Paris The Novel

Chapter Eleven




• 1604 •


Sometimes brothers quarrel. Robert and Alain de Cygne didn’t. Maybe it was because they were close in age, yet with quite different characters. One would hardly have even guessed they were brothers, to look at them: Robert had thin, dark hair which was already showing the first hint of a receding hairline. He had an almost scholarly bent. Alain was more robustly built, his hair a lighter brown, and thick as thatch. He loved the great outdoors. He’d rather hunt than read a book on any day. But each was the other’s greatest friend.

Robert was the older by just two years. He was the quieter one; Alain could be a little wild. All through their childhood, neighboring families spoke of them as “the de Cygne boys,” or even sometimes as “Robalain.” They went about as a pair. They were invited as a pair.

Robert, as the elder son, was to inherit the family estate and fortune.

“If anything happens to me,” he would tell Alain, “I shall have the pleasure of knowing that the estate will go to you.” Alain might be a bit wilder, but Robert knew that he’d be an excellent steward of the family fortunes if they came his way.

“No,” Alain would reply, “you get married and have children. I’d rather make my own way in the world.” And Robert knew that his brother was telling the truth. It was the challenge and the adventure that Alain loved. Robert sometimes thought they were even more important to him than the end result.

Assuming that he lived and produced a family, then Robert’s dream was that he and Alain should have fine houses and estates near each other. And to this end, he was doing everything he could to secure his brother’s advancement in the world.

That was why, six months ago, he had left Alain in the country to run the estate for him, and come up to Paris to see what he could do for his brother. Taking a house in the fashionable Marais quarter, he’d set to work.

It had been agreed that Alain would come to Paris in September. Robert knew his brother was excited about the prospect. And now September had come. Alain had arrived. And Robert was faced with one awful dilemma.

Should he tell his brother how completely he had failed?

Or that the meeting they were going to this autumn day was his last big chance?



They were walking through the quarter known as the Marais, the marsh, that lay just north of the axis that ran from the Louvre to the Bastille. Whatever marsh remained was mostly drained now—although hints of the old mire could be smelled in the streets on many days—and during the last decades, some of the greatest men in France had built their mansions there.

Alain was plainly excited by the magnificence of some of these aristocratic “hôtels.” Mostly they consisted of a big courtyard behind a gateway—this was known as the cour d’honneur—a splendid mansion with wings, and a garden behind. As they stopped in front of the Hôtel Carnavalet, he cried out: “Just imagine, Robert, if our family could have a place like this!”

“Either you or I,” said Robert with a smile, “would have to be one of the richest men at court. So don’t get your hopes up just yet.”

Robert looked at his brother affectionately. He knew that Alain was already planning to live there, with the fortune that he did not have. He hoped so much that he might be able to help his adventurous younger brother toward his dreams.



In one respect at least, young Alain had a great advantage over the generality of men. He was an aristocrat.

Those advantages were large. Aristocrats were exempt from many of the taxes that ordinary folk had to pay. Their social prestige gave them a better chance of finding a rich wife. And above all, the best positions in the king’s administration almost always went to nobles. A man of outstanding ability might rise in the king’s service. But at a certain point he would nearly always find that the position he sought, and had earned, and the rewards that went with it, would be given to a nobleman to whom he must submit.

So far, however, these advantages hadn’t produced any results.

Robert’s first prospect had been a tax farmer. The system of farming might not be popular, but it worked quite well. Instead of maintaining a huge network of officials, who might be corrupt anyway, the royal administration subcontracted the whole business to independent operators. The tax farmers guaranteed a given income to the crown, and anything more they could extract from the people, they kept. The king knew what he would receive, the tax farmers got rich, and of course, if the people were discontented, they blamed the tax farmers first, before they blamed the king.

