THE SENSE OF PEACE exuded by Queen Marguerite extended to her church. Calm and serene with superb acoustics, the interior bore a faint trace of her scent. Delicate, almost floral. Also in Marguerite’s idiom, the facility served both Catholics and Lutherans, possibly unique for a place of worship in France. Except during services, it was impossible to discern from a glance the liturgy to which any particular supplicant adhered.
The priest was waiting. Père Louis-Paul did not appear either so pious or so kindly as he had in the courtyard. Rather, he had adopted an air of somber impatience.
Each entered their respective doors of the confessional and softly closed them. As Amaury knelt, the curtain pulled open. The outline of Père Louis-Paul was visible through the lattice in the dim light.
Amaury had never before been in a confessional without saying, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” but on this occasion he merely sat and waited for Père Louis-Paul to begin. For some moments, the only sound was the breathing of the two men. Finally, Père Louis-Paul seemed to recognize that no Sacrament of Penance would precede the interrogation.
“Well, my son,” he began in his confessors whisper, “what have you learned?” The sound seemed to float in the tiny enclosed chamber.
“Not very much, I’m afraid,” Amaury whispered in return, in Latin. “As Magister Ory suspected, there does seem to be a substratum of the Lutherans who are more radical than their brethren. And there does seem to be talk of some grand conspiracy to disprove Genesis, although I continue to doubt if the effort is serious.”
“This is no more than we knew already. Surely you learned something more. The Italian, for example. Castell’buono. Is he involved?”
“Certainly,” Amaury replied. “But this can hardly be a revelation to you.”
“And the girl? The one you traveled with. Has she deduced your true affiliation?”
“No.”
The priest was silent for some moments. He surely suspected Amaury was lying to him but was in no position to launch a specific accusation. “Well, my son,” he whispered finally, “although you seem to have little to tell us, we have something to tell you. Magister Ory has an assignment that he wishes you to carry out. It is the reason you were brought here. You will, you see, have the opportunity to demonstrate your worth after all.”
“I am grateful,” Amaury said.
“In Castell’buono’s rooms are documents. Very explicit documents, I’m told. They come from a man living in the east and give the details of the Lutheran conspiracy. You are to read them—read them with great care—and report to me on their contents.”
“Excuse me, Father,” Amaury replied. “How am I to read documents that Castell’buono has secreted in his rooms? Am I to simply ask him to show me material that could have him burnt at the stake? I must also ask, why me specifically? With your position, you would seem more apt to access this information than I.”
“You are to read them because they are technical—mathematical. They concern some aspect of natural philosophy that the Lutherans believe will throw into doubt the Church’s interpretation of Genesis 1:1. You were chosen for this assignment because Magister Ory believes you to have a brilliant mind for such things.”
“Magister Ory flatters me.”
“Hardly. He also imparted that your faith and commitment are both questionable. You are under great scrutiny, Faverges. I suggest you do not take this admonition lightly.”
“I take nothing from Magister Ory lightly.”
“Very wise. It has been observed that you do not seem to be proceeding with the energy Magister Ory expected of you.”
“I don’t see how I could have exhibited more energy,” Arnaury protested. “I got myself assigned to come here and have since insinuated myself into Castell’buono’s circle. That he has yet to give me his unvarnished trust after one day is not surprising.”
“A fine argument for a disputation, Faverges,” the priest replied. “And perhaps even valid. Still, your traveling companion has managed to forge a more intimate relationship with Castell’buono, and she is not even of our cause.”
“She possesses virtues I do not,” Arnaury countered.
“True enough,” allowed the priest. “As to the ‘how,’ arrangements have been made. Signore Castell’buono, although he does not know it as yet, is about to go on a journey. He will be asked by Her Majesty to travel to Angouleme to fetch some documents held at an abbey there. He will be gone at least two days. During that time, you can find occasion to visit his rooms and read whatever it is that is secreted. On the floor under your seat, you will find a key. It will allow you entry into the Italian’s room.”
“So I am to be a thief in the night.”
“Do it in the day if you wish,” said the priest. “Now, I, as you, fully expect that this material will be some sort of hoax or piece of mysticism and do nothing to bring any of the Holy Scripture into question. In the current environment, however, with the Lutherans undermining faith at every turn, the True Church can take no chances.”
“I agree.
“I am heartened. Oh, yes, there is one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“You are under suspicion by the heretics. Sévrier watches your every move.”
“Sévrier?”
“Your supposed servant Philippe. You must discharge your assignment with an eye to his movements.” Père Louis-Paul paused. “We perhaps don’t fully trust you, but we would still prefer that you remain alive.”
By the time Amaury left the chapel, the sun had vanished. A flat, ominous gray sky, under which dark clouds were gathering, promised rain. How fitting, he thought.
The courtyard was deserted. Amaury was grateful for the privacy. He decided to leave the palace and walk in the fields. Not Savoy, perhaps, but open air provoked clear thought. As he headed for the gate, one man tarried on a small bench against the palace wall, clad in soiled, threadbare clothing, seemingly rapt in the attempt to twist an errant cuticle off his thumb. Amaury began to walk past when the man unaccountably lifted his head.
“My, my, Faverges, don’t you look downcast,” said Rabelais. He glanced skyward. “And on such a fine day.”
Amaury nodded briefly but continued on. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“No, no. Wait.” Rabelais rose and gestured that they should walk together. Amaury’s instinct was to avoid him, but somehow Rabelais, because he respected nothing, was the only person in the palace in whose company Amaury felt at ease.
