Authors: Robert Merle
I must confess that my body missed these last two as much as my heart missed Angelina. You must understand that it isn’t that I didn’t wish to remain faithful to my sweet angel, but how could I be condemned for such a long time to the gall and bitterness of chastity, I who so appreciated the delicacies of the female body? To be able to manage that, our animal natures, born of those imperious organs (each one of which pushes so hard to accomplish its mission), would have to stop forcing their way into our brain canals! But when these daily pleasures are no longer available, the resulting abstinence cries out to those lively spirits in great number and we are tyrannized in our leisure moments during the day and especially at night when we need to be sleeping. And so, when my daydreams turned to dreams of love, I couldn’t help remembering the pleasures I’d indulged in from time to time at the needle shop and at the Joyeuse residence in Montpellier—thoughts which unsettled me when I wanted to think only of the pleasures that awaited me in Angelina’s arms. Alas, the Périgordian proverb is right: you can’t eat the smell of roast meat; and the bouquet of future loves cannot replace the humble crust of bread whose merit is to be there when our stomachs are growling and our mouth is watering.
At the present moment, to tell the truth, I had nothing—neither the celestial ambrosia nor the earthly crust—being stuck in Mespech like a prisoner, forbidden to visit Sarlat or any of our villages, since the Brethren (my father and Sauveterre) feared for our safety in these troubled times.
I had found Uncle Sauveterre much greyed, his neck even thinner in his Huguenot collar, and dragging his wounded leg behind him. Nor had his perpetually sour temperament improved—he spoke scarcely three words a day (of which two were quotations from the Bible), constantly frowning and muttering about Jean de Siorac’s weakness for Franchou, my late mother’s former chambermaid, though my uncle seemed to dote on the bastard my father had sired, who was already a year old and whom they’d named David.
Franchou, who was nursing him, was already pregnant again, and happy that my father had let her know he’d be content to have a daughter, since at Mespech, he said, with Jacquou and Annet (my milk brothers, Barberine’s sons) there were plenty of males, and he wanted a pretty sweetling to brighten up our old walls. Having heard this, Franchou was able to abandon herself unreservedly to the pleasures of being with child, assured that the fruit of her loins would be well received, for, as much as my father wanted a girl, no one has ever seen a man turn up his nose at the birth of a son.
That winter, despite the cold and snow, we had wonderful Sunday dinners at Mespech, when Cabusse would come from le Breuil with Cathau; our stonemason Jonas from his cave house with Sarrazine; and Coulondre Iron-arm from the les Beunes mill with Jacotte—the three wenches looking so fresh and pretty in their Sunday dress, their lace bonnets perched on their heads, and each carrying a baby in her arms—not to mention Franchou, who was proudest of all of them, since her baby boy was the son of a baron. We never left the table without at least one of the four undoing her bodice and pulling
her lily-white breast to nurse her babe—except Cathau, who always turned away while she breastfed since Cabusse was so jealous. But there was certainly enough, with the three others, to satisfy our eyes and soften our hearts, and my father, in his place at the head of the table, would silence Sauveterre’s sardonic sermons with a wave of his hand, so that he could quietly savour the beauty of these nursings, which he never tired of, so much did he love life. Sauveterre, for his part, kept his eyes lowered in his belief that woman is nothing but trickery and the source of eternal damnation—at best an ephemeral pleasure followed by a life of worry. And yet even he was overjoyed at the idea that Mespech’s community of little Huguenots was multiplying, and would carry forward the torch, after we were gone, of the only true religion in this world.
On one particular evening, I noticed Barberine watching Jacotte suckle her little Emmanuel, who, unlike his taciturn father Coulondre Iron-arm, was as noisy a little one as we’d ever had in this house. “Oh, my time has come and gone,” she sighed. “Now that Madame has departed this world,” she whispered, dropping her voice so as not to sadden the baron with her memories, “what am I doing here? What good am I, since all I know how to do is to give milk like a poor cow in the barn? At least when Madame was here, as soon as she knew she was pregnant, I’d get pregnant by my husband so that Madame only needed a part-time nurse at the beginning until I could deliver and provide both babes all the milk they needed. But now what good am I? It breaks my heart to see these strong young wenches giving suck to their babes just as I used to do for the baron’s children. And now look at me! What good am I any more? I don’t even know how to cook a roast like Maligou or run the household like Alazaïs!”