So when Robert had found a tax farmer with a marriageable daughter, he’d gone to work. The deal was simple enough. The girl would get the benefit of social status, and with her father’s financial backing, her noble husband might make a great career. Everybody benefited. Robert had a charming miniature of Alain, which was quite true to life. The girl and her parents had seen the picture and liked it. He was on the point of summoning Alain to Paris when the tax farmer had regretfully informed him that he had a better offer. These things happened, but it was a blow.

Then he’d got an introduction to the great Sully himself.

Maximilien de Béthune belonged to one of the oldest families in Europe. With branches in France, England and especially Scotland, where their name was often spelled as Beaton, every generation seemed to produce men of talent. Created Duke of Sully for his services, the soldier administrator was the king’s right-hand man, and already he had transformed the country’s finances from loss to profit.

When Robert was ushered into his presence, he found a man well into middle age, with thinning gray hair and a somewhat domelike head, from which a pair of shrewd gray eyes looked out at him with a hint of amusement.

“So Monsieur de Cygne,” he remarked with a smile, “you have not come to ask for something for yourself, but you want me to help your brother. Very commendable. Has he a particular skill?”

“His talents are general, monsieur.”

“I’m sure they are. Does he by any chance have knowledge of the linen business, or perhaps glassmaking, or silk weaving?”

“No, monsieur.”

“I didn’t expect it, but one never knows. More important by far however, has he knowledge and experience in building bridges or roads?”

“Not as yet. But I’m sure he could learn.”

“I dare say. But I need men with experience.”

There was a brief silence.

“I was hoping,” Robert ventured, “that something might be found for him. Our family has always—”

“My dear Monsieur de Cygne,” the great man gently interrupted him. “Your family is known to me. If I had something to offer, I assure you, I should oblige you at once.” He paused and gazed at Robert kindly. “Do you know how to govern France?”

“Well …” Robert was stumped. It was not a question he had been expecting.

“Very few people do. The answer, however, is wonderfully simple. It is to do as little as possible.” Seeing Robert’s look of stupefaction, he raised his hand. “You are thinking that the king and I are busy, and we are. Allow me to explain. You see, the rulers of France usually spend their time destroying the country. They engage in wars. The trouble of recent decades has made a terrible mess of the countryside, and that is why I need men to build roads and bridges. Kings also have a deplorable habit of extravagant building, and of giving away money to all their friends. The present king is no better than the rest.” He smiled again. “Don’t worry, I tell him so to his face every day. But here is the point, Monsieur de Cygne: despite the attempts of every generation to ruin France, they cannot do it. The land is so large and so rich. The endless wheat fields that stretch from Chartres to Germany, the orchards and cattle farms of Normandy, the wines of Burgundy … the list goes on forever. Leave it alone for a year or two and the land recovers itself.

“All I have done, therefore, is to stick to the essentials, employ only people who are useful, build what is needed, and if possible, stay out of unnecessary wars—for as a soldier I know that war is ruinous—and if I do that, then the wealth of France will flow like a great river. That is why we now have a surplus in the treasury. And it is why I cannot create an unnecessary position for your younger brother.”

As Robert was sadly leaving, the great man did say one other thing.

“Perhaps you should try to get to know the king. I don’t control him.”



It had taken time. Robert had got to work on people that he knew. And finally he had been presented to the monarch. Here his name and his family’s centuries of loyal service had earned him a cordial enough reception. And the king was a very genial monarch. When he had finally plucked up the courage to ask if he might present his younger brother when he came to Paris, the king had told him that he expected it.

This was their mission today. Would the king do anything for Alain if he liked him? Who knew?



He’d discussed the meeting carefully with Alain. For once, his younger brother was nervous. “What shall I do? What shall I say?” he’d asked.

“Just be yourself, my dear brother. People always like you exactly as you are. And even if you tried to pretend to be something else, the king would see through you at once. Remember, there isn’t much in life he hasn’t seen. There are just four things you need to know.”

“What are those?”

“First, wherever he goes, there will be women. Be polite to them all. Any one of them may be a mistress; perhaps several of them. One of them may even be his wife.

