‘I’m not saying that,’ said Nanon. ‘Some things are impossible, Roland, and we must bear that in mind.’
‘I see,’ said Cauvignac, with an even deeper sigh than before. ‘An exile! You’re sending me away, aren’t you? I shall never see you again. Very well, though it pains me not to see you – on my honour it does, Nanon – I know that I deserve it, and I have brought it on myself. In any event, what can I do in France, since peace has been concluded, Guyenne is pacified, and the queen and Madame de Condé are on the way to becoming the best friends in the world? I am not foolish enough to imagine that I am in favour with either one of these two princesses. So the best thing for me to do, is to exile myself, as you say. Therefore, Little Sister, say farewell to this eternal wanderer! There is a war in Africa. Monsieur de Beaufort is off to fight the infidel, so I can go with him. To tell you the truth, it’s not as though I don’t think the infidels are a thousand times more in the right than the faithful, but what of it? That’s a matter for kings, not for us. You can get killed over there, which is all that matters to me. I’ll go: you’ll hate me less when I’m dead.’
Nanon, who had listened to this flow of words with bowed head, looked up at Cauvignac, wide-eyed.
‘Is that so?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘What you’re thinking of doing, Brother?’
Cauvignac had allowed himself to be carried away by his speech like a man who, devoid of any real feeling, is used to heating himself up with the chatter of his own words. Nanon’s question brought him back to earth, and he found himself wondering how to come down from his flight of fancy to something more practical and everyday.
‘Why, yes, Little Sister, I swear,’ he said. ‘By what? I don’t know. Come, I’ll swear by Cauvignac that I’m really sad and miserable since the death of Richon and more still since… In fact, do you know, there, on that rock just now, I was arguing over and over with myself to harden my heart – which up to now I had never heard speak to me and which now is not content with merely beating, but talks, shouts and weeps. Tell me, Nanon, is this what they call remorse?’
This cry was so natural and so full of pain, despite its mocking tone, that Nanon recognized it as coming from the depths of his heart.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is remorse, and you are a better man than I thought.’
‘Very well,’ said Cauvignac, ‘since it is remorse, it’s the campaign in Gigery1 then. Just give me a little something for my travel and equipment, would you, Little Sister? And may I carry all your sorrows away with my own!’
‘You shall not go, my friend,’ said Nanon. ‘And from now on, you shall live in all the prosperity that good fortune can bring. For the past ten years, you have been struggling against misfortune – I don’t mean the dangers that you have incurred, because they are those of any soldier. This time, though, you have won life, when another has lost it. So it was God’s will that you should live, and my wish, in accordance with His will, is that from today onwards you should enjoy happiness.’
‘Come now, Little Sister. What are you saying?’ Cauvignac replied. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean that you will go to my house in Libourne before it is pillaged, and there you will find, in the secret cupboard behind my Venetian mirror…’
‘The secret cupboard?’
‘Yes, you know it, surely?’ Nanon said, with a weak smile. ‘Wasn’t that where you took two hundred pistoles from last month?’
‘Nanon, be fair and admit that I could have taken more, had I wished, because the cupboard was full of gold, but I took only the precise sum that I needed.’
‘That’s true,’ said Nanon. ‘And if that is enough to excuse you in your own eyes, I willingly acknowledge it.’ Cauvignac blushed and lowered his eyes. ‘Why, good Lord!’ Nanon went on. ‘Forget it. You know very well that I forgive you.’
‘How do I know that?’ asked Cauvignac.
‘Here’s the proof: you will go to Libourne and open the cupboard. In it you will find all of my fortune that I have been able to realize: twenty thousand gold écus.’
‘What shall I do with it?’
‘Take it.’
‘Who do you want to have these twenty thousand écus?’
‘You, Brother. That’s all I was able to make, because as you well know, as I asked nothing for myself and have left Monsieur d’Epernon, my houses and my lands were seized.’
‘What are you saying, Sister?’ Cauvignac exclaimed, in alarm. ‘What are you thinking of?’
‘I’m thinking, Roland, that as I said to you, you will take these twenty thousand écus for yourself.’
