Heretic Dawn by Robert Merle

Author:Robert Merle [Robert Merle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781782272083
Publisher: Steerforth Press
Published: 2016-11-27T05:00:00+00:00

The Louvre gates were wide open, and a crowd of brilliantly clothed people were pouring in and out; but whereas the mass of those leaving flowed freely through the massive archway, the way in, which was through the smaller gate, was much slower, one by one, and was controlled by two gentlemen: one very corpulent, seated on a stool, and the other, standing by the first, with a red cape thrown over his shoulder. When it was my turn, I told them my father’s name and the nature of my business, and the man seated on the stool studied me from head to toe with a wry smile at my doublet, and said to his companion, “Do you know a Siorac, Baron de Mespech in Périgord?”

“Not personally, no,” said the other, “but I’ve often heard his name on the lips of d’Argence. Mespech fought under Guise at Calais.”

“Ah,” said the other, “Calais! Now that you mention Calais I remember that Nançay spoke to me yesterday about Siorac’s son here, and about his repaired doublet.”

Of course, I blushed deeply to have such a tawdry description of me circulating around the Louvre.

“Monsieur,” said the seated gentleman, seeing my intense embarrassment, “don’t take offence. I don’t judge a man by his clothes. I heard from Nançay that your father is a very brave man, and that you follow in his footsteps, being a brave and proud young fellow.”

“In any case,” counselled the other gentleman, who, despite the sultry weather, was still wearing his heavy red cape, “if you want my advice, don’t get in a lather when some gentlemen here, who enjoy a good joke, as we’re wont to do in Paris, smile at your doublet. Neither the king, nor his brother, the Duc d’Anjou, tolerates quarrels. It’s a capital crime in the Louvre, so near such august persons.”

“Monsieur,” I replied, bowing to him, “I shall try to follow your advice.”

I passed through the gate after naming the other members of my party: my brother, maestro Giacomi and my valet—the last of whom, as we passed through the courtyard of the Louvre, suddenly disappeared completely. And so, when we were at the door that led to the gallery where Giacomi was to do his fencing, I had to wait for several minutes, looking anxiously around, impatient and getting more and more annoyed, my foot tapping the pavement. But when I had decided to call him, he appeared at my side, as suddenly as he’d disappeared a moment before. His brown eye looked very happy and he said to me in langue d’oc but speaking as fast as any urchin in the capital:

“Monsieur, I beg you, don’t scold me. I only disappeared for your own good, and went to ask one of the footmen, who I thought was from our provinces, who the two men were who admitted us at the gate.”

“And did you find out?”

“Yes, certainly, Monsieur,” said Miroul, who was now taking his time, with his brown eye clearly indicating his pleasure.

“Well, then! Tell me!”

“Well, Monsieur, it depends,” said Miroul, his eye sparkling.

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