“Second, you love his new bridge. The one that’s nearly finished. I showed it to you the other day. Do you remember what I told you?”

“The Pont Neuf. Built in stone. Goes right across the whole river, just touches the tip of the central island on the way.”

“And? You’ve forgotten something.”

“Ah. It will have no houses on it. Just a bridge. Pure and simple. First one in Paris without houses. Why does it matter?”

“Because one will have an unobstructed view along the river to the Louvre, which will look more gracious. The king is obsessed with this idea. On no account forget it.”

“I won’t.”

“Third, if he asks you to gamble, accept at once, even if you haven’t any money.”

“But if I lose?”

“Very unlikely. The king nearly always loses. He loves to lose. He loves giving money to people. Sully has to find the money to settle all his gambling debts. It drives the old man mad. I suspect the king finds that amusing.”

“You said there were four things. What’s the fourth?”

“Ah. Yes. That’s a bit special.” Robert grimaced. And then he told his brother what it was.

“Oh my God,” said Alain.



King Henry IV of France. King of Navarre. Born Catholic. Made a Protestant by his mother. Remained so until, on that fateful Saint Bartholomew’s Day, Catherine de Médicis threatened him with death if he didn’t become a Catholic.

And who knew, he might have remained a Catholic if Catherine and the Guises hadn’t made one miscalculation. They’d supposed the massacre of 1572 would terrify the remaining Protestants into silence. It didn’t. Though royal armies attacked in force, the great Protestant strongholds like La Rochelle held out. Soon they were pressing the government for freedom of worship just as strongly as before.

Once again, Henry of Navarre became a Protestant. It took him years to get his following back, but finally, he had a Protestant army behind him.

Would the throne of France be his? Nostradamus had said it would. When Catherine de Médicis had paid him a visit, he’d told her things would fall out this way. None of her sons left a legitimate male heir. Her last son, a talented transvestite, had no interest in producing one. Upon his death, therefore, the throne was Henry’s to inherit.

But the Catholic Guises were not done yet. They formed the Catholic League. Spain came to their aid. When Henry and his army came to Paris, they found a Catholic city, reinforced with Spanish troops.

There was a siege. There were endless talks. But in the end Henry had no choice. Paris, as people said, was worth a Mass. He became Catholic again, and got the throne of France. But he did not turn his back on his Protestant followers. In 1598, he issued the great Edict of Nantes, which allowed Protestants to worship as they pleased.

And he reigned, for all his faults, the most genial king the French had ever known.



They found him in the huge courtyard of the Louvre. There was a party of people with him, more women than men.

“Is the queen there?” Alain whispered as they approached.

If the king’s love life was busy, his marriages were somewhat eccentric. The marriage to Catherine de Médicis’s daughter, back in 1572, had not been a success. Henry and his wife had been cheerfully unfaithful to each other and in the end the pope had obligingly annulled their marriage. They remained friends, however, and Henry had recently built her a splendid palace near the Louvre. For years he had lived only with his mistresses. But finally he had married yet another of the Médicis family.

Marie de Médicis was not among his women today, however.

“They say her conversation’s pretty limited,” Robert informed his brother. “But she is wonderful at breeding children.” The Bourbons didn’t want to run out of heirs like their Valois cousins.

A courtier came to intercept them, remembered Robert, greeted Alain most amiably and led them toward the king. As he approached, Alain had a chance to observe the monarch. His curly hair and pointed beard were graying and clipped short. His face was full of intelligence and cunning, and amusement. He wasn’t especially tall, but he held himself very erect. He reminded Alain of a ram entering a field of sheep.

“Remember the fourth thing I told you,” whispered Robert. The king was only ten paces away now.

And then it hit them. Robert smiled. Alain also tried to smile, but it wasn’t easy.

For he had just smelled the king.