“Barberine,” I replied, “are you saying it was nothing to have nursed François de Siorac, who will be the next Baron de Mespech? Am I myself not going to be a great doctor in the city someday?
And my beautiful little sister Catherine, who will someday marry a great lord?”
At that, Catherine blushed with pleasure, lowered her azure eyes and, in her confusion, took her two braids in her mouth. She was approaching adulthood with Little Sissy (the daughter la Maligou claimed to have had by a Gypsy captain, who, through sorcery, had forced himself on her fifteen times in her barn). I remembered how my jealous little Catherine would rage in mute fury when she was three years old and saw me carrying Little Sissy on my shoulders—Little Sissy who was now a grown woman, while Catherine was still a child, having no other beauty than her marvellous face, all pink and white, with her sky-blue eyes, golden hair, full red lips and cute little nose. But as for her body, she hadn’t yet fleshed out, so her legs were long and thin, her derrière and bosom as flat as my hand.
I couldn’t help noticing this difference the next morning, when, strolling from room to room, I entered, full of my own thoughts, the room in the east tower my father called “the baths” because there was a huge oak tub in front of the open fire, which Alazaïs, la Maligou and Barberine had filled with pails of hot water brought from the kitchen.
“Hey, Pierre!” cried Barberine. “Be off with you, my pretty boy! An honest lad doesn’t go peeping at the girls while they’re in their bath!”
“What?” I countered. “Isn’t Catherine my sister? And Little Sissy practically the same? Haven’t I already seen them naked a hundred times when they were little?”
So saying, hands on my hips, I stepped up to the tub, enjoying the sight of these fresh flowers in their natural state. Catherine, blushing crimson, sank down up to her neck in the soapy water, but Little Sissy, devil that she was, suddenly exclaimed, “I’m clean enough, Barberine!” and stepped out of the tub, naked as she was, and had the effrontery to go and stand in front of the fire, turning this way and that to dry herself, batting her eyelashes coyly as she did so, her large, jade-black
eyes glancing slyly at me. There was no need for me walk around her to caress her with my eyes: her efforts to dry all her parts exposed her golden Saracen skin to the light of the fire, displaying her graceful arms and her high, apple-like breasts, and, below one of the finest waists you ever saw, her thighs and buttocks nicely rounded, neither too skinny nor too corpulent.
“Oh, you vile strumpet!” cried little Catherine, her blue eyes suddenly filling with bitterness. “You beastly creature! Shameless hussy! Cover yourself, Gypsy witch! You wicked prune! Don’t you know it’s a capital and deadly sin to let a man see what you’re showing him?”
“There, there, my little pearl!” laughed Barberine. “There’s no sin in looking, only in doing. Looking’s not the same as licking! And tasting isn’t taking. But of course, one often leads to the other, as we know all too well. Eh, my little rooster?” she said, turning to me. “I’ve already told you, get a hold of yourself! I know not what designs your master has for this pretty lass, but it’s not for you to go turning her head with your hungry looks before we know what he has in mind for her!”
“Dear Barberine,” I cooed, giving her a peck on the cheek (and on her voluminous bosom, as much for my own pleasure as to pacify her), “I meant no harm, as you know very well!”
“I know you meant exactly the opposite, you rascal!” returned Barberine, half in jest and half in earnest. “You’re breathing fire like a stallion in a field of mares! What a pity you can’t pass on some of this ardour to your brother François, who’s as cold as a herring in a barrel of brine.”
“Oh, he’s not as cold as you think,” I retorted. “He goes about dreaming of his Diane de Fontenac.”
“Dreaming is like meat without sauce,” replied Barberine, “if there’s no touching that comes of it! And how’s François supposed to marry the daughter of the sworn enemy of Mespech?”
Her words immediately brought my Angelina to mind and the obstacle that her parents’ religion put in the way of our cherished project—despite the fact that they liked me well enough—and, suddenly filled with melancholy, I left the women and their bath. But wishing to rid myself of these dark thoughts, I headed towards the hall where Cabusse was giving a fencing lesson to François, who greeted me with a wave of his épée, but nary a smile or a trace of any light in his eyes as he felt very little love for me. What a difference from my beautiful, strong, innocent angel, Samson, who, as soon as he caught sight of me, leapt from his stool, threw his arms around me and gave me a dozen kisses on both cheeks. Still holding his hand, I sat down by his side and watched François, who, to tell the truth, was not a bad-looking fellow, neither weak not awkward in body, able to shoot accurately with both hands, as good a horseman as any and far from ignorant. But he was unbearably withdrawn, tight-lipped, rigid, secretive and infinitely bitter, all too conscious of his rank and of his future barony, haughty with our servants, and, while little Hélix was still alive, haughtily disdainful of my affection for her, clearly preferring his own inaccessible and noble loves.
