ripples of the popular outcry did not penetrate into this aristocratic district.
“I know where the bundles of leaflets are hidden which you still propose to distribute,” said Desgrez. “I can ask for the army’s co-operation, attack the Faubourg Saint-Denis and have all the rogues cut to pieces who’d try to oppose the police in their search of the Great Coesre’s house. There is a simpler way, however, of settling the matter. Listen to me, little fool, instead of glowering' at me like a furious kitten—Claude Le Petit is dead. It had to be. His impudence had gone on for too long and the King will never permit the rabble to judge him.”
“The King! The King! Your mouth is full of him. You used to have more pride in the old days!”
“Pride is a sin of youth, Madame. Before indulging in pride, one must know whom one’s up against. I have clashed with the King’s will and it almost broke me. The demonstration is conclusive: the King is the stronger. So I am on the side of the King, hi my opinion, Madame, you, who have two children to look after, would be well-advised to follow my example.”
“Silence, you disgust me!”
“Haven’t I heard something about letters patent that you are anxious to obtain for manufacturing an exotic drink—or something of the kind . . . ? And don’t you think that a large sum of money, say 50,000 livres, would come in handy to promote some kind of business? Or else some privilege might help, an exemption of dues or I don’t know what? A woman like you is surely not short of ideas. The King is prepared to grant whatever you ask in exchange for your definite and immediate silence. Now this is a good way of putting an end to this drama to everyone’s benefit. The Civil Lieutenant will receive congratulations, I’ll be promoted to a new post, His Majesty will heave a sigh of relief, and you, my dear, having gwt your boat afloat again, will continue to forge ahead towards the most exalted destiny. Come on, don’t tremble like a filly under the trainer’s whip. Think it over. I’ll come back for your answer in two hours. . . .”
Paris felt the spirit of insurrection welling up again. The city remem¬bered that the Gutter-Poet had been die first, back in 1650, to hurl the arrows of the mazarinades. As long as he was alive, as long as one could be sure that his stinging tongue would trumpet abroad the latest grievances, one could let the old ones sleep. But now that he was dead, the people were gripped by panic. They had the impression of being suddenly gagged. Everything rose again to the surface: the famines of 1656, of 1658, of 1662, the new taxes. What a pity the Italian was dead! They would have burned his palace . . . !
Chains of dancers formed along the quays, shouting:
“Who stabbed the little cake-vendor?”
While others were beating out the rhythm:
“Tomorrow . . . we’ll know! Tomorrow . . . we’ll know!”
But the next day the city did not have its daily flowering of white leaflets. Nor on the following days. Silence fell again. The nightmare faded. People would never know who had killed the little cake- vendor. Paris realised that the Gutter-Poet was truly dead.
He had, in fact, told Angelique so himself.
“Now you are very strong and you can leave us by the roadside.” During the long nights in which she did not find a moment’s rest, she would see him before her, looking at her with eyes as pale and brilliant as the waters of the Seine when the sun shines upon them.
She had not been able to bring herself to the Place de Greve. It was quite enough that Barbe had taken the children there, as if to a sermon, without afterwards sparing her the slightest detail of the sinister picture: the Gutter-Poet’s fair hair fluttering over his bloated face, his bagging black stockings over his spindly calves, his ink-horn and goose-quill which the hangman had, superstitiously, left at his belt.
When, on the third day, she got up after a sleepless night, she said to herself: •
‘I cannot bear this life any longer.’
On the evening of that day she was to call on Dcsgrez, at his home in the rue du Pont Notrc-Dame. From there he was to take her to some im¬portant persons with whom a secret agreement was to be drawn up that would put an end to this strange affair.
Angclique’s proposals had been accepted. In exchange, she would hand to whom it might concern the three cases of printed but undistributed pamphlets, with which the gentlemen of the police would no doubt make a big bonfire.
And life would start all over again. Angelique would once more have a lot of money. She would also enjoy the sole privilege of manufacturing and marketing throughout the kingdom the drink called chocolate.
‘I cannot bear this life any longer/ she repeated to herself.
She lighted her candle, for it was not yet dawn. The mirror on her dressing-table cast back at her the reflection of a wan, drawn face.