“You have not been successful?” the writer asked.
“Successful? In what way?”
“In bedding the woman, of course. Or even women. To what else would I refer?”
Amaury averted his gaze.
“Then you were successful! Which one? The cold aristocrat or the passionate peasant? I would prefer the latter. But I am an egalitarian.”
“May I ask you a question?” Amaury asked instead of replying.
“Of course. About women, I hope.”
“Are you what you pretend to be?”
“Quel dommage,” Rabelais replied with a sigh. “How boring. And, besides, the question is oxymoronic. If I was pretending, then I could not prima facie be genuine. What you want to know is if I am what I appear to be. As outlandish.”
“Yes. You seem almost as if you had stepped from your writings.”
“Perhaps the writings stepped from the man,” Rabelais replied. “But the answer to your question is yes. I am precisely as I appear. Shocking as it may be, there is no pretense or artifice in my manner, either personal or social. On the other hand, you, I deduce, feel you are not what you appear to be.”
Amaury did not reply.
“Therefore, you either do not know how you appear, or do not know who you are. Or, God have mercy, both. But I suspect you know what you appear to be, thus you must not know who you are.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
Rabelais indicated another bench, against the north wall of the palace. “Come sit,” he said. Amaury felt a drop of rain and looked up. “Don’t worry,” Rabelais chided. “If water will not harm one who does not bathe, I feel certain you will be safe.”
They strolled through intermittent raindrops. Rabelais’ feet scraped along the ground as he walked. Once they were seated, he continued. “Usually, my young friend, when people do not know who they are, it is because they do not wish to be what they think they are. Is that the case with you?”
“Yes. Perhaps.”
“So let us start with the simpler question. What do you think you are?
“Castell’buono says I’m a doubter.”
Rabelais waved dismissively to the air. “Castell’buono is a dissembler. His opinion would not matter in any case. Only yours is germane.”
Amaury considered the question. “I think I am a noble bastard whose ambition is fueled by denial of his birthright. I think I have led a life of dishonesty, trying to attain by good works what I was denied by corruption of lineage.”
Rabelais seemed stunned. “My good and merciful Lord. An honest man. I did not think they existed.”
“I’m hardly honest,” Amaury muttered.
“Why? Because you deceive others? That doesn’t matter a tit. You are honest with yourself. A far more difficult proposition. And, because you are honest with yourself, I will be honest with you.”
“Thank you.”
“I began in the Church. In a monastery, in fact. I was far younger than you are now when I grew disgusted by the hypocrisy. When that German pus ball Luther came along, I read his work and found him little better. I studied medicine—I am rather a fine physician, you know—because I thought earthly matters far more noble a pursuit than competing to be the most pious man in a heaven that may well not exist. And what is piety, anyway? An arbitrary construct created by men who drink, whore, accumulate wealth, and father illegitimate children—excuse me—while denouncing similar behavior in others.
“When I began to write, even I feared the repercussions, so I created an anagram of my name, Alcofribas Nasier. It fooled no one. My work has been banned by the Church, condemned by right-thinking people everywhere, and, if not for King François—who enjoyed Pantegruel immensely, Im told—I would likely at this moment be no more than a pile of ashes.
“So the question I am sure you wanted to ask is . . . do I regret my decisions? Correct?”
Amaury nodded. The rain had increased to a fine mist, but Rabelais seemed unconcerned.
“No! There is your answer. As Erasmus said—he’s also a bastard, you know, although of the priesthood—minor priesthood, not nobility: ‘Give light, and the darkness will disappear of itself.’ I give light.”
“Erasmus also wrote, ‘It is the foremost point of happiness that a man is willing to be what he is.’ did he not?” Amaury asked.
“Yes,” admitted Rabelais, “although I would appreciate if we stopped quoting that Dutchman and began quoting me. I wrote, ‘One falls to the ground in trying to sit on two stools.’ Good, is it not?”
“Indeed,” Amaury agreed.
“Better even,” Rabelais pressed. “More wit. Less pretension.”
“Definitely less pretension.”
“Erasmus was always pretentious.” Rabelais clapped his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “Fine, then. Let us continue. You were saying?”
“It was you who was speaking. Telling me of your lack of regret.”
“Ah, yes . . . come, let us walk . . . so tell me, my friend, all this fakery you’ve engaged in . . . has it brought you any closer to what you seek?”
“No. I suppose not.”
“But you think the reason is that you have not done enough. If only you were more worthy, tried harder, engaged in even more good works— then your hopes would reach fruition. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Amaury nodded.
“But what if the problem was not the distance you have traveled but the road you have chosen? If that is true, then the further you go, the deeper into the thicket. The more lost you become. The test is simple. Do you feel more or less lost?”
I’m not sure.
“That means more.”
“I suppose.”
“There you have it.” Rabelais looked quite satisfied with himself.
“And the alternative?”
“You pick a path, my young friend, not because you think others would choose it for you, or would even approve of your choice, but simply because it is your choice.”
“And what was your choice?”
“My choice was to put my thumb in the eye of pompous fools. And I have never regretted it for a second.”
“What if you lose the king’s favor and are imprisoned? Or worse.”
“I’m neither fool nor zealot. I will regret being imprisoned. Or worse. But I will not regret the choices that brought me to such an unfortunate end.”
The rain had begun falling more heavily. Amaury looked down at the front of his clothes and realized he was soaked. He turned his hands palms up and watched water run off his fingers.
“You are of feeble constitution,” Rabelais grunted. “You’d best go back and change.”