The Royal Succession (4 page)

`For if Paradise is empty,' he said to himself, `it creates a singular modification in the condition of those whom we decree to be saints or blessed. And what is true for the souls of the just must necessarily be true also for the souls of the unjust. God
could not punish the
wicked before He has recompensed the just. The labourer receives his hire at the end of the day; and it must be at the end of the world that the wheat will be separated finally from the tares. There can be no soul at this moment living in Hell, since sentence has not yet been pronounced. And
that
is

as much as to say that Hell, till then, does not exist.'

This proposition was peculiarly reassuring to someone thinking of death; it postponed the date of the supreme trial without destroying the prospect of eternal life, and was more or less in keeping with the intuition, common to the greater part of men, that death is a falling into a dark and immense silence, into an indefinite unconsciousness.

Clearly such a doctrine, if it were to be openly professed, could not fail to arouse violent attack both among the doctors of the Church and among the pious populace, and the moment was ill
-
chosen for a candidate to the Holy See to preach the inexistence of both Heaven and Hell, or their emptiness.
3

'We shall have to await the end of the Conclave,' the Cardinal thought. He was interrupted by a monk in attendance who knocked on his door and announced the arrival of a courier from Paris.

`Who does he come from?' asked the Cardinal.

Dueze had a smothered, strangled, utterly toneless voice, though it was perfectly distinct.

`From the Count de Bouville,' replied the monk. `He must have ridden fast, for he looks very tired; when I went to open to him, I found him half asleep, his forehead against the door.,

'Bring him to me at once.'

And the Cardinal, who had been meditating a few minutes before on the vanity of the ambitions of this world, immediately thought: `Can it be on the subject of the election? Is the Court of France openly supporting my candidature? Is someone going to offer me a bargain?'

He felt excited, full of hope and curiosity; he walked up and down the room with little, rapid steps. Dueze was no taller than a boy of fifteen, and had a mouse-like face beneath thick white eyebrows and fragile bones.

Beyond the windows the sky was beginning to turn pink; it was already dawn but not yet light enough to snuff the c
andles. His bad hour was over.

The courier entered; at first glance, the Cardinal knew that this was no usual courier. In the first place, a professional would immediately have gone down on his knee and handed over his
message-box, instead of remaining on his feet, bowing and saying, `Monseigneur . . .' Besides, the Court of France sent its messages by strong, solidly built horsemen, well inured to hardship, such as big Robin-Cuisse-Maria, who often made the journey between Paris and Avignon, and not a stripling with a pointed nose, who seemed hardly able to keep his eyes open and reeled in his boots from fatigue.

'It looks very like a disguise,' Dueze thought. `And what's more, I've seen that face somewhere before.'

He broke the seals of the letter with his thin short hands and was at once disappointed. It did not concern the election. It was merely a plea for protection for the messenger. Nevertheless, he saw a favourable sign in this; when Paris desire
d
some service from the ecclesiastical authorities, they now looked to him.

'Allora, lei e it Signore Guccio Baglioni?'*
he said, when he had finished reading.

The young man started to hear himself addressed in Italian.

`Si, Monsignore.'

*
`So you ar
e Messire Guccio Baglioni?'

`The Count de Bouville recommends you to me that I may take you under my protection and conceal you from the enemies who are searching for you.'

`If you will do me that favour, Monseigneur.'

`It appears that you have had an unfortunate adventure which has compelled you to fly in that livery,' went on the Cardinal in his rapid, toneless voice. `Tell me about it. Bouville says that you formed part of his escort when he brought Queen Clemence to France. Indeed, I remember now. I saw you with him. And you are the nephew of Messire Tolomei, the Captain-General of the Lombards of Paris. Excellent, excellent! Tell me your troubles.'

He had sat down and was toying mechanically with a revolving reading-desk on which were a number of the books he used in his work. He now felt calm and relaxed, ready to distract his mind with other people's little problems.

Guccio Baglioni had ridden three hundred miles in less than four days. He could no longer feel his limbs; there was a thick fog in his head and he would have given anything in the world to stretch himself out on the floor and sleep and sleep.

He managed to master himself; his safety, his love and his future all made it necessary that he should control his fatigue for a little longer.

`Well, Monseigneur, I
married a
daughter of the nobility,' he replied.

It seemed to him that these words had issued from another's lips. They were not those he would have wished to utter. He would have liked to explain to the Cardinal that an unparalleled disaster had overtaken him, that he was the most crushed and harrowed of men, that his life was threatened, that he had been separated, perhaps for ever, from the one woman without whom he could not live, that this woman was to be shut up in a convent, that events had befallen them during the last two weeks with such sudden violence that time seemed to have lost its normal dimensions, and that he felt he was hardly still living in the world he knew. And yet his whole tragedy, when it had to be put into words, was reduced to the single phrase: `Monseigneur, I married a daughter of the nobility.'

`Indeed,' said the Cardinal, `and what is her name?' `Marie de Cressay.'

`Oh, Cressay; I don't know it.'

`But I had to marry her secretly, Monseigneur; her family were opposed to it.'

