Up to that point, there’d been no surprises for Madame de Rambouillet’s guests, but then the marquise, in her quality as guide, walked past the princess to a spot on the wall that wasn’t known to have a door. There she tapped the wall with her fan.
Instantly, the wall opened as if by magic, and they stood on the threshold of a beautiful room decorated with furniture of blue velvet trimmed with gold and silver. The wall hangings, like the furniture, were blue velvet with similar trim. In the middle of this room was a table laden with flowers, fruits, cakes, and ice cream, presided over by two little cherubs, who were none other than the younger sisters of Julie d’Angennes and Madame de Saint-Étienne.
The company gave a unanimous cry of admiration; all had thought that beyond that wall was the neighboring garden of the Three Hundred, but here was a chamber so marvelously furnished and wondrously painted that it seemed as if the architect must be a fairy and the decorator a magician.
While everyone raved about the tasteful opulence of the chamber, which was to become famous as the Blue Room, Chapelain took pencil and paper into one corner of the salon, sat, and sketched out the first three stanzas of his Ode to Zirphée, a work that was to be nearly as celebrated as his La Pucelle.
The guests had seen what Chapelain was up to, so there was a profound silence when he who was considered the first poet of his time stood up, extended a hand, placed one foot forward, and with eyes alight pronounced the following verses:
“Urgande once knew well
The favor of Amadis and his noble band.
By her charms she broke the laws
Of time, that heaven shall take all it gives.
I had to show your eyes what she did by charm:
Keep Artemisia with the art that Urgande
Had used to keep Amadis.
“By the power of this art,
I built this lodge to keep
Time and fate at bay,
To outstrip the corruption of change—
For what passes in this paradise passes not at all.
Where rushing time hides its terrible face,
Old age trespasses not.
“This incomparable beauty
That a hundred evils could not bring to surrender,
Enchanted by this building,
Baffled by its defenses,
Shining from her throne with a divine radiance
That then, over mortals, spreads out
Without cloud, eclipse, or end.”
Cries of enthusiasm and three rounds of applause greeted this improvisation—when suddenly, in the middle of the cheers, Voiture rushed into the room. Pale and covered in blood, he cried, “A doctor! A doctor! The Marquis de Pisany had a fight with Souscarrières and is badly wounded!”
And right behind him the Marquis de Pisany, unconscious and pale as death, was carried into the salon in the arms of Brancas and Chavaroche. “My son!” “My brother!” “The marquis!” The cries went up, and, forgetting the pleasures of the Blue Room, everyone rushed to the side of the wounded man.
Even as the unconscious Marquis de Pisany was borne into the Hotel de Rambouillet, back at the Inn of the Painted Beard an unexpected event, one that would greatly complicate things, threw everything there into disarray.
Lying atop the table where previously he had set his mugs of beer, believed dead and just awaiting his shroud, was Étienne Latil—who sighed, opened his eyes, and said, in a low but perfectly intelligible voice, these two words: “I’m thirsty.”
VI
Marina and Jacquelino
A few minutes before Latil uttered the two words that so often signify the return of the wounded to life—and which, in any case, were entirely typical of our swordsman—a young man presented himself at the Inn of the Painted Beard and asked if room number thirteen was occupied by a peasant woman from Pau named Marina. He added that she would be easily recognized by her beautiful hair, her lovely dark eyes, and by her red bonnet, of the style worn in the rugged mountains of Coarraze where Henri IV had, bareheaded and barefoot, so often climbed as a child.
Madame Soleil took her time in replying, admiring her inquirer’s youthful good looks while favoring him with her most charming smile. Finally she admitted, with a knowing look, that a young woman called Marina was in the room referred to, and had been waiting for half an hour or so.
And Madame Soleil, with the sort of graceful gesture that women of thirty to thirty-five like to make before handsome lads of twenty to twenty-two—with this graceful gesture Madame Soleil indicated the stairs, at the top of which the young man would find room number thirteen.
The young man was, as we’ve said, a handsome lad of twenty to twenty-two, of medium height but a good figure, every move of which showed elegance and strength. He had the blue eyes of the Northerner, sheltered by the dark eyebrows and hair of the South. His complexion, tanned by the sun, was slightly pale from fatigue. A thin mustache and a nascent goatee enhanced a pair of fine, smiling lips that, when opened, revealed a double row of white teeth that any lady of the Court might envy.
His costume, that of a Basque peasant, was both comfortable and elegant. It began at the top with a red, or rather oxblood, beret, decorated with a black tassel and two drooping feathers that framed his face charmingly. Below, he wore a doublet of the same color as the beret, trimmed with black lace, with the left sleeve open and hanging loose so that it could, in this period of assaults by day and ambushes by night, serve as a quick defense against the slash of a dagger or sword. This doublet was buttoned from top to bottom, as was no longer the fashion in Paris, where one now wore the doublet partly unbuttoned to show off one’s lace-trimmed shirt beneath. Below the waist the young man wore a sort of buff gray trousers, and a pair of high-heeled shoes rather than boots. A dagger was thrust through the leather belt at his waist, from which a long rapier hung down along his legs. These were the arms of a gentleman, not exactly compatible with the costume of a peasant.
