Michael Zévaco's The Pardaillan

I The Two Brothers The house was small and of a humble aspect, composed solely of a ground floor. Near an open window, seated on an armchair with an emblazoned backrest, was an elderly man with white hair, a rude figure of the captains that had survived the epic wars of the time of Francis I. The elderly man stared sadly at the somber feudal castle of The Montmorency, which rose at the distance, in the blue sky, the pride of its menacing towers. Suddenly, he turned his head and sighed terribly, like a mute curse, lifted his chest. “Where is my daughter?” He asked. “The young lady went to gather lilies in the forest,” answered the servant, who was cleaning the living room. An indescribable expression of tenderness illuminated the forehead of the old man, who sweetly smiled, whispering “Yes, it’s true. It’s spring. The fences are embalmed; every tree is a bouquet. Everything laughs; everything sings; there are flowers everywhere. But the most beautiful and purest flower is you, Jeanne, my noble and chaste daughter.” Then, his eyes stared back at the formidable silhouette of the royal mansion crouched on the hill, like a monster of stone lying in wait. “Everything that I hate is there!” He exclaimed. “There lies the power that has killed me! Yes, I, Lord of Piennes, not long ago, master of an entire county, am reduced to live almost miserably in this humble corner of the earth that the rapaciousness of the Constable has left me! What do I say, insensate? Right now he seeks the means to evict me from my last refuge. Who knows if tomorrow my daughter would still have a house where to find shelter? Oh, my Jeanne, the flowers that you picked today may be your last!” Silent tears plowed through the wrinkles of the desperate face. Suddenly, he turned intensely pallid; a rider dressed in black, dismounted his horse in front of the house, entered, and bowed before him. “Damned! Montmorency’s bailiff!” The old man exclaimed. “Lord of Piennes” said the man dressed in black, “I just received from my Lord, the Constable, a document that you must heed immediately.” “Lord of Piennes” added the bailiff, “shameful is my mission; the said document is a copy of a decree of Parliament in Paris, dated yesterday, Saturday, April 25 of the year 1553.” “A decree of Parliament!” Exclaimed the Lord of Piennes in a muted manner, who stood up with his arms crossed. “Speak, sir. With what new misfortunes does the Constable’s hate wound me now? Let’s go, tell me!” “Sir,” said the bailiff in a quiet and shameful voice, “the decree states that you occupy improperly this domain of Margency, that H.M. King Louis XII exceeded himself in his powers when he decreed and granted you title of the property of this earth, which must be returned to the power of the house of Montmorency. And, therefore, it compels you to disgorge castle, town, prairies and forests, in a period of a month.” The Lord of Piennes didn’t make a single gesture, but became very pale, and amid the silence that reigned in the chamber, meanwhile outside on a branch of the plum tree in full bloom a lark sang, said with a shaky voice “Oh, my fair King Louis XII! And you, illustrious Francis I! Get out of your graves to see how they treat me, who in forty battle fields risked his life and spilled his blood! Come back, my Kings, and you’ll witness the spectacle of an old soldier stripped of everything and wandering on the streets of the Island of France begging for a piece of bread!” The bailiff, moved by the Lord of Piennes’ cries of agony, left the parchment of the decree stealthily on top of the table, and backing down, negotiated for the door, and left. Then in the house heart rendering moans were heard. “And my daughter? My daughter? My Jeanne? My daughter is left without shelter! My Jeanne will be lacking bread! Montmorency! Dammed be you and all of your descendants.” The old man shook his fists toward the castle, his eyes threw out flames, and then disappeared. The catastrophe was appalling. In effect, Margency, that since the epoch of Luis XII had belonged to Lord of Piennes, was all that remained of an old splendor to the man governed by Roguery. In the crumbling of his fortune, he sought refuge in that little farm enclave in the domains of the Constable. Hence only a single happiness had kept him alive, a sort of pure and luminous happiness, his daughter, his Jeanne, his passion and his idol. The meager revenues of Margency were sufficient to protect the poor little girl from any insults. Now, everything had ended! The decree of Parliament was, to Jeanne of Piennes and her father, the beginning of a most shameful and sinister misery. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Jeanne was sixteen years old. Slender, fragile, of exquisite elegance, she looked like a being created for the enjoyment of the eyes, a radiant emanation of the spring, similar in grace to the wild rose that sways under the weight of the mist. On that Sunday, April 26, 1553, she went to keep her tryst, like any other day, at the same time. She walked to the forests of chestnut trees that surrounds the possession of Margency. It was dusk. The forest was perfumed and love could be breathed in the air. Jeanne, with a hand over her heart, began to walk rapidly, whispering “will I dare to tell him? Yes, tonight I will speak to him. I will tell him this ambivalent secret, so sweet yet so terrible.” Suddenly, two robust and tender arms embraced her. A trembling mouth sought hers “You, at last! You, my love!” “My Francis! My master!” “What’s the matter my love? You shake . . .?” “Listen, Francis . . .! Oh, I don’t dare!” He leaned, and embraced her with stronger force within his arms. He was a strong young man of a pleasing aspect and clean looks, with a handsome face and arrogant forehead. And that young man called himself Francis of Montmorency . . .! Yes, he was the eldest son of the Constable, who had just despoiled the Lord of Piennes of the last of his fortunes! Francis and Jeanne kissed each other passionately. In each other’s arms they walked slowly in front of the flowers whose open chalices released mystic effluviums. At times a tremor agitated the young woman, who stopped and, listening carefully, murmured “We’re followed . . . We're being spied . . . Do you hear anything?” “A frightened musk dear, my sweet love . . .” “Francis, Francis . . .! Oh! I’m so scared . . .” “Why are you so scared, my little girl? Who dares lay eyes on you when my arm protects you?” “For the past three months everything troubles me! . . . I tremble!” “Dear Jeanne! You’ve been mine for the past three months, from the blessed hour that our impatient love went ahead of the laws of men, to obey those of Nature, you are, more than ever, my Jeanne, under my protection. What do you fear? Soon you’ll bear my name, and I’ll end that feud that keeps our families apart.” “I know that, my beloved one, I know that, and even though this honor wouldn’t be reserved to me, I’d be happy to belong to you wholly. Love me, love me, Francis, because a disgrace looms over my head!” “I adore you, Jeanne. I swear to the sky above that nothing will impede that you’d be my woman!” An outburst of laughter was heard a short distance away. “So, if a secret grief bothers you, trust it to your beloved one, your husband.” “Yes, yes, tonight . . . Listen, at midnight I’ll wait for you at the house of my kind wet nurse . . . It’s important that you know . . . Tonight I’ll be stronger . . .” “Until midnight, then, my dear Jeanne.” “Good bye, and go now. Good bye until tonight . . .” A new embrace united them, and one last kiss shook their young bodies. Then, Francis of Montmorency vanished in the trees of the forest.