`Because you're a Lombard? Naturally; they're still rather old
-
fashioned in France. In Italy, of course ... So you wish to obtain an annulment? Well ... if the marriage was secret. ..'

`No, Monseigneur, I love her and she loves me,' said Guccio. `But her family has discovered that she is with child, and her brothers have pursued me to try and kill me.'

`They may do so, they have a customary right to do so. You have put yourself in the position of a ravisher. Who married you?'

`Father Vicenzo.'

`Fra Vicenzo? I don't know him.'

`The worst of it is, Monseigneur, that the priest is dead. So I can never prove that we are really married. But don't think I'm a coward, Monseigneur; I wanted to fight. But my uncle went and asked the advice of Messire de Bouville...'

'... who wisely advised you to go away for a time.'

`But Marie is going to be shut up in a convent! Do you think, Monseigneur, that you will be able to get her out? Do you think I shall ever see her again?'

`One thing at a time, my dear son,' replied the Cardinal, still revolving his reading-desk. `A convent? What better place could she be in at the moment? You must trust in God's infinite mercy, of which we all stand in such great need.'

Guccio lowered his head with an exhausted air. His black hair was covered with dust.

`Has your uncle good commercial relations with the Bardi?' went on the Cardinal.

`Indeed yes, Monseigneur. The Bardi are your bankers, I believe,' replied Guccio with automatic politeness.

`Yes, they are my bankers. But I find them less easy to deal with these days than they were in the past. They've become such an enormous concern! They have branches everywhere. And they have to refer to, Florence for the smallest demand. They're as slow as an Ecclesiastical Court. Has your uncle many prelates among his customers?'

Guccio's cares were very far removed from the bank. The fog was growing thicker in his head; his eyelids were burning.

`We have mostly the great barons,' he said, `the Count of Valois, the Count of Artois. We should be greatly honoured, Monseigneur. . .

`We'll talk of that later. For the moment you're in the shelter of this monastery. You will pass for a man in my employ; perhaps we'll make you wear a clerk's robe. I'll talk to my chaplain about it. You can take off that livery and go a
nd sleep in peace; that appears
to be what you need the most.'

Guccio bowed, muttered a few words of gratitude and went to the door. Then, coming to a halt, he said: `I can't undress yet, Monseigneur; I've got another message to deliver.'

`To whom?' asked Dueze somewhat suspiciously.

`To the Count of Poitiers.'

`Give me the letter; I'll send it later by one of the brothers.'

`But, Monseigneur, Messire de Bouville was very insistent...'

`Do you know if the message concerns the Conclave?'

`Oh, no, Monseigneur! It's about the King's death.'

The Cardinal leapt from his chair.

`King Louis is dead? But why didn't you say so at once?'

`Isn't it known here? I thought you would have been informed, Monseigneur.'

In fact, he wasn't thinking at all. His misfortunes and his fatigue had made him forget this capital event. He had galloped all the way from Paris, changing horses in the monasteries whose names he had been given, eating hastily and talking as little as possible. Without knowing it, he had forestalled the official couriers.

`What did he die of?'

`That's precisely what Messire de Bouville wants to
tell
the Count of Poitiers.!

'Murder?' whispered Dueze.

`It seems the King was poisoned.' The Cardinal thought for a moment.

`That may alter many things,' he murmured. `Has a regent
been appointed?'

`I don't know, Monseigneur. When I left, everyone was talking of the Count of Valois.''

`All right, my dear son, go and rest!
'

'But, Monseigneur, what about the Count of Poitiers?'

The prelate's thin lips sketched a rapid smile, which might have passed for an expression of goodwill.

`It would not be prudent for you to show yourself; moreover, you're dropping with fatigue,' he said. `Give me the letter; and so that no one can reproach you, I'll give it him myself.'

A few minutes later, preceded by a linkman, as his dignity required, and followed by a secretary, the Cardinal in Curia left the Abbey of Ainay, between the Rhone and the Saone, and went out into the dark alleys, which were often made narrower still by heaps of filth. Thin and slight, he seemed to skip along, almost running in spite of his seventy-two years. His purple robe appeared to dance between the walls.

The bells of the twenty churches and forty-two monasteries of Lyons rang for the first office. Distances were short in this city, which numbered barely twenty thousand inhabitants, of whom half were engaged in the commerce of religion and the other half in the religion of commerce. The Cardinal soon reached the house of the Consul, where lodged the Count of Poitiers.

3. The gates of Lyons

THE COUNT OF POITIERS was just finishing dressing when his chamberlain announced the Cardinal's visit.

Very tall, very thin, with a prominent nose, his hair lying across his forehead in short locks and falling in curls about his cheeks, his skin fresh as it may be at twenty-three, the young Prince, clothed in a dressing-gown of shot camocas, greeted Monseigneur Dueze, kissing his ring with deference.

It would have been difficult to find a greater contrast, a more
ironical dissimilarity than between these two figures, one like a
ferret just emerged from its earth, the other like a heron stalking
haughtily across the marshes.

'In spite of the early hour, Monseigneur,' said the Cardinal, `I
did not wish to defer bringing you my prayers in the loss you
have suffered.'

`The loss?'
said Philippe of Poitiers with
a slight start.

