Judith Merkle Riley (14 page)

“Never,” said father. “We’ve been through this before.”

“Yes, but then your estate was not so encumbered with debt.”

“Sibille, you’ve been talking again. Will you never learn to shut your mouth?” My eyes widened. It was entirely unfair. I’d never said a thing.

“What reason have you to keep her, except to spite me?” said Aunt Pauline. “You know God has never favored me with children. I want a daughter, and you’re too stingy to even marry her off.”

“And just how much are you proposing to offer this time?”

What did he mean, this time? Were they just bargaining over me, like you would for a pig at the market, or did my father really love me, and refuse as a matter of honor to sell me off as a companion? And was my indulgent, ever-kindly godmother in reality just a cold mercenary who thought money could get her anything? I was horror-struck. I mean, not only was it a question of my delicacy of feeling, but also I was beginning to doubt my powers of perception of human character, as the two of them seemed to shift shape before my very eyes.

But they were negotiating fiercely now, father’s face red with wine, and Auntie’s pallid and doughy, her eyes burning bright, with huge pupils in the semi-dark.

“You offered more when she was six.”

“I was younger then. She would have lightened my sorrows for many years. I could have seen her grow up.”

“You could have spoiled her to the bone, you mean. She needed to learn her place.”

“You only kept her because you knew I wanted her.”

“Pauline, you don’t
deserve
children, have you ever thought of that?”

“And you don’t deserve a sou of my money. Everything will go to the church when I die.”

“Or to Sibille as your heir if I give her to you. Why should I set her up like that, to lord it above her sisters and her brother?”

“I said, I’ll pay off your debts if you give me Sibille. Otherwise, you’ll never see a penny—no, not you nor yours either, now or after my death. Snap! Cut off! The church will be all the richer, and you the poorer. Think carefully about my generous offer, and how little you deserve it, before you refuse, you cold-hearted excuse for a brother.”

“It’s you who’s the monster, Pauline. I’ve raised her honorably. I’ve done well by her. I even arranged a decent marriage for her, which is more than she deserves.”

“Slavery to an oaf? You call that decent? I call that the coldest of concealed cruelties. And what if her grandfather hadn’t left her that vineyard? Villasse! And what dishonesty did you plot with
him
?—Ha! I’d almost forgotten! You have to leave her here, brother, whether I pay you off or not! Too bad, watch my money fly out of your grasp!”

“What in the devil are you talking about, you madwoman?”

“Villasse is as dead as a herring, and Sibille is the cause. She’s fled the scandal, brother. You can’t keep her at home anymore, without threatening the
reputation
of your whole wretched family.”

“She drove him to suicide? I never thought it of him. My God, the disgrace!”

“More than that, brother, and if I were you I’d never mention it again. You don’t want it to get around.”

“The loans—he was to make me another loan. What about my debts?”

“I thought that might move you. Consider me Villasse’s replacement in your life, and sign this paper, if you please, brother. I no more trust you than the wise kid trusts the old wolf. I’ve had it drawn up. A legal guardianship. I don’t want you to reclaim your paternal rights when she comes to visit her mother and decide to throw her into a convent.”

“This is an old paper—”

“I’ve had it a long time, but it’s just as good as the day it was written. See that line? ‘Valid in perpetuity,’ it says. I’m no fool.”

“Then take her and be damned. It’s good to be rid of her. She’s never given anything but trouble, and now she’s overage and unmarriageable. I wish you the joy of her—”

“But, but, Father—” The tears were welling up in my eyes.

“I want a cash deposit,” said father.

“Never fear, Hercule, you’ll have it. Don’t cry, Sibille, this is for your own good—” But I had already fled the room. Reaching my own bedchamber, I took off the beautiful silk dress and the high linen ruff and the pearl headdress, all more beautiful than anything I had ever even touched before, and threw myself on the bed and wept.

“You could always wish that they truly loved you,” said the insinuating voice of the thing in the box.

August 21, 1556

Last night ate at the table of Monsieur de Biragues. The chicken had pin-feathers and the sauce aroused my dyspepsia. How do the great survive their tables? Have Léon fetch some senna from that wretched apothecary in the rue de St.-Jacques as fortification for my next invitation into the realm of these iron-stomached lords.