King Henry IV stank. He did not like to wash. The acrid smell of stale sweat that emanated from his body was striking even in an age when baths were rare. As for his breath … the combination of garlic, fish, meat and wine consumed over days, and never washed out of his mouth, produced a halitosis so thick, so putrid, that as Alain drew close, he almost retched.

How in the world, he wondered, can he stink so badly and still keep all these women?

But he made his deepest bows and found the king’s swarthy, intelligent face looking at him with every sign of approval.

“Welcome to Paris,” the monarch said genially. “Do you like it?”

“Most certainly, Your Majesty.”

“Have you seen my bridge?”

“I understand, Your Majesty, that they started building it wide, to support the usual houses, but that you forbade them to build any houses. I think it will look magnificent.”

“Excellent. Whoever told you to say that was quite right.” The king laughed. Alain almost winced as the breath reached him, but managed to smile instead. “Rather than putting houses on the bridge and spoiling the view, I intend to build some splendid town houses on the triangle of land where the bridge crosses the tip of the island.” The king nodded with satisfaction. “And as you see,” he continued, making a sweeping gesture toward the long building behind him, “we are building in the Louvre as well.”

It had to be confessed, the huge palace was still a mess. During the course of the last century, the kings of France had discovered that it was one thing to abandon the old royal palace on the Île de la Cité for the huge site around the Louvre, but it was another to decide what they wanted once they got there.

Not that anyone wanted to move back to the island. Apart from the Gothic glories of the Sainte-Chapelle, the old palace on the Île de la Cité had turned into a huge warren of law courts, dungeons and royal offices. But over at the Louvre, each generation seemed determined to make their mark, and the result was a failure of unity.

The central, Renaissance palace was promising, but Catherine de Médicis had built a palace of her own at the far end of the Tuileries, cutting off what might have been a noble view toward the west. A much better enterprise, which King Henry had now taken in hand personally, was the splendid series of galleries running westward from the Renaissance palace along the bank of the Seine. It ran for a quarter of a mile.

“Some people say,” Robert had told his brother, “that if there’s ever serious trouble, King Henry reckons he can run along the galleries and escape from a discreet side door at the western end. Like some of the palaces in Florence.”

More likely, the galleries were to be a noble setting for impressing visiting foreigners with the splendors of the royal art collections.

So when the king turned to Alain now and asked him, “Do you know what is so important about the long gallery?” Alain went for the art collection.

“Not at all. It’s the lower floor that’s the best thing about this new wing. Do you know what I’m going to use it for? Workshops. Artists’ studios. Scores of them. We’ll give the craftsmen space there. It’ll be like a huge academy. A hive of activity.” His enthusiasm was palpable. “A country is nothing, de Cygne, until it has peace. And a king is nothing if he does not promote the arts and crafts of his country. And a palace is nothing but an empty shell, unless it is the center of useful activity. So I am going to fill this palace with workshops.”

He turned to Robert.

“You are staying in the Marais, aren’t you?”

“I am, sire.”

“You must show your brother the site of my new square. They’ve started clearing the ground. It’s on the rue des Francs-Bourgeois, before you get to the Bastille. There’ll be colonnades at street level where people can walk. And above that, houses and apartments for honest working people. All built in brick and stone. A haven for modest townsmen, in the aristocratic quarter. I’m going to call it the Place Royale.” He suddenly looked at Alain. “Do you approve of my efforts for ordinary people, monsieur?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Why?”

Alain paused to think. He really hadn’t considered such a proposition before.

“I suppose,” he said, “it’s similar to the religious question. France is at peace now after being torn apart by religious divisions. But men can be divided by other things as well. If there is hatred between the classes, that is dangerous too. After all, there have been peasants’ revolts in history, and they were terrible. It seems to me that Your Majesty is seeking to make France at peace with itself.” He stopped, afraid that he might have spoken too much.

“Good,” said the king. He nodded approval. “Now then, to business, messieurs,” he continued. “As you have only the one estate,” he addressed himself to Robert, “your brother will have to make his way in the world. Have you been to see Sully?”