‘Green eyes/ she said to herself. ‘A colour that brings bad luck. Yes, it’s true, I bring bad luck to those I love . . . or who love me/
Claude the poet? . . . Hanged. Nicholas? . . . Disappeared. Joffrey? . . . Burned alive.
Slowly she passed her two hands over her brows. Inwardly she was trembling so violently that she could hardly breathe. And yet the palms of her hands were icy.
‘What am I doing here, fighting against all these strong and powerful men? That isn’t my place. A woman’s place is in her home, beside a husband she loves, near the warmth of a hearth, in the tranquillity of a house, with a child sleeping in a wooden cot. Do you remember, Joffrey, the little chateau where Florimond was bom? . . . The mountain-storm rattled against the window-panes and I sat on your knees; I leaned my cheek against yours. And I looked with a little fear and a wonderful confidence at your curious face, on which the firelight was playing. . . . How gaily you could laugh, showing your white teeth! Or eke I’d lie down in our big bed and you would sing for me, with that deep, velvety voice which seemed to reverberate from the mountains. Then I’d fall asleep and you would lie down beside me in the cool, embroidered sheets, scented with iris. I had given you much. And you, you had given me everything. . . . And I would tell myself, in my dreams, that we would be happy for ever. . . .’
She stumbled through the room, fell on her knees by the bed, buried her face in the crumpled sheets.
‘Joffrey, my love! . . .’
The cry, stifled for so long, burst forth.
‘Joffrey, my love, come back, don’t leave me alone. . . . Come back.’
But he would never come back, she knew. He had gone too far away. Where could she go and find him? She had not even a grave to pray on. . . . The ashes of Joffrey had been scattered by the winds of the Seine.
Angelique rose, her face tear-stained.
She sat down at the table, took a white sheet of paper and sharpened her pen.
“When you read this letter, gentlemen, I shall have ceased to live. I know that to put an end to one’s own life is a great crime, but for this crime God, who sees into the depths of our souls, will be my only refuge. I throw myself upon His mercy. I entrust the fate of my sons to the justice and gradousness of the King. In exchange for a silence on which the honour of the royal family depended and which I respected, I entreat His Majesty to take fatherly care of these two little lives, which started out under the sign of the greatest misfortune. If the King does not give them back the name and inheritance of their father, the Comte de Peyrac, may he at least offer them the means of subsistence in their childhood and, later, the education and funds necessary for thdr establishment. . . .”
She went on writing, adding certain particulars concerning the life of her children, asking also for protection of the young, orphaned David Chaillou. She then wrote a letter for Barbe, begging her never to leave Florimond and Cantor, and bequeathing to her the few things she owned, dothes and jewels. She slipped the second letter into an envelope and sealed it.
After that she felt better. She washed herself and dressed, then spent the morning in the nursery. The sight of the children did her good. But she was not troubled by the thought that she would leave them for ever. They did not need her any more. They had Barbe, whom they knew and who would take them to Montdoup. They would grow up in the sunshine and the fresh country air, far from the filth and stench of Paris.
Even Florimond had lost his dependence on his mother. She would return, late at night, to a home which they had turned into their own little kingdom, with the two maids, the dog Patou, their toys and thdr birds. Since it was Angelique who brought toys home, they would rush up to her when they saw her and, tyrannically, grumblingly, would always damour for something new. That day, Florimond pulled at his little red dress and said:
“Maman, when will I have trunk-hose, like a boy? I am a man now, you know!”
“Darling, you already have a big felt hat with a beautiful pink plume. Many little boys of your age are quite content with a hood like Cantor’s.”
“I want trunk-hose!” shouted Florimond, flinging his trumpet on the floor.
Angelique slipped away, fearing a fit of temper which would have obliged her to punish him.
After the midday meal, she took advantage of die children’s sleep to put on her cloak and leave the house. She took the sealed envelope with her. She would hand it to Desgrez and ask him to take it to the famous secret meeting-place. Then she would leave him and walk along the Seine. She would have a few hours’ time before her. She intended to take a rather long walk. She wanted to reach the countryside and carry away, as her last vision, the sight of autumn-yellow meadows and golden trees, breathe for the last time the smell of moss, which would remind her of Monteloup and her childhood. . . .