The mirror of simple sou.., p.14
The Mirror of Simple Souls, page 14
The visitor seemed to her far from benevolent. There was something black and weighty about him whose source she did not know, but she sensed its power. There was no question of letting him near Maheut and her child. In any case, she reassures herself, fluffing up the pillow under her patient’s head, there is little chance of his finding her where she is now living in hiding. And once he has accomplished the duties of his monastery, he will return to Valenciennes.
In fact Ysabel is mistaken, but her thoughts are elsewhere now. Her eyes are on the hollow face, her hands on the icy forehead, she breathes softly to accompany the dying girl, to guide her, to free her lungs, her struggling heart—and the soul lodged therein.
Meanwhile in her own room, kneeling at the foot of her bed, Ade prays.
*
It is of her that Humbert is daydreaming as he strides up the rue de la Verrerie. The Franciscan has decided not to go directly back to the Cordeliers. The day is getting on and he still has much to do. Upon leaving the Beguinage he stopped to buy a hot pie from a strolling vendor, ate it while contemplating the river, then continued on his way, his mouth still salivating from the fatty meat and pastry.
As he walks, he wonders if the young woman recognized him. Probably not. That day on the Place de Grève he merely caught a glimpse of her face when she turned to pull Maheut away from the pyre. She was focused solely on her companion, fearing that her flamboyant unveiling would draw attention.
What could a woman of her quality be doing in such a place and in such company? This is what he still does not understand. He judged Ade at a single glance today. And what he saw did not fit with the circumstances of their first encounter.
On his right, the façade of the Saint-Merri church is bathed in the rays of the setting sun. Shouldering his way through the crowd of customers drawn by hawkers’ cries to the meat pudding stalls around the church, Humbert stops a moment outside the entrance. He needs to consider his next move. His mind is as heavy as his body, his thoughts confused. This is what happens when you are obliged to follow several paths at the same time. If only he could have at least found the girl! But it was naïve of him to imagine that she might hide in the Royal Beguinage itself. Did she pass through it? Her presence at the execution with Ade that day and the old infirmarer’s ambiguous attitude both suggest that she did. But she must now be more discreetly hidden. He will have to knock on the doors of the dozens of beguinages in the city, without even being sure that the girl he is hunting is still in Paris.
Hands crossed over his stomach, head bowed, Humbert resembles a man at prayer, except for his feet tapping anxiously on the paving stones. Through the woollen hood, he feels the sun warm the nape of his neck. He swings on his haunches as he learnt to do in the course of long hours spent praying standing up; stretches his back, feeling the suppleness of his body, sensing the muscles rolling over the bones. Breathes deeply. It will be useless to give way to frustration. After all, he has only himself to blame.
When he told Brother Jean about Maheut upon his return from Paris, that he had seen her in the Place de Grève dressed in a beguine’s habit, the old Franciscan was as surprised as he’d been. He knew the Redhead’s mother, whom he had met thanks to Marguerite, and now acted as her spiritual guide. When her daughter had fled, casting dishonour on her family, the woman came to ask him for help. But why had Humbert accepted this mission in addition to the other absurd and dangerous one his master had given him?
‘If our family had money, we would have made you a knight, my son,’ his mother had once said, planting a thorn in his heart. ‘There would not have been a nobler vassal in the service of his lord. Nobody more courageous, more faithful and devoted.’
Devoted he certainly is. But his lord is merely a stubborn, foolhardy old monk.
*
The smell of hanging tripe, rivulets of blackish blood in the gutter. The afternoon is drawing to a close and soon the sellers in the covered market will be packing up their wares. A frenzy spreads from stall to stall as hawkers make their final pitches and the day’s last bargains are struck. Humbert now knows where he must go.
At the mouth of rue Pirouette stands the tower of the great pillory. A chilling sight, a bell tower with empty window frames behind which a gigantic horizontal wheel is visible. The Franciscan is relieved that no poor soul is tied upon it today. A man has leant his cart against the structure and is unloading two carcasses covered with glistening flies.