“Yes, sire.”

Alain did not know what this meant, but Robert did. The king’s question was not really a question at all. It was a broad hint that Sully had already told him about his efforts on behalf of his brother.

“I doubt you got anything from him,” the king remarked. “He never wastes money. Did he tell you I was extravagant?”

Alain’s mouth opened wide. What a question. How on earth did one respond to that? But Robert knew better than to tell his king a foolish lie.

“He did, sire,” he replied with a smile. “But I did not believe it.”

“What a good answer!” The king grinned. “You can never believe a word that comes out of Sully’s mouth. If you see him again, tell him I said so.”

And this promising conversation seemed about to take a useful turn, when a group of ladies came up to the king.

“Your Majesty is neglecting us,” one of them said reproachfully. “You were going to tell us what happened at Fontainebleau.”

Robert looked dismayed at this sudden interruption. Just as they had the king’s attention, were they about to lose it?

King Henry turned to the ladies.

“So I was.” He nodded. “You shall all hear it,” he called out. And at this signal the entire company hastened to gather in a circle around the monarch. “It happened last week, at the Château de Fontainebleau,” the king explained. “I was there, my wife was there, my little son, and the usual company. And we had an unusual entertainment, arranged by the English ambassador. A company of players. They gave us a play by a man named Shakespeare. Has anyone heard of this writer of plays? No? Well, nor had I, but they think highly of him in England. And you can imagine my excitement when, as I supposed, they told me their play was about myself.”

“A wonderful subject,” cried one of the courtiers.

“I quite agree,” said King Henry amiably. “But it turned out that it was about the English Henry IV. My chagrin was great. But what could I do? We all sat down. I put my son beside me. He’s only three, but I thought it would be good for him. A prince cannot be too young to learn how to be bored.” He gave them all an ironic look. “And so, my friends, the play began. I will not say I understood it all, but it had a big, fat character in it called Falstaff who seemed to be quite amusing.

“And to my astonishment, my little boy seemed to be enjoying it more than anybody. He was fascinated by this Falstaff. I have no idea why, but he was. We came to the end of a scene. We applauded. There was a silence. And then, suddenly, my little boy stood up, pointed at the actor who was playing the prince and shouted: ‘Off with his head!’ Just like that. ‘Off with his head!’

“Everyone turned to look at him. I could see the actors were alarmed. They obviously suspected the French were monsters. ‘You really want me to cut off his head?’ I asked. ‘Oui, Papa,’ he says. ‘Off with his head.’ ”

“I did not know he was so bloodthirsty,” laughed one of the ladies.

“Nor did I, madame,” confessed the king. “But it was then that I made my great mistake. I looked at him severely, and I said: ‘You must wait. We never execute an actor until the play is finished.’ And that was that.”

“You mean he was quiet after that?”

“Not at all, madame. I mean that the actors absolutely refused to continue. They begged the ambassador to save them. Nothing would persuade them to give us another line.” He turned to one of the gentlemen. “Bertrand, you were there. Didn’t it happen just like that?”

“Exactly, sire.”

They all burst out laughing.

“You did not command them to continue?” asked one of the ladies.

“Well, to tell you the truth,” King Henry admitted, “I was getting quite bored by then, so I called for refreshments instead.”

His anecdote done, he seemed about to engage in conversation with one of the ladies. Robert longed to reach out and grab him by the arm, but could not. Was this chance of helping Alain slipping away from him as well?

The king was murmuring something to the lady. But then, abruptly, he turned back to Robert.

“Walk with me, de Cygne,” he said kindly, “and your brother too, of course. I think best when I am walking.”

They moved along the path that ran parallel to the great gallery.

“Tell me,” King Henry said to Alain, “are you a young man who likes adventure?”

“I am, sire,” Alain replied.