And there was no doubt about their inaccessibility, for the robber Baron de Fontenac, whose lands bordered our own, dreamt of and breathed and lived only for our destruction, covering his wickedness under the mantle of the papist religion. It’s true that his wife did not resemble him in the least, being of sweet temper and Christian virtues, and in this her daughter, thank God, took after her mother. But these poor women had no leverage against this angry wild boar, who swore vengeance against the Brethren for having had his father banished for his crimes and for managing to get their hands on our beautiful domain, an acquisition which made them not only his closest neighbour but kept him from becoming the most powerful baron in the whole Sarlat region.
Of course, during the time we were ministering to his daughter, Diane, while she was infected with the plague, we’d hoped for some reconciliation since no other doctor in Sarlat would have consented to go near the Fontenac castle and the baron had been obliged to ask my father for help. Jean de Siorac consented only on condition that she be brought to Mespech and quarantined in one of our tower rooms, where he’d managed to cure her—the only lasting impairment from her confinement being the incurable longing that spread to François’s heart.
Alas, this dog of a baron didn’t even have the gratitude of a cur: as soon as the internecine wars that raged among the subjects of the same king recommenced, we learnt that he’d urged several other Catholic noblemen of the Sarlat region to join him in a surprise attack on Mespech in order to destroy this “nest of heretics”. Their scheme was greeted with cold stares from virtually every one of our neighbours, given how much respect the Brethren had inspired in the region, and how little this wicked baron. Puymartin (who, though a papist, was a good friend of ours, having fought with us against the butcher-baron of la Lendrevie) was the first to warn us of Fontenac’s machinations, and urged us to be careful since, having failed to mount a direct attack on us, the rascal might use stealth or ambush instead.
This warning, brought by a horseman on 16th February, redoubled our vigilance and limited our excursions beyond Mespech’s walls. When we did venture out, we went in a well-armed troop with helmets, halberds and pistols, preceded by the Siorac brothers, both great hunters whose sharp eyes and ears were alert to any danger.
At nightfall, our household and livestock were carefully secured behind our walls, all our doors bolted; the massive oak doors of the entry tower were locked and secured on the inside by iron bars, and the portcullis lowered. When it wasn’t raining, we’d put torches in sockets at regular intervals in the chateau’s walls which could be lit
at the first alarm and which would allow us to see the number and position of our assailants. To Escorgol, who normally guarded the main entrance, the Brethren added my valet, Miroul (“Miroul’s got bright eyes! Oh yes, but / One is blue, and the other’s chestnut”, little Hélix would sing when feeling some relief from her long agony), so that at the first suspicious sound, Escorgol could dispatch him to us to quietly spread the alarm, since he was so fast and agile.
My father took Samson and me on a tour of the underground passage that had been dug while we were away in Montpellier, and that now linked the chateau with the mill at les Beunes, which was the weak point in our defences. Our mason Jonas had reinforced it with small loopholes in the walls, but it was only a one-storey structure with but a wooden stockade to protect it, and could not have sustained an attack by twenty resolute ruffians with only Coulondre and his Jacotte to defend it. They were brave enough, but Coulondre had only one arm and Jacotte a nursling to attend to.
The mill was an attractive target, for, year in year out, it was full of sacks of grain, since the entire valley brought their harvest to be ground there—not only grains for their flour but walnuts for their oil, and our many swine and Coulondre’s were kept there to enjoy the rich spillage from it—extraordinary treasures in these times of famine, and all too likely to tempt the palates of the bands of beggars afoot in the region. We well remembered that in 1557 (when I was only six) Fontenac took advantage of my father’s absence at the siege of Calais to finance and dispatch a large band of Gypsies to attack Mespech. They’d come very close to taking the chateau, and Uncle Sauveterre had managed to avert disaster only by paying them a large ransom to get them to withdraw.