Catherine De Medici

II

THE BURGHERS

Christophe shook the iron railing which closed the stairway on the river, and called.  His mother heard him, opened one of the windows of the back shop, and asked what he was doing there.  Christophe answered that he was cold and wanted to get in.

“Ha! my master,” said the Burgundian maid, “you went out by the street-door, and you return by the water-gate.  Your father will be fine and angry.”

Christophe, bewildered by a confidence which had just brought him into communication with the Prince de Conde, La Renaudie, and Chaudieu, and still more moved at the prospect of impending civil war, made no answer; he ran hastily up from the kitchen to the back shop; but his mother, a rabid Catholic, could not control her anger.

“I’ll wager those three men I saw you talking with are Ref—­”

“Hold your tongue, wife!” said the cautious old man with white hair who was turning over a thick ledger.  “You dawdling fellows,” he went on, addressing three journeymen, who had long finished their suppers, “why don’t you go to bed?  It is eight o’clock, and you have to be up at five; besides, you must carry home to-night President de Thou’s cap and mantle.  All three of you had better go, and take your sticks and rapiers; and then, if you meet scamps like yourselves, at least you’ll be in force.”

“Are we going to take the ermine surcoat the young queen has ordered to be sent to the hotel des Soissons? there’s an express going from there to Blois for the queen-mother,” said one of the clerks.

“No,” said his master, “the queen-mother’s bill amounts to three thousand crowns; it is time to get the money, and I am going to Blois myself very soon.”

“Father, I do not think it right at your age and in these dangerous times to expose yourself on the high-roads.  I am twenty-two years old, and you ought to employ me on such errands,” said Christophe, eyeing the box which he supposed contained the surcoat.

“Are you glued to your seats?” cried the old man to his apprentices, who at once jumped up and seized their rapiers, cloaks, and Monsieur de Thou’s furs.

The next day the Parliament was to receive in state, as its president, this illustrious judge, who, after signing the death warrant of Councillor du Bourg, was destined before the close of the year to sit in judgment on the Prince de Conde!

“Here!” said the old man, calling to the maid, “go and ask friend Lallier if he will come and sup with us and bring the wine; we’ll furnish the victuals.  Tell him, above all, to bring his daughter.”

Lecamus, the syndic of the guild of furriers, was a handsome old man of sixty, with white hair, and a broad, open brow.  As court furrier for the last forty years, he had witnessed all the revolutions of the reign of Francois I. He had seen the arrival at the French court of the young girl Catherine de’ Medici, then scarcely fifteen years of age.  He had observed her giving way before the Duchesse d’Etampes, her father-in-law’s mistress; giving way before the Duchesse de Valentinois, the mistress of her husband the late king.  But the furrier had brought himself safely through all the chances and changes by which court merchants were often involved in the disgrace and overthrow of mistresses.  His caution led to his good luck.  He maintained an attitude of extreme humility.  Pride had never caught him in its toils.  He made himself so small, so gentle, so compliant, of so little account at court and before the queens and princesses and favorites, that this modesty, combined with good-humor, had kept the royal sign above his door.

Such a policy was, of course, indicative of a shrewd and perspicacious mind.  Humble as Lecamus seemed to the outer world, he was despotic in his own home; there he was an autocrat.  Most respected and honored by his brother craftsmen, he owed to his long possession of the first place in the trade much of the consideration that was shown to him.  He was, besides, very willing to do kindnesses to others, and among the many services he had rendered, none was more striking than the assistance he had long given to the greatest surgeon of the sixteenth century, Ambroise Pare, who owed to him the possibility of studying for his profession.  In all the difficulties which came up among the merchants Lecamus was always conciliating.  Thus a general good opinion of him consolidated his position among his equals; while his borrowed characteristics kept him steadily in favor with the court.