He arrived at the door, made sure the room was in fact number thirteen, and then carefully knocked in a deliberate pattern: two quick taps, a pause, two more taps, and then finally a fifth.
At the fifth knock the door opened, indicating that the visitor was expected.
The person who opened the door was a woman of twenty-eight to thirty, a lush flower at the peak of her beauty. Her eyes, which the young man had mentioned downstairs, sparkled like two black diamonds under the velvet shadow of her long eyelashes. Her hair was so dark and lustrous that no comparison with India ink or a raven’s wing could do it justice. Her pale cheeks were flushed with the heat that speaks of sudden passion rather than enduring regard. Her neck, draped in strings of coral, descended to a generous bosom that trembled provocatively with each breath. Though her contours, sculpturally speaking, were more those of Niobe than of Diana, she was nonetheless rather petite, slim of waist above the flare of her rather Spanish hips. Her skirt, which was on the short side, was striped red and white, and displayed a lower leg rather more aristocratic than her costume would indicate, and feet that seemed almost too small to support the bounties above.
It was wrong to say that the door opened, as in fact it was only half opened until the young man said Marina, spoken more as a password than a name. The reply was Jacquelino, at which the door opened completely. The guardian stood aside to let the man enter, after which the door was shut and bolted. She turned quickly and surveyed him, as if to make sure of whom she was dealing with.
They regarded each other with equal curiosity—Jacquelino, arms crossed, head high, smile on his lips; Marina, head forward, her figure relaxed yet slightly coiled, in a manner reminiscent of a panther ready to spring.
“Ventre-saint-gris!” the young man said suddenly. “I had no idea I had such a delicious cousin!”
“Neither did I, upon my soul, ‘cousin,’” the young woman replied.
“And, by my faith,” Jacquelino continued, “relatives like we are, who’ve never even met before, should certainly get
acquainted with a kiss.”
“That seems to me a very appropriate welcome between . . . cousins,” said Marina, offering her cheeks, which were colored with a glow that an observer might take for the flush of desire rather than the blush of modesty.
And they kissed.
“Ah! By the merry soul of my father,” said the young man, in a good-natured tone that seemed natural to him, “it’s the finest thing in the world, I think, to embrace a beautiful woman—especially as what follows may be a finer thing yet.” And he spread his arms again to put the idea into action.
“Gently, cousin,” said the young woman, stopping him short. “Not that I don’t think that’s a fine idea, but time is short. And that’s your fault. Why did you keep me waiting for half an hour?”
“Pardieu! What a question! Because I thought I would be met by some fat German nanny or some dried-up Spanish duenna, not, God knows, a cousin as fair and succulent as the one I actually found waiting.”
“I accept that excuse, but right now I have to be able to report to the one who sent me that I saw you, and that you’re ready to obey her orders in all respects—as befits a noble cavalier when addressed by a great princess.”
The young man dropped to one knee. “I await these orders humbly and eagerly.”
“Oh! You can’t kneel to me, Monseigneur!” Marina cried, lifting him to his feet. “What are you thinking?”
Then she added, with a sly smile, “What a shame you’re so charming.”
“Come,” said the young man, taking the hands of his supposed cousin between his own and seating her beside him, “tell me whether my return is regarded with at least some satisfaction.”
“More than that,” she said, “with joy.”
“And she’s not unhappy to grant me this audience?”
“More than happy.”
“And the message I carry will be greeted with sympathy?”
“With enthusiasm.”
“And yet it’s eight days since I arrived, and I’ve been waiting two days since our first contact!”
“You’re charming, my cousin, but charm can’t mint days. How long has it been since we returned from La Rochelle? Two and a half days.”
“That’s true.”
“And of those two and a half days, how were the first two spent?”
“On the holiday fêtes, as I know—I watched them.”
“From where?”
“From the street, like a mere mortal.”
“What did you think of them?”
“They were superb.”
“He has some imagination, doesn’t he, our dear cardinal? His Majesty Louis XIII, dressed as Jupiter!”
“And as Jupiter Stator.”
“Stator or otherwise, who cares?”
“Some care, my fair cousin. Such symbols matter.”
“How so?”
“Do you know the significance of Jupiter Stator?”
“Not in the least.”
“It means ‘Jupiter comes’—or rather, where he comes to.”
“And where does Jupiter come to?”
“To the foot of the Alps, of course.”
“Ah, of course. So the lightning in his hand was meant to threaten both Austria and Spain?”
“Well . . . lightning made only of wood.”
“And with no thunder.”
“None at all, especially as the lightning of war is made from money, and neither king nor cardinal are well off at the moment. So, dear cousin, Jupiter Stator, after threatening both East and West, must set his lightning down without launching it.”
“Oh! Say that tonight to our two poor queens, and you will make both of them very happy.”
“I have better than that to tell them. I have a letter for Their Majesties from the Duke of Savoy, who swears that the French army will never pass over the Alps.”
“Yes, well. Assuming that this time he keeps his word. Which isn’t his way, as you may know.”
“But this time he has every incentive to keep it.”
“We chatter, cousin, a useless expense of time we can’t afford to lose.”
