E-Book, Englisch, 576 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-78227-160-4
Verlag: Pushkin Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Robert Merle (1908-2004) was born in French Algeria, before moving to mainland France in 1918. Originally an English teacher, Merle served as an interpreter with British Expeditionary Force during the Second World War, and was captured by the German army at Dunkirk, the experience of which served as the basis for his Goncourt-prize-winning Weekend at Zuydocoote. He published the 13 volumes of his hugely popular Fortunes of France series over four decades, from 1977 to 2003, the final volume appearing just a year before his death of a heart attack in 2004.
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I DIDN’T WANT TO RISK waking Samson with those two fat monks taking up so much space in the bed, so I slipped into the small adjoining chamber and, as Miroul was already out tending to our horses, I fell into his bed as the first light of dawn began to tinge the oil paper of his window. When all our other voluptuous desires have been exhausted, there is always sleep, which is not the least among them. What a delight to find myself alone and able to stretch out full length on this little couch, my body so weary, arms and legs akimbo and eyes closing as soon as my head touched the blankets. Samson was amazed to discover me so completely dead to the world when he decided to awaken me at noon—I who, at Mespech, was the first to rise and always the first downstairs in the great kitchens, arriving even before la Maligou had set the water on to boil. I explained as best I could, as I ran my fingers through my dishevelled hair, how exhausted I’d become doing all the interpreting the night before, but felt a bit ashamed at this lie since he immediately set about trying to comfort me. Oh, Samson you are such a guardian angel, but, thankfully, not so good a guardian, luckily for my sins! For his part, Caudebec got softer by the minute in this inn whose two angels hid two devils, whose names were, respectively “good victuals” and “sweet wench”. The night before he’d informed me he’d be leaving at dawn, but at noon he had no Samson to wake him and was still snoring at three in the afternoon. As he began to stir late in the day he immediately called for meat and wine. And, having lavishly eaten and copiously drunk his fill, he declared that the wise man always takes good care of his horses and, in the interest of the quadrupeds, he would put off his travels until the next day. But of course the next evening he fell asleep with the breasts of a wench for his pillow and didn’t awaken until noon the following day. I do believe that, at this rate, he would have tasted every conceivable menu the Two Angels could prepare, and bedded each of their twelve serving maids, had not Brother Antoine, who still held some sway over him, reminded him that his wife was dying of the fever in their chateau and that if they continued to tarry thus they might well arrive in Rome after Our Lord had received her into His peace. Thus it was that the two Siorac brothers and their page Miroul, having arrived on a Sunday at the Two Angels inn, did not take their leave of the place until the following Thursday at dawn—four days that seemed to Samson like lead weighing on his shoulders but to his brother seemed as light as cork, since I was not lacking for diversions; my “interpreting skills”—and I use the term without any ambiguity intended—were in such demand. The innkeeper provided very good company for me during this period, though her friendship did not lead to any reduction in our bill—except for the supplement she’d threatened to add after our first night there. But when I asked her to reimburse Franchou for the damages to her petticoat inflicted by the baron she refused flat out. I sensed that if I insisted too much it would not help Franchou and that my hostess might well kick her out after we left, which would have left me feeling very guilty on her behalf, since, I confess, she’d garnered a bit of my heart in our short time together. She was a wonderfully good girl, with eyes more tender than my mare, Accla’s, her lips softer than a baby’s bottom, and so loving and trusting it brought tears to my eyes. In my arms, she melted like butter. Alas, poor Franchou! Although I’d taught her “the right herbs” and “where to put them”—one of la Maligou’s secrets that I’d learnt from little Hélix—she ended up getting pregnant a year later from some guest or other, and died in childbirth. I find it so unfair that Nature can play evil stepmother to so many women who produce a life only at the expense of their own. But, to come back to these petticoats, which the baron employed to wipe his greasy hands, I didn’t want to betray either my promise or the hope of the poor girl, and had Samson advance me twenty sols (accompanied by a very severe sermon) on the pretext that I’d lost this amount playing at dice with Caudebec—a story that Samson believed willingly enough but that lit up Miroul’s brown eye (while the blue