Chapter 10

A Glimpse at the Finer Life

 

 

 

Journal Entry

 

“By now, the four of us had become inseparable. We frequently met on the quay, just below where rue St Victor emptied into the street that skirted the river’s edge. As we faced the water, to our left stood the graceful length of Notre Dame, her twin steeples pointing steadfastly toward the heavens, like two long fingers of an outstretched hand. The Lady stood on her very own island, the site of the first human settlement, here, separated by water and mist from the bustle of the sprawling city.

“Testagrossa told me that when Julius Caesar first came here in 56BC, he found, on that very spot, a shrine to which Gallic pilgrims journeyed from distant villages to ask their druids to offer sacrifice and seek the favour of the gods and goddesses. Caesar tore down the shrine and built a temple to Juno on top of its ruins, so that his own men could worship the guardian of mother Rome. For Testagrossa, this was always, and always would be, a holy place, dedicated to a holy mother.

“Directly in front of us was a stone bridge joining the left bank of the Seine, on which we were standing, with another island, a smaller one just behind the island where the Cathedral stood. It was a quiet little place called “Isle Aux Vaches”. I liked to think of the island as a pastoral setting in the midst of a city, a place of green grass and groves of elms and walnut trees, instead of cobble stones.

“On this particular day, the island was seething with activity, as its grassy fields and shady groves played host to none other than King Henry II, himself, and, it seemed, the entire court. On a beautiful spring morning the King had decided to spend the day on the river, only to be followed by a small fleet of covered barges, overflowing with courtiers and sycophants in their best finery out to see and be seen.

They had come up river from the Louvre and had decided to moor the barges along the shoreline of Isle aux Vaches. There, an army of servants who accompanied them set about putting down blankets and laying out bounteous supplies of food and drink. Brightly dressed lute players and flautists, who had supplied music during the cruise up river, disembarked and began to play for the gathering open-air feast.

The royal barge slowed and circled the island, waiting for the preparations to be completed. We guessed that it was the King’s barge because it was half again as large as the others with ten oarsmen on each side and a blue canopy trimmed with golden fleurs de lys and emblazoned with the Valois family crest. At the stern, and facing the two rows of oarsmen, sat a burley looking man in bright livery with a drum between his thighs. As he beat the drum slowly, one stick in each hand, the oarsmen dipped their oars in unison and cut a path through the water. A lute player sat about mid-ship facing and playing for the person or persons concealed under the canopy. Another, smaller barge followed behind, apparently waiting to land only after the King. This smaller barge also had a royal blue canopy and the Valois family crest, but there was another, smaller crest beneath it, on which were prominently displayed three golden spheres.

“‘That must be the Queen and her children,’ said Dormoy, as the four of us continued to watch the spectacle.

“Finally, the royal barge made a turn and headed for a narrow landing on the island. Immediately, pages in blue livery emerged from among the revellers and began unrolling a rich red carpet, trimmed in blue and gold, creating a walkway from the beach to a spot of high ground upon which a pavilion had just been erected. Three companies of soldiers simultaneously went into motion: the first lining up on either side of the carpet, the second forming a half moon around the pavilion and the third securing both sides of the stone bridge from the left bank, not far from where we stood gaping at them.

“All eyes were fixed on the barge as it came to ground, the pilot throwing a line to a waiting servant who secured the line to a post as another servant lowered the gang plank into place. Trumpeters, from among the honour guard, set off a flourish as the King emerged, dressed tastefully in cloth of gold, trimmed in blue and ermine, a ponderous gold chain around his neck and a fashionable feathered cap on his head.

“He was tall and well built, for someone just past the prime of his manhood, and he turned to make a courtly gesture to the woman who appeared behind him, offering her a white gloved and bejewelled hand. The woman, herself tall and stately, looked overcome by the gentle solicitude of one so much greater than herself. She had thick black hair, peeking out from the pearl lined hood of her cloak, richly embroidered in cloth of gold. She diminutively bowed her head and accepted the King’s outstretched hand.

“‘That’s Lady Diane de Poitier, the King’s mistress,’ Dormoy whispered conspiratorially into my ear. ‘In public, the Queen pretends not to notice her husband’s affection for Lady Diane. If that’s the case, she’s the only one in France – in the world – who doesn’t notice it.’ With a wave of his hand, Dormoy concluded his commentary on the state of royal matrimony and fidelity.