“It’s your own fault, cousin.” The young man smiled warmly, showing his teeth. “You’re the one who didn’t want to put the time to better use.”
“So, because I’m devoted to my mistress, this is how I’m repaid? With reproaches? Mon Dieu! Men are so unjust!”
“I’m listening, cousin.” The young man adopted the most serious expression he could manage.
“Well, then: Their Majesties expect to receive you this evening, around eleven o’clock.”
“What, tonight? I have the honor to be received by Their Majesties tonight?”
“This very evening.”
“I thought there was to be a ballet at Court tonight!”
“There is—but the queen, upon hearing of your arrival, immediately complained of fatigue and an unbearable headache. She said only sleep could give her relief. Bouvard was called, and recognized the symptoms as those of chronic migraine. For Bouvard may be the king’s doctor, but he belongs to us, body and soul. He recommended rest and absolute repose—and thus the queen awaits you.”
“But how shall I get into the Louvre? I don’t imagine my name’s been left at the gate.”
“Don’t worry, everything is taken care of. Tonight, dressed as a cavalier, take a stroll down Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain. A page in buff and blue, the livery of Madame la Princesse, will be waiting for you at the corner of the Rue des Poulies. Give him the password and he’ll conduct you to the corridor that leads to the queen’s chambers, where he’ll turn you over to her maid of honor. If possible, you’ll be admitted immediately to Her Majesty’s presence. If not, you’ll wait in a nearby chamber until the time is right.”
“And why can’t you keep me company in the meantime, dear cousin? That would be infinitely more enjoyable.”
“Because now that my duties are completed, I have business awaiting me elsewhere.”
“You have the air of one who combines her business with pleasure.”
“What would you have, cousin? We live only once.”
At that moment they heard the chime of the clock from the Blancs-Manteaux convent. “Nine o’clock!” Marina cried. “Kiss me quick, cousin, and hurry me out. I barely have time to report to the Louvre and say that my cousin is a charming fellow who brings . . . what is it you bring the queen?”
“My life! Is that enough?”
“It’s too much! Don’t offer something that, once lent, can’t be returned. Au revoir, cousin.”
“Wait a moment.” The young man stopped her. “What’s the password I must give the page?”
“Of course, I forgot. You say Casale, and he’ll answer Mantua.”
And the young woman presented her face for a kiss, not on the cheek this time, but on the lips. He kissed her—twice.
Then she rushed down the stairs like a woman who would stop for nothing.
Jacquelino stood for a moment, smiling, then picked up his beret, which had fallen at the beginning of the conversation, and adjusted it carefully on his head—presumably to give the messenger from the Louvre enough time to get away and vanish. Then he slowly descended the stairs, singing a song of Ronsard’s:
“It seems to me the day drags on
Longer than a year goes on . . .
Sadly, when I did my best
To see the beauty of the lass
Who holds my heart, at this pass
Nothing I see, and nowhere I rest.”
He was on the third verse of the song and the last step of the stairs when he glanced into the ground-floor common room and saw, by the glow from a wall sconce, a man lying on a table, pale, bloody, and apparently dying. At his side stood a monk who appeared to be listening to a last confession. Curious folk peered in at the doors and windows but dared not enter, restrained by the presence of the monk and the solemnity of the man’s final act.
At this sight he ceased his song, and as the innkeeper was
at hand, said, “Hey! Maître Soleil!”
Soleil approached, hat in hand. “What can I do for you, my handsome young man?”
“Why the devil is this man lying on a table with a monk beside him?” “He’s making his confession.”
“Pardieu! I can see that! But who is he? And what does he have to confess?”
“Who is he?” The innkeeper sighed. “He’s a brave and honest fellow named Étienne Latil, and my best client. Why confess? Because he probably has no more than a few hours to live. He was calling for a priest, so when my wife saw this worthy friar coming out of the Blancs-Manteaux, she begged him to come.”
“And how does your honest man come to be dying?”
“Oh, Monsieur! Anyone else would already be dead ten times over. He took two terrible sword wounds through the chest, one from the front and one from the back.”
“So he had a fight with two men?”
“Four, Monsieur, four!”
“A sudden quarrel?”
“A deliberate murder!”
“A murder?”
“Yes—to keep him from talking!”
“And if he’d talked, what would he have said?”
“That they’d offered him a thousand crowns to assassinate the Comte de Moret, and he’d refused.”
The young man started at the name, fixed his attention on the innkeeper, and said, “Assassinate the Comte de Moret! Are you sure of this, my good man?”
“I got it from his own mouth. It was the first thing he said after asking for drink.”
“The Comte de Moret,” repeated the young man. “Antoine de Bourbon?”
“Antoine de Bourbon, yes.”
“The son of King Henri IV?”
“And of Madame Jacqueline de Bueil, Comtesse de Moret.”
“It’s strange,” murmured the young man.
“Strange or not, that’s what he said.”
After a moment’s silence, to the astonishment of Maître Soleil, the young man pushed his way through the crowd of cooks and maids blocking the door, despite cries of “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” He entered the room occupied by the Capuchin and Étienne Latil and, approaching the table, dropped a heavy purse next to the wounded man.