Not only this, but having intrigued for the honor of being on the vestry of his parish church, he did what was necessary to bring him into the odor of sanctity with the rector of Saint-Pierre aux Boeufs, who looked upon him as one of the men most devoted to the Catholic religion in Paris.  Consequently, at the time of the convocation of the States-General he was unanimously elected to represent the tiers etat through the influence of the clergy of Paris,—­an influence which at that period was immense.  This old man was, in short, one of those secretly ambitious souls who will bend for fifty years before all the world, gliding from office to office, no one exactly knowing how it came about that he was found securely and peacefully seated at last where no man, even the boldest, would have had the ambition at the beginning of life to fancy himself; so great was the distance, so many the gulfs and the precipices to cross!  Lecamus, who had immense concealed wealth, would not run any risks, and was silently preparing a brilliant future for his son.  Instead of having the personal ambition which sacrifices the future to the present, he had family ambition,—­a lost sentiment in our time, a sentiment suppressed by the folly of our laws of inheritance.  Lecamus saw himself first president of the Parliament of Paris in the person of his grandson.

Christophe, godson of the famous historian de Thou, was given a most solid education; but it had led him to doubt and to the spirit of examination which was then affecting both the Faculties and the students of the universities.  Christophe was, at the period of which we are now writing, pursuing his studies for the bar, that first step toward the magistracy.  The old furrier was pretending to some hesitation as to his son.  Sometimes he seemed to wish to make Christophe his successor; then again he spoke of him as a lawyer; but in his heart he was ambitious of a place for this son as Councillor of the Parliament.  He wanted to put the Lecamus family on a level with those old and celebrated burgher families from which came the Pasquiers, the Moles, the Mirons, the Seguiers, Lamoignon, du Tillet, Lecoigneux, Lescalopier, Goix, Arnauld, those famous sheriffs and grand-provosts of the merchants, among whom the throne found such strong defenders.

Therefore, in order that Christophe might in due course of time maintain his rank, he wished to marry him to the daughter of the richest jeweller in the city, his friend Lallier, whose nephew was destined to present to Henri IV. the keys of Paris.  The strongest desire rooted in the heart of the worthy burgher was to use half of his fortune and half of that of the jeweller in the purchase of a large and beautiful seignorial estate, which, in those days, was a long and very difficult affair.  But his shrewd mind knew the age in which he lived too well to be ignorant of the great movements which were now in preparation.  He saw clearly, and he saw justly, and knew that the kingdom was about to be divided into two camps.  The useless executions in the Place de l’Estrapade, that of the king’s tailor and the more recent one of the Councillor Anne du Bourg, the actual connivance of the great lords, and that of the favorite of Francois I. with the Reformers, were terrible indications.  The furrier resolved to remain, whatever happened, Catholic, royalist, and parliamentarian; but it suited him, privately, that Christophe should belong to the Reformation.  He knew he was rich enough to ransom his son if Christophe was too much compromised; and on the other hand if France became Calvinist his son could save the family in the event of one of those furious Parisian riots, the memory of which was ever-living with the bourgeoisie,—­riots they were destined to see renewed through four reigns.

But these thoughts the old furrier, like Louis XI., did not even say to himself; his wariness went so far as to deceive his wife and son.  This grave personage had long been the chief man of the richest and most populous quarter of Paris, that of the centre, under the title of quartenier,—­the title and office which became so celebrated some fifteen months later.  Clothed in cloth like all the prudent burghers who obeyed the sumptuary laws, Sieur Lecamus (he was tenacious of that title which Charles V. granted to the burghers of Paris, permitting them also to buy baronial estates and call their wives by the fine name of demoiselle, but not by that of madame) wore neither gold chains nor silk, but always a good doublet with large tarnished silver buttons, cloth gaiters mounting to the knee, and leather shoes with clasps.  His shirt, of fine linen, showed, according to the fashion of the time, in great puffs between his half-opened jacket and his breeches.  Though his large and handsome face received the full light of the lamp standing on the table, Christophe had no conception of the thoughts which lay buried beneath the rich and florid Dutch skin of the old man; but he understood well enough the advantage he himself had expected to obtain from his affection for pretty Babette Lallier.  So Christophe, with the air of a man who had come to a decision, smiled bitterly as he heard of the invitation to his promised bride.