“The greatest adventure in the world is in America, at present,” King Henry declared. “I am thinking in particular of the northern region we call Canada. A huge wilderness, unimaginable in its size and, perhaps one day, its riches. A vast territory to be explored and settled. During your lifetime, it could become a huge colony, a new France. Might that be of interest to you?”

Robert looked at King Henry in horror. Was he trying to send his beloved brother away into the wilderness? Where he might never see him again?

But Alain’s face had lit up.

“Under what terms might I go, sire?” he asked.

“I gave the trade monopoly and settlement to the Sieur de Mons. He has a number of talented men with him. There’s Du Pont, the explorer. There’s a young fellow named Champlain. He comes from a family of mariners, knows how to explore the great rivers and how to survey land. He seems to have talent. We have both Catholics and Protestants, all working together. Hardly any nobles. If I ask de Mons to find a place for you, he will. But after that, it will be entirely up to you how you impress these men, and what you make of it. There’s not much ceremony in such circumstances. But plenty of adventure. You’d learn a lot.”

“I am ready to learn, Your Majesty.”

If Alain seemed eager, Robert had taken note of something else the king had let fall. There were hardly any nobles out there. If Alain did well enough, then later on, once the settlements grew to be colonies under royal rule, he would have an advantage. He could even finish up as governor of a province someday. And his family in France would certainly make sure that his name was remembered in the royal court. He could see the cleverness of the king’s offer. But what a distance.

“So,” the king asked, “am I to take it that you are interested?”

“Most assuredly, sire.”

“I am afraid your brother will never forgive me.” The king gave Robert an understanding look. “It seems that he is fond of you.”

“My brother is the best man I know, Your Majesty,” said Alain with feeling.

The king turned back to Robert.

“Sometimes, de Cygne, to get on, we must make compromises. Even sacrifices. But remember this: France is full of ambitious nobles. Many have families far more powerful than yours. But across the ocean, a man can make a name for himself more easily.” He paused, and nodded. “And there is so much land …”

The king now signified that the interview was over, and that they should withdraw. As they did so, he called out: “Long life, Alain de Cygne.”

“To Your Majesty also,” Alain replied.

King Henry looked thoughtful, but said nothing.



As the two brothers made their way back into the Marais, they were both rather quiet. Finally Robert said: “I had not thought of you departing.”

“I know,” Alain answered. “Nor had I. But it’s an opportunity. A big adventure. And with a letter of recommendation from the king …”

“But Canada …”

“I shall write to you, brother.” Alain put his arm around Robert’s shoulder. “With every ship that crosses the ocean.”



Simon Renard was just a quarter mile ahead of the two brothers as he turned into the street that led to his house.

At just past forty, he was quite a handsome man, with only a few gray hairs. A year ago his wife had died, leaving him with three children. He was still getting over her loss.

On reaching his home, he found the house quiet. There was a single servant in the kitchen, who told him that his daughter had taken the younger children to the market with one of their friends, but that the friend’s mother would be coming by to pick up her child.

Simon was glad of the chance to make up his accounts in peace for an hour, and was about to go out to the storehouse in the backyard when he heard a knock at the street door and, on opening it, saw a pleasant, dark-haired woman who was obviously the mother of the child to be taken home.

“Come in,” he said. “I’m afraid the children went to the market, but no doubt they’ll be back soon.” It was annoying to have his work interrupted, but he hoped he didn’t show it.

She stepped in and glanced around.

“You have always lived here?” she inquired.

“Yes. It was my parents’ house. I enlarged it some years ago.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “Your parents are still living?”

“No. I lost them in the plague of ’96.”

The plague had returned to Paris twice since his childhood. Once in 1580, then again in 1596. The first time it had missed this little enclave of the city. The second time, he had been away in Lyon on business and returned to find both his parents gone.

Simon tried to think of something to say. His children had many friends, and he didn’t always remember the details of all their families.

“I forget how many children you have,” he said.

“Just three.”

“Ah yes. The same as me.”