‘For myself? And what about you?’
‘I don’t need the money.’
‘Yes, I see, you have some other money, so much the better. But it’s a huge sum, Little Sister. Just think: it’s too much for me, at least, all at once.’
‘I don’t have any other money, I’m just keeping my jewels. I should like to give those to you as well, but they’re my dowry to enter this convent.’
Cauvignac started back in surprise.
‘Enter the convent?’ he cried. ‘You, Sister? You want to enter a convent?’
‘Yes, my friend.’
‘Oh, in heaven’s name, don’t do that, Little Sister! A convent! You don’t know how tedious it is. I can tell you, because I was in a seminary. A convent! Nanon, don’t do it, it will kill you!’
‘I hope so,’ said Nanon.
‘Sister, I don’t want your money at that price, do you understand? By God! It would burn my fingers.’
‘Roland,’ Nanon said. ‘I’m not going in here in order to make you rich, but to make myself happy.’
‘It’s mad,’ said Cauvignac. ‘I’m your brother, Nanon, I won’t stand for it.’
‘My heart is here already, Roland, what would my body do anywhere else?’
‘It’s too frightful to contemplate,’ said Cauvignac. ‘Sister! My dear Nanon, for pity’s sake!’
‘Not another word, Roland, do you hear me? The money is yours, make good use of it, because your poor Nanon will no longer be there to give you any more, whether she wants to or not.’
‘But what good have I done for you to be so kind to me, my poor sister?’
‘The only good I ever wanted or expected, the greatest of all, what you brought back from Bordeaux the day he died, the day when I could not die…’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Cauvignac. ‘I remember: the lock of hair…’
The adventurer hung his head. He felt an odd sensation in his eyes and put a hand to them.
‘Another man would weep,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how, but in truth I am suffering as much, if not more.’
‘Farewell, Brother,’ Nanon said, holding out a hand to the young man.
‘No, no, no!’ Cauvignac said. ‘I shall never willingly say farewell to you. Is it fear that is making you go into this convent? Well, then, we can leave Guyenne and travel about the world together. I, too, have an arrow in my heart that I shall take everywhere with me: the pain of it makes me feel your pain. You can talk to me about him, and I shall tell you about Richon. You will weep, and maybe I shall come to weep with you, and it will do me good. Would you like us to retire to a desert? I shall serve you, respectfully, because you are a true saint. Do you want me to become a monk? No, that I couldn’t do, I admit. But don’t go into the convent, don’t tell me farewell.’
‘Farewell, Brother.’
‘Do you want to stay in Guyenne, despite the people of Bordeaux and Gascony, in spite of everyone? I no longer have my company of men, but I still have Ferguzon, Barabbas and Carrotel. The four of us could do a lot. We’ll look after you – the queen won’t be so well protected. And if anyone gets to you or touches a hair on your head, you can say: “The four of them must be dead.” Requiescant in pace.’
‘Farewell,’ she said.
Cauvignac was about to reply with some new entreaty, when they heard the sound of a coach coming dow
n the road. A courier was riding ahead of it, wearing the queen’s livery.
‘What’s that?’ Cauvignac asked, turning to look back down the road, but without letting go of his sister’s hand, which he was holding through the bars of the gate.
The coach, in the manner of the time with its huge coats of arms and open panels, was drawn by six horses and contained eight passengers with a whole army of servants and pages.
Behind it came guards and courtiers on horseback.
‘Give way, give way!’ cried the courier, cracking his whip at Cauvignac’s horse, which, in actual fact, was standing with quite self-effacing modesty at the side of the road.
The horse reared up in terror.
‘Hey, there, friend!’ said Cauvignac, letting go of his sister’s hand. ‘I’d thank to you watch what you’re doing.’
‘Make way for the queen!’ said the courier, continuing on his way.
‘The queen! The devil it is!’ said Cauvignac. ‘We’d better not make things any worse in that direction.’ And he pressed himself as close as he could to the wall, holding his horse by its reins.