When the Burgundian cook and the apprentices had departed on their several errands, old Lecamus looked at his wife with a glance which showed the firmness and resolution of his character.

“You will not be satisfied till you have got that boy hanged with your damned tongue,” he said, in a stern voice.

“I would rather see him hanged and saved than living and a Huguenot,” she answered, gloomily.  “To think that a child whom I carried nine months in my womb should be a bad Catholic, and be doomed to hell for all eternity!”

She began to weep.

“Old silly,” said the furrier; “let him live, if only to convert him.  You said, before the apprentices, a word which may set fire to our house, and roast us all, like fleas in a straw bed.”

The mother crossed herself, and sat down silently.

“Now, then, you,” said the old man, with a judicial glance at his son, “explain to me what you were doing on the river with—­come closer, that I may speak to you,” he added, grasping his son by the arm, and drawing him to him—­“with the Prince de Conde,” he whispered.  Christophe trembled.  “Do you suppose the court furrier does not know every face that frequents the palace?  Think you I am ignorant of what is going on?  Monseigneur the Grand Master has been giving orders to send troops to Amboise.  Withdrawing troops from Paris to send them to Amboise when the king is at Blois, and making them march through Chartres and Vendome, instead of going by Orleans—­isn’t the meaning of that clear enough?  There’ll be troubles.  If the queens want their surcoats, they must send for them.  The Prince de Conde has perhaps made up his mind to kill Messieurs de Guise; who, on their side, expect to rid themselves of him.  The prince will use the Huguenots to protect himself.  Why should the son of a furrier get himself into that fray?  When you are married, and when you are councillor to the Parliament, you will be as prudent as your father.  Before belonging to the new religion, the son of a furrier ought to wait until the rest of the world belongs to it.  I don’t condemn the Reformers; it is not my business to do so; but the court is Catholic, the two queens are Catholic, the Parliament is Catholic; we must supply them with furs, and therefore we must be Catholic ourselves.  You shall not go out from here, Christophe; if you do, I will send you to your godfather, President de Thou, who will keep you night and day blackening paper, instead of blackening your soul in company with those damned Genevese.”

“Father,” said Christophe, leaning upon the back of the old man’s chair, “send me to Blois to carry that surcoat to Queen Mary and get our money from the queen-mother.  If you do not, I am lost; and you care for your son.”

“Lost?” repeated the old man, without showing the least surprise.  “If you stay here you can’t be lost; I shall have my eye on you all the time.”

“They will kill me here.”

“Why?”

“The most powerful among the Huguenots have cast their eyes on me to serve them in a certain matter; if I fail to do what I have just promised to do, they will kill me in open day, here in the street, as they killed Minard.  But if you send me to court on your affairs, perhaps I can justify myself equally well to both sides.  Either I shall succeed without having run any danger at all, and shall then win a fine position in the party; or, if the danger turns out very great, I shall be there simply on your business.”

The father rose as if his chair was of red-hot iron.

“Wife,” he said, “leave us; and watch that we are left quite alone, Christophe and I.”

When Mademoiselle Lecamus had left them the furrier took his son by a button and led him to the corner of the room which made the angle of the bridge.

“Christophe,” he said, whispering in his ear as he had done when he mentioned the name of the Prince of Conde, “be a Huguenot, if you have that vice; but be so cautiously, in the depths of your soul, and not in a way to be pointed at as a heretic throughout the quarter.  What you have just confessed to me shows that the leaders have confidence in you.  What are you going to do for them at court?”

“I cannot tell you that,” replied Christophe; “for I do not know myself.”