They had stepped into the parlor. It was well furnished. There was a pair of square, upright walnut armchairs with panels of Brussels tapestries across their backs, and a carved trestle table. There was a Turkey carpet on the floor, and a tapestry hanging on the wall. Simon was rather proud of it. So he was pleased when the woman glanced around admiringly and remarked that he had a very handsome parlor.

“I see your business prospers,” she remarked with a smile.

Unlike his father, Simon had not refused to accept any help from his relations. When Guy’s father had offered to put him in the Italian trade, importing silk and leather gloves, he had gladly accepted, and the results had been excellent. Indeed, he could have increased his fortune more had he wished to. But he didn’t. He’d enlarged the house. His family wanted for nothing. But that was enough. He was a member of a guild, but he took no part in its politics. He did not want to impress anyone. He hoped his children would marry into solid, honest families, but not more than that. He had never moved from the quiet spot at the end of the alley which remained a haven of peace and quiet in a stormy world.

His visitor was smiling at him.

“You do not remember me.”

“Forgive me.” He gave her an embarrassed look. It was no use pretending. “My children have so many friends …”

“The fault is mine. You are clearly expecting someone. The mother of some child your children know. But I am someone else. I was last in Paris thirty-two years ago. I did not even know your name. But I came here to see if you still lived here, because I owe you thanks. When I was a little girl, you saved my life. Do you know me now?”

He stared at her in amazement.

“My God. You are the little Protestant girl. You are Constance?”

“I would have sent you a message years ago, but when your father left me with my relations in La Rochelle, all those years ago, he would not even tell them his name. He just hurried away.”

“I didn’t know that.” Simon nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that in those days, when it was dangerous even to help a Protestant, he might have thought he was protecting our family that way.”

“I think so too. And if I ever knew your family name, I certainly forgot it. I was only five. But I always meant to thank you. So when I arrived in Paris the other day, I set out to find the house. I thought I could remember it.”

“And you did.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Well, after wandering around looking for an hour. I wondered if you would still be living here, and I had no idea if I’d recognize you if you were. But when you opened the door, I thought it was you. And then before I could say anything, you asked me in.”

“But this is wonderful.” He nodded to himself as he remembered. “When my father came back from La Rochelle, he told us you were safe. Then not long after, the royal army came to take La Rochelle. The Protestants held out there so strongly that the army gave up. But we heard that many people had died during the siege, so I had no idea whether you had survived. And here you are. You must bring your husband and children to meet my children.”

“We are still Protestants, you know.”

Simon shrugged.

“It’s legal, now,” he said.

The truth was that, though a Catholic himself, Simon Renard didn’t much care what religion people followed anymore. Even now, he could still remember his sense of shock as a boy that Christians could murder innocents in the street in the name of their faith, and his sense of disappointment when Uncle Guy had seemed to condone it. He had joined that large body of moderate Catholics who felt—no matter what the pope said—that such horrors were against the Christian spirit.

“Well, I should be happy to bring my children to meet your family,” she said. “But alas I cannot bring my husband. He died two years ago. I have come to Paris with my brother-in-law and his family. Our children have grown up together. And when some friends of his urged him to come and join the Protestant church here in Paris, we decided we’d all come together.”

“Then you shall all come,” said Simon. “We shall have a reunion.” And he was about to tell her that his own wife had died, but for some reason he decided not to. Not just yet.

So it was agreed that they should all meet the following Saturday afternoon. Then Constance left.

After she had gone, Simon went back to attend to his business. But for some reason, he found it hard to concentrate.

Did Constance remember that in those far-off days when they were both little children, he had taught her the alphabet? Perhaps. He must ask her. Did she remember that when she was about to leave with his father, he had declared he would marry her? Probably not.

That was certainly out of the question. King Henry might have made peace, but Catholics and Protestants didn’t marry.

He realized that he had never even been inside a Protestant church. He had no idea what one of their services was like.

Perhaps he’d ask Constance and her brother-in-law to take him to one. There could be no harm in that.