At that moment, a trace on the coach broke, and the coachman, with a sharp tug, forced the six horses to a halt.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked a voice with a marked Italian accent. ‘Why are you stopping?’
‘A trace has broken, Monseigneur,’ said the coachman.
‘Open, open,’ said the same voice.
Two lackeys ran forward and opened the door, but before the running board could be lowered, the man with the Italian accent was already standing on the ground.
‘Ah! Signor Mazarini,’ said Cauvignac. ‘He didn’t wait to be invited to get out first, I think.’
After him came the queen.
After the queen, Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld.
Cauvignac rubbed his eyes.
After Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld, Monsieur d’Epernon.
‘And why did that brother-in-law not get hanged rather than the other?’ Cauvignac said.
After Monsieur d’Epernon, Monsieur de La Meilleraie.
After Monsieur de La Meilleraie, the Duke de Bouillon.
Then two ladies-in-waiting.
‘I knew that they were not fighting any longer,’ said Cauvignac. ‘But I didn’t realize that they were so well in with one another.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said the queen, ‘instead of waiting here for the trace to be mended, as it’s fine, and the evening air is cool, would you like to walk a little?’
‘As Your Majesty wishes,’ said Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld, with a bow.
‘Come here beside me, Duke, and you can tell me some of your fine maxims. You must have written a fair number of them since we last saw one another.’
‘Give me your arm, Duke,’ said Mazarin to Monsieur de Bouillon. ‘I know that you suffer from gout.’
Monsieur d’Epernon and Monsieur de La Meilleraie took up the rear, chatting with the two ladies-in-waiting. All of them were laughing and chatting in the warm rays of the setting sun like a group of friends who had gathered for a party.
‘Is it still far from here to Bourcy?’ the queen asked. ‘You can tell me that, Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld, since you’ve studied the lie of the land.’
‘Three leagues, Madame. We’ll be there surely by nine o’clock.’
‘That’s good. And tomorrow you will start at the crack of dawn to tell our dear cousin, Madame de Condé, that we shall be delighted to see her.’
‘Your Majesty,’ said the Duke d’Epernon, ‘do you see that fine horseman turning his head towards the wall and the lovely lady who vanished when we were getting out of the coach?’
‘Yes,’ the queen said. ‘I saw all that. It appears that they enjoy life at the Convent of Sainte-Radegonde de Pessac.’
At that moment, the coach, which had been repaired, arrived at a trot to join the illustrious pedestrians, who were already twenty paces or so past the convent when it caught up with them.
‘Come,’ said the queen. ‘Let’s not tire ourselves, gentlemen. You know that the king is offering us violins this evening.’
They got back into the coach with roars of laughter, then were soon lost in the sound of the carriage wheels.
Cauvignac, pondering deeply on the frightful contrast between this joy passing noisily along the road and the silent grief enclosed in the convent walls, watched them leave. Then, when they were out of sight, he said: ‘No matter. I’m happy to know one thing which is that, bad as I am, there are some worse than me. And, by Our Lady, I’m going to try to ensure that there is no one equal to me. I am rich now, it will be easy.’
At that, he remounted his horse with a sigh, cast a final look at the convent, headed at a gallop towards Libourne and vanished at the opposite bend in the road to the one round which the carriage had disappeared, with its load of those illustrious persons who have played the leading roles in this story.
We may perhaps meet them again one day, because the alleged peace that was so badly cemented by the blood of Richon and Canolles was to prove only a truce, and the women’s war was not over yet…
Appendix
The hanging of Richon, and, in reprisal, that of Canolles, is an historical event, recounted in histories of the Fronde, though these differ in certain details, both from each other and from the account given by Dumas. The following are extracts from five works that Dumas might have used as the source for The Women’s War: the first from Petitot’s introduction to his collection of historical documents; the second from Lenet’s memoirs; the third from the memoirs of the Cardinal de Retz (who, as the coadjutor to the Archbishop of Paris, is mentioned in the novel); the fourth from the memoirs of the Duke de La Rochefoucauld, who (like Lenet) plays a leading role in the story; and the fifth from Sainte-Aulaire’s history of the Fronde, published in 1841.