“I noted that the King’s face, in profile, emphasised the prominence of his large, Valois nose. As the couple processed along the carpeted path to the pavilion, people cheered and bowed, and musicians filled the air with sounds of joyous revelry. All this time, the smaller barge waited until the King and his lady were safely in their tent before venturing toward shore for a quiet and respectful but almost unnoticed landing.

“Gaudin regarded our open mouthed fascination with the sneering appraisal of a man of the world. ‘So this is how the great and powerful live? You belong to the privileged class, Monsieur Worthy Howard,’ he continued, feeling the need to needle someone. ‘Does the English nobility party and promenade like this on your river, Thames?’

“‘My father kept us in the country, while he tended his lands,’ I answered, feeling somewhat regretful about it all. ‘He never took us to court and I never met women who dress and move like that,’ I added, with emphasis.

“‘God gives you one face and you paint yourselves another,’ said Testagrossa, in undisguised disapproval.

“Dormoy appraised the spectacle with a certain brooding detachment. ‘Still, the faces are pleasing, even beguiling.’

“Gaudin raised his index finger and began shaking it close to my face. ‘These are the women to whom you should write your poetry, Howard - if you think you are destined to move in such circles - instead of pining in verse over Julie La Putain!’

“Testagrossa winced at the epithet. He furrowed his brow but said nothing.

“I only reflected on my lack of prospects, owing to the fact that I am a man of noble birth without title, without land and, at present, without a country.

“Dormoy wore a distant expression on his face. ‘Look at the river,’ he mused out loud. ‘It flows the same for the poor as it does for the wealthy! To me, the waters are like Destiny itself, into which a lady of station may plunge to her death as easily as a common woman.’ I wondered if Dormoy might have been thinking of a particular common woman.

“‘For my part, I prefer a more accessible class of woman,’ said Gaudin, pensively. ‘You know that Nature ordains three orders of the gentle sex: ladies of station – alluring and mysterious but inordinately protected by fathers, chaperones and nunneries and, in any event, inaccessible to one of my station; common whores, such as the sisters of Saint-Séverin, among whom there is always a selection for every budget; and, in between, the daughters of burghers, shop keepers and inn keepers, respectable enough, but not too respectable to be unavailable. Take, for example, our dear Caterina of the Ecurie…’

“‘That will be quite enough on that score,’ interjected Testagrossa, trying, as always, to raise the level of conversation. ‘I’ll have you know that Caterina Botelli, for one, was not born to wait on tables. Giovanni Botelli, her father, was a painter and sculptor from Lucca. He was brought to France by the old King François with a commission to paint the great banquet hall at Fontainebleau. He brought his wife and daughter with him, and they lived well under the King’s patronage in a comfortable country cottage near the palace. Signor Botelli was a liberal minded man, and he insisted on providing a classical education for his beloved daughter. She learned Latin and Greek, as well as stitching and weaving, so that she could one day take her place among the country gentry and marry into that class.’

“Gaudin was beside himself with amusement at the thought that our Father Testagrossa was in possession of such precise family history concerning Caterina. ‘There’s more than meets the eye about you, my large headed friend.’

“Testagrossa ignored him. ‘The King was evidently pleased with Botelli’s work and, on one occasion, gave the artist a golden broach upon which was embossed his own emblem, a fire breathing salamander, on a field of golden fire that did not consume him. Botelli gave the broach to Caterina, reminding her that to aspire to beauty and greatness was not without its dangers. For Caterina, it is her treasure, her most prized possession.’

“I gave Testagrossa a knowing look. ‘He gave her a keepsake, a token of his love for her.’

“The Italian nodded his agreement. ‘Then, three and a half years into his commission, Signor Botelli fell from his scaffolding at Fontainebleau and broke his neck. King François felt sorry for his wife and daughter and continued to pay the widow a pension as long as he lived. But when King Henry ascended to the throne, on his father’s death, he cut off the widow’s pension, and the family was left to fend for itself.’

“Dormoy joined in with his brooding, melancholic, hang-dog face. ‘So they fell from a life at court to waiting on tables?’