He walks north, reaching the city ramparts amid a bustle of horse-drawn carts hurrying to leave the city, and those trying to enter before the gates close, then he passes through the walls near the Hotel d’Artois. The street continues on the other side of the gate, wider but disgustingly dirty, lined by crumbling shacks and many taverns. The men who slip furtively through their doors with their heads down do not come merely to drink the sour wine that is served there. Anything can be bought around here. You can find accomplices for a theft, fences for stolen goods, thugs for hire, little girls at a good price—even boys, too.
A boy sitting on a doorstep follows him with his eyes. Humbert stops, considers asking for directions and then thinks better of it. It is better to follow the landmarks inscribed in his memory. He continues on his way. The packet he carries under his robe, next to the skin, strikes his flank and weighs down every one of his steps.
5
The girl with the weak heart dies at the hour of compline. So absorbed was Ysabel in keeping her company that she has not noticed the time passing. The Beguinage closes its gates at nightfall—‘by the time you cannot tell a Tournoi coin from a Parisian one’, as the rule says. It is too late now to go to Maheut and warn her that a man is seeking her. She will do so tomorrow.
In the Silk House nobody senses the danger lurking. Maheut lies awake that night for other reasons. Earlier in the evening, Thomasse, the serving girl, left the closet where she usually sleeps to be near her mistress, and came up to the girls’ bedroom under the eaves. This happens sometimes when Dame du Faut has guests for supper and they linger at the table. The little girl hurries into the attic and slips into the common bed, next to Ameline. The two of them whisper and giggle loud enough for Maheut to hear, until Juliotte silences them with a menacing growl.
Now Maheut is the only one awake in the room. She wonders what to think of Ameline’s gossip. This is not the first time that she has heard about such things. But Ameline is stupid. Incredible that such a trivial girl is capable of such delicate embroidery. Bent over her work near the bay window, fingers pricking the needle through and drawing the thread, she appears almost graceful. But when she opens her mouth, that illusion vanishes.
Maheut rolls onto her back, burying herself in the quilt up to her chin. She is usually indifferent to the tittle-tattle among the girls in the house, but tonight she is feverish. In her cot, Leonor seems oblivious to her mother’s agitation. She sleeps in a total silence it is sometimes frightening to witness. Without any of the grunts, snoring, tongue-clicking or tiny cries that are usual for a baby. When Maheut puts her to bed, Leonor lays her arms by her side, looks up at her and then closes her eyes. That is all.
Ameline, she ruminates, acts like of one of those animals in rut that her father’s estate manager used to calm by throwing buckets of water over them. Whenever a man comes around, she trembles and blushes. And the clumsy questions she asked Maheut when she arrived, about her experience as a wife. If only she knew…
Maheut shifts to her side, curled up in a ball with her thighs tight together. But this is just a habit, or rather a frightened reflex of her body. She has forgotten Guillebert’s smell, though it lurked long in her nostrils like a reptile at the bottom of its burrow. The memory of rough hands on her skin and the tearing in her gut still remain, but these are now distant sensations. The fear has died down, as well as the anger, leaving behind another feeling she cannot define.
A laugh rises from the room downstairs. Maheut recognizes it as Jeanne du Faut’s. It is immediately followed by another, softer laugh that she knows well: that of Marie Osanne, the other silk merchant in rue Troussevache. Her business is the only one to rival Jeanne du Faut’s. For years the women have had shops side by side. Neighbours and competitors, Maheut thought when she first settled in the Silk House. Friends, she soon realized. Nothing strange about that. Both were beguines. Yet, Maheut tells herself, there is something more between them than a shared outlook and profession. Those looks they exchange, those frequent visits they pay each other so late at night…
Maheut knows what Ameline says about this. She is only repeating the usual rumours—as if they needed to be spread further. Women living together, without a man’s supervision… A murky situation in which sensuality can easily flourish and lead to illicit relations. They are like idiotic sheep that howl with the wolves!