***

Note: a dream, doubtless caused by the sauce. Or at least I hope caused by the sauce. I was in the darkened chamber of some wizard well after midnight, and saw from behind a woman in widow’s black enter and kneel down before a table dressed as an altar, with black candles. Before her on the table was a coffer, which, when she opened it, caused the candles to go out as if in a fearful whirlwind. But before the room went dark, I swear I caught a glimpse of something I had hoped never to see again on earth. I awoke with the sound of hideous laughter ringing in my ears, and a voice that said, “Michel de Nostre-Dame, I have come at last into France to try you. Stop me this time if you can.” Took a cup of barley water that stood by my bedside and said divers prayers. It is my hope that this dream is not prophetic. For I swear what I saw was the head of Menander the Undying, destroyer of kingdoms, robber of souls, the Devil’s own gate into Hell, as I first saw him in the treasury of the mighty Suleiman the Magnificent. Oh, God, for my sins, the memory of this monstrous object haunts me with dread and fearful desire.

the secret journals of nostradamus

Vol. VI, Entry #439, September 8, 1556

Still smoldering after the unfortunate accident to his gown caused by the mud-flinging ignoramuses in the rue St.-Jacques, Nostradamus was not far from the Pont St.-Michel when he looked up to see the half-timbered second story of an inn from which swung a signboard depicting Saint Michael, his own namesake. There was something fortunate looking about the crimson-gowned archangel, who, with wings unfurled, was triumphantly brandishing a fiery sword at a crowd of demons not unlike those charlatans from the Paris Faculty of Medicine. “An excellent sign, Léon; we shall stop here for luck,” said Michel de Nostre-Dame, and even as their horses were being led away in the inn courtyard, Léon arranged to send a messenger to St.-Germain to let them know that the great prophet Nostradamus had made his appearance in Paris.

Unfortunately, he was overheard, and before Nostradamus had even settled in, a crowd of housemaids, stable boys, two cooks, a saddler, and a spur maker had besieged his room, all clamoring to know their fortunes. The more he tried to get rid of the growing crowds, the more seemed to squash in, battering on his door, waiting in lines in the hall outside, trying to shout in his window. At last he gave in: it was clearly a Sign that while he waited for the queen’s reply, he was meant to replenish the funds he had expended in travel. The third evening after his arrival, he had barely cleared out a horse breeder, a chandler, and three old ladies and their lackey, when two officers of the light horse, still in spurs and riding boots, forced their way into the room. As the dark one flung a handful of silver on the table, Nostradamus narrowed his eyes. Ambitious, arrogant, money-hungry little puppies, thought the old prophet. Besides, my supper is getting cold. He was about to demand that they take their money and leave when an image came to his mind; the image of the tall, bony girl on the little brown horse, her nose in the air and her aura knotted with well-concealed fear, headed off in the direction of the spires of Orléans.

“Does either of you have anything to do with a tall, bony young woman who writes poetry and possesses an extremely large, brindled hound called Gargantua?” he said.

“My sister!” exclaimed the round-faced, blond enseigne. “But how did you know?” Then he thought a moment, and drew back, wide-eyed, in awe.

“I have a warning for you. Bottle up your greed. The fortune your sister is destined to inherit was never yours—it will go to a convent if anything happens to her, so I suggest you cultivate her good will—”

“
Her
good will? But she’s stolen my inheritance—”

Nostradamus shrugged.

“As it stands, it is not her blood family, but the man who marries her who will be rich. Now, get out, the both of you, my supper’s getting cold, and you didn’t have an invitation.”

“How dare you dismiss me like that,” said the other young officer, the one with the narrow-boned face and dark mustache. “When Philippe d’Estouville favors a commoner with his presence, he is not sent away like a servant.” His hand went to his sword.

“Touch a hair of my head, and you will answer to the King of France,” said Nostradamus, never raising his voice. “Besides, you would have been happier if you’d left without hearing what I have to say about you. You are not destined to inherit your uncle’s estate. And you will lose your thirteenth duel.” The dark-haired cavalryman turned pale, and his hand dropped from his sword hilt.