one retained its perfect tranquillity). Seeing herself so handsomely paid, Franchou jumped for joy, and, throwing her two wonderfully cool arms around my neck, pulled me towards her with such force I thought she was going to nest in my entrails. But then, suddenly remembering that I’d be leaving the next day, she went, in the blink of an eye, from happy to sad, mixing smiles with sighs, showering me with a thousand thanks, and as many kisses on the neck, watered by her tears. I was very moved, as you can well imagine, by these demonstrations of her affection. Although my hostess was far from having the same effect on my feelings as Franchou, not being made of the same tender metal and her bright brown eyes too closely focused on her figures, I nevertheless wanted to help her as well, realizing that I would likely see her often on my travels between Mespech and Montpellier. I thus warned her that the payment that was due her from the pilgrims would not come easily since the baron was much quicker to undo his flies than his purse strings. She well understood my meaning, and was careful to fatten up her bill over these four days, a good bit more than she ought to have done. Once alerted to the danger, and since she enjoyed the favours of the lieutenant of the Toulouse police force, favours she had more than one way to repay, the lady invited him (with four archers) to attend her settlement of accounts with the baron. He agreed to appear and his presence did wonders. When he caught sight of the lieutenant, the baron suddenly left off storming and thundering his threats to slash his hostess’s breasts to ribbons and generally to reduce the entire household to a juicy stew. When calm was restored, he argued nevertheless (through my translations) with such skill and at such length—the lieutenant being unable to validate the innkeeper’s figures—that a goodly part of the bill’s stuffing was removed and everyone parted company satisfied with the outcome. But since all of this haggling took a good deal more time than we would have wanted, the troop didn’t manage their departure until the sun was well up and they were unable to travel more than six leagues before nightfall. We spent the night in a little village that was badly defended and in an inn that had meagre food at meagre prices. The chambermaids were a notoriously decrepit lot, and our host visibly on his guard against these Frenchmen from the north. “Holy God!” Caudebec moaned, as he distastefully tested a spoonful of watery bean broth in which a few morsels of salted pork floated mournfully. “We’ve fallen directly into hell from our former Paradise. This wine tastes like piss! Monsieur my interpreter, ask this Lenten-faced innkeeper to provide me a good young wench to watch over my sleep tonight.” I translated his request, and, in response, our innkeeper frowned angrily. “Monsieur,” said he, “I don’t keep a shop, nor do I deal in women.” “What says this sad sack?” cried Caudebec. “That there are none to be had.” “What? No women? In this whole town? ’Sblood! Are you making fun of Caudebec?” “Not at all,” I answered to appease him. “He claims they’ve all gone off to the hills to help with the harvest.” Whereupon Caudebec rose to his feet and, swearing he’d kill everyone in the house, unsheathed his dagger. But the innkeeper remained unmoved and, merely frowning harder, stood his ground. “Monsieur,” I urged, “put away your dagger. These people don’t like us. Let’s not start a fight. One night without a wench is quickly passed.” “Not so!” roared Caudebec, suddenly growing sad. “Without a pair of breasts to lay my head on, I’ll end up thinking about my death, the fires of Purgatory and all my terrible sins!” “Monsieur,” said Brother Antoine, “if you could manage just one night without a wench, your sins would be less terrible…” “Alas!” replied the baron. “I may well sin with a whore, but I certainly don’t contemplate my sins while I’m at it! And sin is not really the question, it’s how we think about it.” This said, he began sobbing. Yes, this high and mighty baron was crying like a baby. Of course it is true that he’d been drinking heavily. I turned to the innkeeper and assured him he could go in peace and that he’d not be molested by his guest. But our host answered in his dialect and with marvellous self-assurance of both voice and aspect, “I’m not afraid. No misery can touch the just.” From this quote from the Bible it was clear that he was one of ours. And indeed I’d guessed so from the outset, so hostile was his every look at the pilgrims’ medallions and monks. “Oh!” moaned the baron, the tears falling from his eyes like the autumn rain. “I’m already in Purgatory! To have to eat this slop and drink this vinegar! To be served by these toothless hags—and in such miserable and ugly surroundings! Oh, God help us! I’m already dead and damned!” He was so despairing of his lot that he ended up drinking too much of this awful swill and rolling under the table. Nevertheless, when he finally awoke late the next morning, he hadn’t forgotten his financial acumen, and spent the better...