Maheut’s fever is growing worse, but actually it is she herself who is feeding it. Tormented by some demon, the young woman cannot prevent herself from imagining the brunette with her ample curves and the slim blonde rolling around together in a bed sheltered by curtains from indiscreet eyes, each shoving her fingers into the cunt of the other, like Maheut did to herself as a child, before learning that this rapture was a sin.
Her nipples hurt; her belly is throbbing. She turns over again and again. Opens her eyes without knowing if she has slept or not. The shadows under the rafters are already lightening, and soon it will be morning. My God, she wonders, am I becoming like Ameline, my flesh as weak as the stupidest of beasts in the farmyard? Ysabel would know what was happening. She would surely tell her: do not worry, for it is not torment but pleasure. And the old beguine would be happy, since such torments would mean that Maheut was starting to heal.
6
The old beguine has not slept either. She stayed next to the dead girl until prime. Her death was gentle, she tells La Bricharde, who has come to pray over the child’s body. The image of the Franciscan left her mind during the hours of her deathbed vigil, which she spent, as is right and proper, remembering moments shared with the departed. The day the girl was first brought to her, when she was two and her parents were frightened by her fainting fits that their neighbours thought came from the devil. The regular visits after that. When she was older, Margot would come alone, not saying much but liking to linger in the kitchen, watching the herbalist prepare her elixirs. As well as her medicine, she always received a bowl of broth and a thick slice of bread to dip into it.
Dawn is breaking when Ysabel finally leaves the infirmary, entrusting the corpse to the expert hands of her assistants. But before heading to the Silk House, she goes to the postern set in the city wall to the rear of the Beguinage.
The sisters rarely take this passageway. It leads to the Saint Paul quarter, a labyrinth of alleys overpopulated with fullers, barrel-makers, plasterers, porters and other labourers who toil at the port. It takes the beguine some time to find the dwelling at the end of a muddy blind alley. Built from rubble and planks, crammed between two similar shacks, it is tiny, the interior sooty and as dark and stinking as a dungheap. The father has already left to look for work, and the mother too. A little girl comes down the ladder, barefoot, with a baby in her arms. She receives the news of her sister’s death with resignation, promising to pass on the news. Ysabel tells herself that the Beguinage will have to take responsibility for the cost of the funeral. This will not be the first time.
After having performed this task, and only then, does Ysabel let the dark shadow of the Franciscan return to her mind, and the urgent needs of the living take priority over her duty to the dead.
*
A few moments later, Ade is at her side as she heads towards rue Troussevache. The young woman seems to take her role as godmother seriously, and accompanies Ysabel to the Silk House whenever she can. But this morning she has other motives than the instruction of her godchild. Ysabel has told her of Humbert’s search. She takes the old beguine’s arm; at the pressure of her hand, Ysabel realizes Ade must be worrying about the Franciscan too. Is he truly linked to Maheut’s family as he claims? Before warning the impulsive Redhead, she wonders if she ought to consult Jeanne.
As she follows Ade into the shop, however, Ysabel realizes that the conversation will have to wait; though the shopkeeper is at her counter on the ground floor, there is a man with her.
‘Ade and Ysabel, what a surprise!’
Jeanne is fresh-faced, smiling. She embraces the younger of the visitors and takes the other by the hand. ‘Come, let me introduce Master Giacomo! Master Giacomo, my friend Dame Ysabel.’
The man bows. He is not tall, but well-built, his clothing made of fine fabric that emphasizes his powerful frame, the well-fitted doublet, the waist clasped by a heavy belt ornamented with enamel. Olive skin and black hair.
‘He sells me those brocades I showed you.’
‘Dame du Faut is a demanding customer, but she knows the quality of things.’ He speaks a careful and melodious French typical of Italian merchants. His voice is serious and low, coming from the back of his throat.
‘I think I can guess that you are the merchant from Lucca whom Jeanne often talks about.’
He merely smiles.