“‘They could no longer afford the country cottage, so they moved to Paris, where the mother took in wash and the daughter, to whom the Blanchards took a liking, began in the kitchens for L’Ecurie. Between the two of them, the family could maintain a respectable, if poorer style of life, but this is not the life to which they were born, for which they were destined.’

“‘Destiny can, indeed, be cruel and capricious,’ said Dormoy.

“‘If there is such a thing as Destiny,’ added Gaudin. “

 

***

 

They stayed, throwing stones in the water, to see how far the ripples would spread, until the royal pageant started loading back onto its barges for the return trip down river to the Louvre. By this time, the four friends were, once again, hungry, so, while Testagrossa went to hear Vespers, the others opted for a nearby tavern, by the name of “Cutters,” for some supper. Howard noted in his journal entry, at this point, that he could no longer remember why they had chosen this particular tavern that late afternoon, but he remarked that the choice was fortuitous, in that it provided the occasion for their third encounter with the strange, dark robed doctor with the scholar’s cap and the pointed red and grey beard.

The story of that encounter was, in fact, the journal entry to which I had randomly opened when I had first laid hands on the leather covered book. I re-read the lines in which Howard described the old man’s having fixed them with his penetrating stare, as if he were drawing them into his sphere with those piercing black eyes. He describes their having been irresistibly, almost hypnotically drawn to the empty stools at his table, where he proceeded to introduce himself as Doctor Michel de Nostra Dame (or Notre Dame, in modern French), the very same Michaelus Nostradamus whose book of quatrains had been circulating among the salons of the privileged and the hovels of students since its publication three years before.

The University had forbidden all lectures and public discussions of the book, which, of course, meant that every student made the effort to procure the book and read it. Despite his notoriety, however, Doctor Michel made it very clear to his new acquaintances that they were to tell no one of their encounter with him, nor even disclose that they had any knowledge of him or of his presence in Paris.

The Queen, he told them without their having asked, had heard of his reputation in Provence and had commanded that he come to court, earlier in the year, to consult with her concerning the horoscopes of her children. Others at court, however, including the King and his all-powerful cousins, the Duc de Guise and Guise’ brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, did not share her majesty’s admiration for astrologers and other practitioners of the occult. Doctor Michel was warned that if he were to show his face in the capital again, a warrant would be sworn out for his arrest, and the Queen was unwilling to offend her husband and his powerful cousins by granting him the same protection she had offered to the Italian astrologers in her entourage.

“So I left the city, and when she sent word that she required my presence for yet another consultation, I was convinced that she was preparing to feed me to the pack of scavengers who, like skulking, salivating dogs,  follow the Valois lion. I hid from her messengers, hid in the one place they would not look for me, right under their large and bulbous noses, here in Paris.”

So he rambled on, repaying Howard’s reluctant stare with a vision of his father’s untimely execution. He continued, addressing nobody in particular, oblivious to the very presence of Howard and his friends, when all of a sudden, he fixed his gaze upon Dormoy, whose grey, melancholic eyes met the black, piercing stare of the suddenly silent old man. It was as if all other thought and concern had suddenly vanished from his wandering consciousness.

Silence enveloped them all as the old man raised a bony finger and spoke directly to Dormoy, as if the boy’s very soul were draped out there in the candle light in front of him. He spoke with a thick local accent, as if he were dredging up the details of his own past, when everyone spoke like that. He spoke in calm and measured tones, reciting, as it were, from a text or some rehearsed lines. All the same, his voice was choked with the immediacy of what he saw with his interior eye. “The plague,” he croaked, “wearing a black hooded cloak and carrying a crooked stick, took your mother, in the prime of her youth and would not listen to your cries for mercy. He will take another whom you continue to love. You can neither save her nor stop loving her.”

Dormoy crumbled on his stool and lowered his face into his hands while, from deep in his chest, a long suppressed cry issued forth through his muffled lips, like the plaintive bleating of a rabbit being slaughtered. Howard wrote no more of that night’s encounter, but I cannot imagine that any of them, not even Gaudin, could have broken the dark silence with any further conversation.

Almost every entry in Howard’s journal, thereafter, made some mention of Doctor Michel de Nostra Dame. He haunted Howard’s imagination, like some terrifying spectre that he dared not confront alone and unprotected by his group of friends.