“Hum! hum!” muttered the old man, looking at his son, “the scamp means to hoodwink his father; he’ll go far.  You are not going to court,” he went on in a low tone, “to carry remittances to Messieurs de Guise or to the little king our master, or to the little Queen Marie.  All those hearts are Catholic; but I would take my oath the Italian woman has some spite against the Scotch girl and against the Lorrains.  I know her.  She has a desperate desire to put her hand into the dough.  The late king was so afraid of her that he did as the jewellers do, he cut diamond by diamond, he pitted one woman against another.  That caused Queen Catherine’s hatred to the poor Duchesse de Valentinois, from whom she took the beautiful chateau of Chenonceaux.  If it hadn’t been for the Connetable, the duchess might have been strangled.  Back, back, my son; don’t put yourself in the hands of that Italian, who has no passion except in her brain; and that’s a bad kind of woman!  Yes, what they are sending you to do at court may give you a very bad headache,” cried the father, seeing that Christophe was about to reply.  “My son, I have plans for your future which you will not upset by making yourself useful to Queen Catherine; but, heavens and earth! don’t risk your head.  Messieurs de Guise would cut it off as easily as the Burgundian cuts a turnip, and then those persons who are now employing you will disown you utterly.”

“I know that, father,” said Christophe.

“What! are you really so strong, my son?  You know it, and are willing to risk all?”

“Yes, father.”

“By the powers above us!” cried the father, pressing his son in his arms, “we can understand each other; you are worthy of your father.  My child, you’ll be the honor of the family, and I see that your old father can speak plainly with you.  But do not be more Huguenot than Messieurs de Coligny.  Never draw your sword; be a pen man; keep to your future role of lawyer.  Now, then, tell me nothing until after you have succeeded.  If I do not hear from you by the fourth day after you reach Blois, that silence will tell me that you are in some danger.  The old man will go to save the young one.  I have not sold furs for thirty-two years without a good knowledge of the wrong side of court robes.  I have the means of making my way through many doors.”

Christophe opened his eyes very wide as he heard his father talking thus; but he thought there might be some parental trap in it, and he made no reply further than to say:—­

“Well, make out the bill, and write a letter to the queen; I must start at once, or the greatest misfortunes may happen.”

“Start?  How?”

“I shall buy a horse.  Write at once, in God’s name.”

“Hey! mother! give your son some money,” cried the furrier to his wife.

The mother returned, went to her chest, took out a purse of gold, and gave it to Christophe, who kissed her with emotion.

“The bill was all ready,” said his father; “here it is.  I will write the letter at once.”

Christophe took the bill and put it in his pocket.

“But you will sup with us, at any rate,” said the old man.  “In such a crisis you ought to exchange rings with Lallier’s daughter.”

“Very well, I will go and fetch her,” said Christophe.

The young man was distrustful of his father’s stability in the matter.  The old man’s character was not yet fully known to him.  He ran up to his room, dressed himself, took a valise, came downstairs softly and laid it on a counter in the shop, together with his rapier and cloak.

“What the devil are you doing?” asked his father, hearing him.

Christophe came up to the old man and kissed him on both cheeks.

“I don’t want any one to see my preparations for departure, and I have put them on a counter in the shop,” he whispered.

“Here is the letter,” said his father.

Christophe took the paper and went out as if to fetch his young neighbor.

A few moments after his departure the goodman Lallier and his daughter arrived, preceded by a servant-woman, bearing three bottles of old wine.

“Well, where is Christophe?” said old Lecamus.

“Christophe!” exclaimed Babette.  “We have not seen him.”

“Ha! ha! my son is a bold scamp!  He tricks me as if I had no beard.  My dear crony, what think you he will turn out to be?  We live in days when the children have more sense than their fathers.”

“Why, the quarter has long been saying he is in some mischief,” said Lallier.

“Excuse him on that point, crony,” said the furrier.  “Youth is foolish; it runs after new things; but Babette will keep him quiet; she is newer than Calvin.”