“Don’t believe him, Philippe,” said the blond officer.

“I don’t. But still, Annibal, I’d rather die gallantly by the sword than shriveled up with poxy old age.”

As they swept out of the room, the old prophet said after them, “I didn’t say
that
.” But only Annibal heard it.

As the door shut behind them, Nostradamus got up and bolted it to stop the inflow of petitioners. Enough of these vulgar devils, he thought. I’m not in Paris for my health, but until I see the queen, I’m out of cash. As he rummaged around getting out the cash box and putting away this latest payment, he thought, now where did that dish of mine go? But then he saw that Léon was heating it over a candle flame, and he was happy. He poured his cup full of a really excellent red wine, and let the delight of anticipation trickle through him. That was one of the greatest secrets he had learned in his travels, though he was still working on perfecting it; to enjoy the moment as it is. Especially when the moment is supper, thought the old prophet happily.

***

“It’s not
fair
, it’s just not
fai
r
!” Weeping so hard that she began to choke and gag, Laurette threw herself down on the bed, convulsing with rage and grief. Her little sisters stood about the huge, sagging four-poster, stiff and silent with amazement and awe at this volcanic eruption of emotion. The sound of her wailing echoed through the upstairs rooms, drawing curious serving maids, and at last her mother, fresh from the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up, and a big white apron over her woolen day dress.

“Laurette, Laurette—”

“Go away! You just don’t understand! You
can’t
understand!”

“I understand more than you think,” said her mother.

“She’s ugly! She’s stuck up! She gets everything!”

Madame Artaud de La Roque noticed a piece of crumpled paper on the tile floor, and stooped to pick it up. Smoothing it out, she said:

“Annibal’s letter was to the entire family, Laurette. You had no right to take it away and crumple it up like this. I keep all his letters in my box, and now you’ve spoiled this one.”

“It should be
burne
d
!” shrieked Laurette, rising from her pillow to confront her mother.

“He says nothing in here but pleasantries, and tells us of his successes. His letters will be a family treasure someday. What right have you to steal this pleasure from me, from our descendants?”

“From the children of Sibille and
Philippe
, you mean! It’s
me
who should be courted and petted. It’s
me
who should be Madame d’Estouville! Didn’t you see that part where he says that ‘M. d’Estouville takes great pleasure in Sibille’s conversation these days. What a fortunate connection this would be for our family—’?”

“Laurette, my dear, dear girl. A glance, even a flirtation, does not amount to a marriage. A family alliance of that degree must be based not only on lineage, but on the bride’s dowry. Your aunt has doubtless let it be known that she will be generous—”

“She’s
my
aunt, too! Sibille already has a vineyard! It’s me who should have had that dowry! Aunt would have given it to me if Sibille hadn’t gone to her house like some beggar! Why didn’t you send me to live with Aunt Pauline? I
deserved
to be rich!”

“Laurette, my darling, my child, you know why—”

“I know Sibille had a husband and she
shot
him, all because she wanted
Philippe
for herself, that’s why! Philippe liked me better anyway, I know it! I’m far prettier! Aunt should have taken
me
! And now Sibille wears silk and Philippe sits at her feet while she reads those horrible poems of hers—” Laurette, having raised herself up on one elbow, now sat up, her face burning and bitter.

“The letter says none of this, Laurette—”

“It might as well—you know that’s what’s happening at this very minute.” Madame Artaud sat down on the bed beside her furious offspring, and began to stroke her back.

“Laurette, my daughter, listen to me. In marriage, facts are facts. You have no dowry. It is only by God’s grace that your father escaped that evil glove merchant’s accusations of heresy, and we were not thrown into the charity hospital. If your sister makes an advantageous alliance, as she is raised in the esteem of the world, so will your brother be, and through him, your chances of a substantial marriage, a marriage of comfort—” Madame Artaud’s face was drawn and pallid, a white tombstone for some secret grief.

“An old man, an ugly man, a poor man, some leftover—that’s what’s for me. You might as well say it out.”

“My dear, my love—as it stands now, there is nothing at all for you. Do you want to live as a pensioner in someone else’s house?”