‘Master Giacomo has decided to remain in Paris for a few months,’ says Jeanne. ‘He is lodging nearby with his cousin in Buffeterie street.’
The street of the Lombards, thinks Ysabel. That is what people call the Italian bankers. No doubt Giacomo’s cousin is one of them. Jeanne is astute. It is always good to find allies among the lenders, although their situation is less prosperous now than it was when two among them, Biche and Mouche, were feeding the king’s treasury. With the war in Flanders, the kingdom’s finances are going from bad to worse, and amid the monetary crisis financiers are now viewed with suspicion. But once again the Jews have been the prime scapegoats. Five years ago, King Philip the Fair, like his ancestor Saint Louis and Philip Augustus before him, ordered the Jews to be expelled from the kingdom. The expulsion was of unprecedented scope: tens of thousands of men and women were arrested across the land, their goods confiscated and sold, their titles of credit appropriated by royal agents. The king redoubled his calls for expulsion, accusing the ‘god-killers’ of fraudulent extortions and frightful crimes ‘that cannot be named’.
But everyone in the kingdom needs loans, the merchants and nobles of course, but also the small artisans and peasants, who are increasingly burdened with taxes. The Lombards are the only lenders left, and they are charging even more exorbitant rates of interest than ever. Meanwhile the king is up to his usual tricks, on the one hand striking coins containing less and less silver, blackish coins known as ‘bourgeois’, and on the other hand minting gold ‘agnels’, so rare as to be almost unobtainable, which are stamped with a paschal lamb bearing a long-shafted cross in the manner of Saint Louis, in order to reassure people of the stability and honesty of the currency.
All this will end badly, thinks Ysabel. But meanwhile commerce continues. Giacomo is the living proof.
‘Northern embroideries and tapestries are much sought after in my country,’ explains the merchant. ‘I am looking for new suppliers who can satisfy my Italian clients. Dame du Faut knows everyone here, and she has promised to help me.’
The man looks Ysabel in the eyes. He has singular pupils, ringed with a deep blue, the sparkling gaze of a connoisseur. The mistress of the house seems to have lost herself in those eyes. Maheut, too, who is standing close by, her face alive with the haunting beauty that comes across it sometimes despite the headdress wrapped about her forehead.
‘Look at these marvels that Giacomo has brought me,’ Jeanne says.
‘Marvels, it is true,’ replies Ysabel.
On the counter, the silk fabric secretly gleams. The warp and background weft are entirely of gold thread. The floral design mingles buds of lilies and roses with leaves of watercress in an exquisite colour palette that plays on the dominant shades of saffron and burgundy. The old beguine lingers over the material, enjoying this congenial moment. She tells herself there will always be time after the merchant has gone to discuss the Franciscan.
Unnoticed by her, while everyone else is captivated by the visitor, Ade slips out of the room and up the stairs to the floor above.
*
The child is in the embroidery workshop, sitting on the wood floor, her legs spread out in front of her, palms resting on the ground to keep her balance. She is looking at Ameline, so Ade sees only her back.
She takes a step forward. Leonor straightens, gently raising her right hand and cocking her head like an animal that hears a noise. Ade moves forward again, very softly, holding up her robe so it will not rustle. The little hand flutters, like a feather blown by the breeze, the head tenderly bends towards the shoulder.
A few seconds later, when Juliotte slips her head around the door, this is the scene she sees: the child and her godmother sitting in the window frame, holding a silk ribbon at either end, playing at making it ripple in the light.
7
Two weeks of waiting, for this… Discouraged, Humbert examines the last sheet of parchment. The ruling is imprecise, the tracing of the letters irregular, the punctuation haphazard. This is the crude work of a beginner—but the most serious flaw is that skimming a few paragraphs is all it takes to discover the weakness of the Latin translation. The abbreviations are legion and often faulty, there are words missing, and the result is difficult to read. The man sitting opposite him in the tiny attic where he lives, sleeps and works—so badly—keeps his head down, pouting.