Babette smiled; she loved Christophe, and was angry when anything was said against him.  She was one of those daughters of the old bourgeoisie brought up under the eyes of a mother who never left her.  Her bearing was gentle and correct as her face; she always wore woollen stuffs of gray, harmonious in tone; her chemisette, simply pleated, contrasted its whiteness against the gown.  Her cap of brown velvet was like an infant’s coif, but it was trimmed with a ruche and lappets of tanned gauze, that is, of a tan color, which came down on each side of her face.  Though fair and white as a true blonde, she seemed to be shrewd and roguish, all the while trying to hide her roguishness under the air and manner of a well-trained girl.  While the two servant-women went and came, laying the cloth and placing the jugs, the great pewter dishes, and the knives and forks, the jeweller and his daughter, the furrier and his wife, sat before the tall chimney-piece draped with lambrequins of red serge and black fringes, and were talking of trifles.  Babette asked once or twice where Christophe could be, and the father and mother of the young Huguenot gave evasive answers; but when the two families were seated at table, and the two servants had retired to the kitchen, Lecamus said to his future daughter-in-law:—­

“Christophe has gone to court.”

“To Blois!  Such a journey as that without bidding me good-bye!” she said.

“The matter was pressing,” said the old mother.

“Crony,” said the furrier, resuming a suspended conversation.  “We are going to have troublous times in France.  The Reformers are bestirring themselves.”

“If they triumph, it will only be after a long war, during which business will be at a standstill,” said Lallier, incapable of rising higher than the commercial sphere.

“My father, who saw the wars between the Burgundians and the Armagnacs told me that our family would never have come out safely if one of his grandfathers—­his mother’s father—­had not been a Goix, one of those famous butchers in the Market who stood by the Burgundians; whereas the other, the Lecamus, was for the Armagnacs; they seemed ready to flay each other alive before the world, but they were excellent friends in the family.  So, let us both try to save Christophe; perhaps the time may come when he will save us.”

“You are a shrewd one,” said the jeweller.

“No,” replied Lecamus.  “The burghers ought to think of themselves; the populace and the nobility are both against them.  The Parisian bourgeoisie alarms everybody except the king, who knows it is his friend.”

“You who are so wise and have seen so many things,” said Babette, timidly, “explain to me what the Reformers really want.”

“Yes, tell us that, crony,” cried the jeweller.  “I knew the late king’s tailor, and I held him to be a man of simple life, without great talent; he was something like you; a man to whom they’d give the sacrament without confession; and behold! he plunged to the depths of this new religion,—­he! a man whose two ears were worth all of a hundred thousand crowns apiece.  He must have had secrets to reveal to induce the king and the Duchesse de Valentinois to be present at his torture.”

“And terrible secrets, too!” said the furrier.  “The Reformation, my friends,” he continued in a low voice, “will give back to the bourgeoisie the estates of the Church.  When the ecclesiastical privileges are suppressed the Reformers intend to ask that the vilain shall be imposed on nobles as well as on burghers, and they mean to insist that the king alone shall be above others—­if indeed, they allow the State to have a king.”

“Suppress the Throne!” ejaculated Lallier.

“Hey! crony,” said Lecamus, “in the Low Countries the burghers govern themselves with burgomasters of their own, who elect their own temporary head.”

“God bless me, crony; we ought to do these fine things and yet stay Catholics,” cried the jeweller.

“We are too old, you and I, to see the triumph of the Parisian bourgeoisie, but it will triumph, I tell you, in times to come as it did of yore.  Ha! the king must rest upon it in order to resist, and we have always sold him our help dear.  The last time, all the burghers were ennobled, and he gave them permission to buy seignorial estates and take titles from the land without special letters from the king.  You and I, grandsons of the Goix through our mothers, are not we as good as any lord?”

These words were so alarming to the jeweller and the two women that they were followed by a dead silence.  The ferments of 1789 were already tingling in the veins of Lecamus, who was not yet so old but what he could live to see the bold burghers of the Ligue.

“Are you selling well in spite of these troubles?” said Lallier to Mademoiselle Lecamus.

“Troubles always do harm,” she replied.

“That’s one reason why I am so set on making my son a lawyer,” said Lecamus; “for squabbles and law go on forever.”

The conversation then turned to commonplace topics, to the great satisfaction of the jeweller, who was not fond of either political troubles or audacity of thought.