“In
Sibille’s
house, you mean! I tell you, it will never be! I won’t sit in her house, minding her children, watching Philippe chuck her under the chin and call her ‘darling’ while she gets that smug, conceited look she gets when she smiles!”

“Oh, Laurette, my beautiful, beautiful girl—if you only knew how I pray for you—”

“Prayers! What good are they? Sibille has silks and satins and dowry money gushing like a waterfall, and I have prayers? If God were just, Sibille would be hanged, and
I
would be Madame d’Estouville.”

“Shhh. Shhh. Never say it. Laurette, my dear, my precious. Listen to my advice. Do not let your emotions rule you. If you wish to marry according to the place your blood deserves, then you must rule yourself with an iron hand, as I have learned to do—come, girls, I need assistance, and your sister must be left in quiet.” Laurette’s mother rose to return to her work. But as she left the room with Françoise and Isabelle following behind, Laurette, her face pinched and bitter, whispered softly:

“If you ruled yourself so well, why did it not bring you a higher marriage than father?”

***

It was the Old Constable himself who came to escort Nostradamus to the current royal residence at St.-Germain-en-Laye. He made quite a stir at the inn, with his elegant horses and military escort in half-armor. In the Constable’s entourage, Nostradamus recognized the two young men who had consulted him, handsomely mounted. The Old Constable was the natural one to send on this mission; during the queen’s long barrenness, he had collected recipes, the advice of wizards, and fertility charms from all of his foreign travels for her. They kept up a lively correspondence while her husband was on campaign, for the king never told her any of the news; he confided only in his mistress. The queen called the Old Constable her “gossip,” signed herself “
vostre
bonne
coumère et amye
,” and counted on him to tell her what her husband did abroad; he thought she was his friend. He was so old, a remnant from the court of King Francis the First, and she so much younger, of such greater rank, and so terribly plain, that no one ever suspected any gallantry. And in terms of social climbing, until she had had the children, she had been a bad bet; those more anxious for preferment clustered around the mistress, not the wife.

But there was another reason that Anne de Montmorency, Grand Constable of France, wanted to escort Nostradamus from Paris to the palace that lay a few miles off, on a bluff overlooking the Seine. He wanted to pick the prophet’s brains on the ride. He wanted a secret consultation, not on the future of France, but the future of himself in regard to the throne.

Montmorency saw himself as the power behind the throne, and he had rivals. In his mind, he counted them up: first, the Guise brothers, with their little niece, Mary Queen of Scots. They had only to sit and wait, and they could become puppet-masters of France when she married the Dauphin. Then the Old Constable would be thrown onto the scrap heap. Next, there were the Princes of the Blood, the Bourbon brothers, the closest natural rivals to the Guises. But if they ever came to power, they’d pitch out Montmorency and the Guises, too.

How to balance off these two rival families and preserve himself? Neither faction contained a reliable ally. Both awful, but in their own way. The Guises—coldly brilliant, fanatically Catholic; the Bourbons, three brothers, feckless, changeable, and useless. Damn!

First I need to break up the marriage plans of the Guises, thought the Old Constable, as he rode into Paris. Delay the wedding date with a thousand excuses, then locate a better-connected bride for the Dauphin that they simply can’t pass up. Let’s see, who will help me? I’ll need allies in this—hmm, it has to be the Bourbons—they’ll lose out if the Guises take power. Perhaps Antoine de Bourbon, the King of Navarre, can be convinced—but all he ever thinks of is how to get Spanish Navarre back into his hands again. So I’ll tell him it will regain his kingdom—if only he weren’t such a fool! The only
man
in his family is his wife—For a moment, the image of Antoine’s starchy, no-nonsense Protestant wife came to the Old Constable. Jeanne d’Albret, the daughter of old King Francis’s clever sister. Now if I could make an alliance with
her
—

I’ll just have this Nostradamus tell me how it all will come out, he thought. Then I’ll know and can plan accordingly. Seated like a pillar of iron on his gray stud-horse, his face impassive, his dreams invisible, he stared straight ahead. Those who saw the old warrior pass by thought he was thinking of battle.