His first thought was for his wife, Jeanne, whom he had left in
Paris and who had been pregnant for eight months.

`I see that I have done well to come and tell you,' went on
Dueze. `The King, your brother, died five days ago.'

Philippe stood perfectly still; his chest barely moved as he
drew a deep breath. His face was expressionless, showing no
surprise or emotion - or even, impatience for further details.

`I am grateful to you for your alacrity, Monseigneur,' he replied. `But how have you managed to, hear the news before
myself?'

`From Messire de Bouville, whose messenger has ridden in
haste so that I may give you this letter secretly.'

The Count of Poitiers broke, the seals and read the letter, holding it clo
se to his nose for he was very
short-sighted. Again, he
betrayed no sign of emotion, when he had finished reading, he
merely slipped the letter into his gown. But he said no word.

The Cardinal also remained silent, pretending to respect the
Prince's sorrow, although he showed no great signs of
affliction.

`God preserve him from the pains of hell,' said the Count of
Poitiers at last, to complement the prelate's devout expression. `Yes ... Hell,' Dueze murmured. `Anyway, let us pray to God.

I am also thinking of the unfortunate Queen Clemence, whom I
saw grow up when I was with the King of Naples. So sweet and
perfect a princess. ..'

`Yes, it's a great misfortune for my sister-in-law,' said Poitiers.

And as he said it, he thought: `Louis has left no testamentary
disposition for a regency. Already, from what Bouville writes, my
Uncle Valois is at work...'

`What are you going to do, Monseigneur? Will you return to
Paris immediately?' the Cardinal asked.

`I don't know, I don't y
et know,' replied Poitiers. `I shall wait
for more information. I shall hold myself at the disposition of the
kingdom.'

In his letter Bouville had not concealed the fact that he wished
for Poitiers' return.
As the elder of the dead King's brothers, and as a peer of the kingdom, Poitiers' place was at the council of the Crown in which, at the very first meeting, dissension had broken out over the appointment of a regent.

But, on the other band, Philippe of Poitiers felt regret, even reluctance, at having to leave Lyons before he had completed the tasks he had undertaken.

In the first place he had to conclude the contract of betrothal between his third daughter, Isabelle, who was barely five years of age, and the Dauphiniet of Viennois, the little Guigues, who was six. He had negotiated this marriage, at Vienne itself, with the Dauphin Jean II de la Tour du Pin and the Dauphine Beatrice, sister of Queen Clemence. It was a good alliance, which would allow the Crown of France to counterbalance the influence of Anjou-Sicily in this region. The document was to be signed in a few days' time.
4

And then, above all, there was the Papal election. During the last weeks Philippe of Poitiers had journeyed backwards and forwards across Provence, Viennois and Lyonnais, interviewing each of the twenty-four scattered cardinals in turn;
5
assuring them that the aggression of Carpentras would not be repeated and that they would be subjected to no violence; giving many of them to understand that they might have a chance of election and pleading for the prestige of the Faith, the dignity of the Church and the interests of the States. Ultimately, as a result of much effort, talk and money, he had succeeded in gathering them at Lyons, a town which had long been under ecclesiastical authority but had passed recently, during the last years of Philip the Fair, into the power of the King of France.

The Count of Poitiers felt that he was on the point of reaching his goal. But if he left, would not the dissensions begin all over again, personal hatreds flourish once more, the influence of the Roman nobility or that of the King of Naples supplant that of France, while the various parties accused each other of heresy? Would not the Papacy return to Rome? `Which my father so much wished to avoid,' Philippe of Poitiers said to himself. `Is his work, already so much damaged by Louis and by our Uncle Valois, to be destroyed completely?'

For a few moments Cardinal Dueze felt that the young man had forgotten his presence. But suddenly Poitiers asked: `Will the Gascon party maintain the candidature of Cardinal de Pelagrue? Do you think that your pious colleagues are at last prepared to sit-in Conclave? Sit down here, Monseigneur, and

tell me your thought on the matter. How far have we advanced?'

The Cardinal had seen many sovereigns and ministers during the third of a century he had been concerned with the affairs of kingdoms, but he had never before met one with such self
-
control. Here was a prince, aged twenty-three, to whom he had just announced the death of his brother and the vacancy of the throne, and he seemed to have no more urgent concern than the complications of the Conclave.

Sitting side by side near a window, on a chest covered with damask, the Cardinal's feet barely touching the ground and the Count of Poitiers' thin ankle slowly moving from side to side, the two men had a long conversation. It appeared from Dueze's summary of the situation that they were more or less back where they had been two years ago, after the death of Clement V.

The party of the ten Gascon cardinals, which was also called the French par
ty, was still the largest, but n
ot large enough by itself to ensure the necessary majority; of two-thirds of the Sacred College; sixteen votes, The Gascons considered themselves the depositories of the late Pope's thought. They all owed their hats to him, held out firmly for the See of Avignon and showed themselves remarkably united against the other two parties. But there was a good deal of secret competition among them; the ambitions of Arnaud de Fougeres, Arnaud Nouvel and Arnaud de Pelagrue all flourished. They made mutual promises while scheming for one another's downfall.