Note: I have retained the variant spellings of names in these sources.
Claude-Bernard Petitot, Collection des mémoires relatifs à l’histoire de France (Paris: Foucault, 1824), pp. 178–9.
Richon, a distinguished citizen of Bordeaux, was commander of the Château of Vair on the Dordogne, and was besieged by the Marshal de La Meilleraye. Betrayed by his garrison, which Mazarin had won over, he was delivered to the marshal, who announced his intention of making a major example of a rebel who had been captured bearing arms. The Princess de Condé, warned of the danger that Richon was in, at once sent an envoy to La Meilleraye with orders to remind him that she had prisoners in her own power and to tell him that she would resort to reprisals. This threat made no impression on the marshal who ordered Richon to be hanged.
The news of this execution, instead of spreading panic in Bordeaux, caused the most intense indignation. The Duke de Bouillon, who was more incensed than the rest, persuaded the princess’s council to determine to kill one of the prisoners, and the chosen victim was one of the most distinguished, the Marquis de Canoles (sic), who had been captured some time earlier on the Ile Saint-Georges. All the preparations were made for the execution without the unfortunate man having the slightest suspicion of it; and, to make more people complicit in the crime, they had the order confirmed by the thirty-six captains of the town. The princess, whose tears and entreaties had done nothing to assuage the fury of her supporters, begged them at least to delay the execution until the next day, hoping that the condemned man might escape his fate. Her appeals were in vain: they went to arrest Canoles that evening, just as he was merrily disporting himself with some ladies. He was dragged to the port and attached to a gallows. Hardly had he recovered from his first terror, than he asked for a confessor, but this last consolation was inhumanely denied him. ‘He’s a supporter of Mazarin,’ they said. ‘He must be damned to hell.’
Memoirs of Pierre Lenet, in Nouvelle collection des mémoires pour servir à l’histoire de France (Paris: Michaud and Poujoulat, 1838), vol. II, pp. 330–32.
We learned of the taking of Vaire, and that Richon, having no news of the help that
he had been led to expect and there being a large breach in his fort, sent a captain of the Fronsac regiment to capitulate; and this captain betrayed him, having been either won over or intimidated by the Marshal de La Meilleraye, who promised him his life…
On the fifth, hearing of the taking of Vaire and Richon, the princess, seeing that there was a danger that he might be killed for having defended a castle against a royal army, sent a messenger to the Marshal de La Meilleraye to say that, if he was treated as a prisoner of war, the same treatment would be accorded to the prisoners that she held in Montrond, Turenne and Bordeaux…
The Marquis de Lusignan brought the messenger from Limoges to my house who told me that he had seen Richon hanged in the market in Libourne…
The princess, after dinner, called together her council… Finally, it was decided unanimously… to hang Canot (sic), a captain in the old regiment of Navailles, who had been captured a long time before in the Ile Saint-Georges, when it was taken by our men…
There were serious consequences from this sentence, which was a truly military one. I explained them, giving my opinion, and, to make it more solemn and more universally agreed, I suggested calling the council before carrying it out… One after another, they expressed such strong feelings against Cardinal Mazarin (though we found out later that only the obstinacy of Marshal de La Meilleraye had been responsible) that I have never in my life seen or heard anything like it, and all unanimously called for the death of this public victim, inventing new tortures for him to endure. So the order was given that this sentence, which was passed without being written down, or the prisoner being heard, or any kind of trial, should be carried out at once. The princess wanted to delay it to the next day, but the people’s anger was so strong that she could not persuade them… Though it was late, the execution was carried out on the port of Bordeaux, near the suburb of Les Chartreux, and all that the princess could do was to prevent the prisoners of war from suffering the same fate, so frightful is the anger of the people when it is excited by those in authority, as it was here. In this case, it was extreme. The captain was a Huguenot, but it was not possible to persuade them to allow the poor man a priest who might try to convert him before he died. They said that he was a supporter of Mazarin, so he had to be damned to hell, and if the citizens had not been armed, he would have been torn to pieces by the mob which followed as they took him to the gallows.