Paris: The Novel

It’s most convenient.”
    “But that is evil. Unspeakably evil.”
    “You have missed the point. It is logical.”
    “But we are Christians.”
    “You think the pope is going to object?”
    “But what of Henry of Navarre? The bridegroom.”
    “Ah. That is interesting. Catherine has already isolated him. Very cleverly.”
    “In what way?”
    “Who made Henry a Protestant in the first place?”
    “His mother, the Queen of Navarre.”
    “And what happened to her?”
    “She died.”
    “Exactly. Not long ago. When she was visiting the queen mother, who had begged her to come—so that they might learn to be friends.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “Catherine poisoned her.”
    “There is no proof.”
    “There never will be. But once Henry is left married to Catherine de Médicis’s daughter, with his mother gone, and Coligny and all his supporters murdered, he will be entirely isolated. He will either convert to Catholicism, or …”
    “This is terrible.”
    “I agree.”
    “I shall pray that you are wrong.”
    “Will you?” Guy gazed at him coolly. “Neither you nor I would do this deed. But will we regret it when it’s done?” He paused to let the cold truth sink in. “Do you want civil strife, Pierre? Do you want a Protestant king?”
    But Pierre had done with questions.
    “I thank God,” he said quietly, “that my home is a haven of peace.”
    “May it always be so,” answered his cousin. “Ah, here comes young Simon, back again.”
    They stayed out in the street several hours, and learned that the wedding had been safely accomplished, and saw many fine noblemen ride by that day.
    And by evening, when nothing untoward had occurred, Guy almost dared to hope that he’d been wrong.

    For Simon, the next three days were quite annoying. News came of the great feasts and tournaments taking place between the Louvre, the Île de la Cité and the Latin Quarter, and he would have liked to go and watch.
    “Can we not see the knights jousting?” he cried.
    But his father was always pleading that he was too busy, or giving some excuse why he couldn’t take his son out. He wouldn’t let the apprentice go either. And both his parents adamantly refused to let him wander off alone, even to one of the great aristocratic houses in the nearer part of the city, where he could at least have hung around by the gates and watched the parties of noblemen and their liveried retinues as they came and went between the celebrations.
    If the royal marriage was intended to improve relationships betweenthe Catholic followers of the Duke of Guise and the Protestant followers of Coligny and Henry of Navarre, then things appeared to be getting off to a good start.
    On Friday morning, Pierre had to go out to the market, but he made Simon stay at home.
    At noon, his father came back ashen.
    “Coligny has been attacked. Stabbed.”
    “Is he killed?” asked Suzanne.
    “No. Wounded but not badly. The assassin got away. Nobody knows who it was or where he is. But Coligny’s people are furious. Most of them think this was the work of the Guises, or even the king’s mother. One way or the other, everyone’s afraid there’s going to be a fight.”
    Simon wasn’t allowed even to go into the street after that. At the end of the afternoon his father went out again to gather news, but returned without anything definite.
    Saturday morning came. Coligny was safely in his lodgings. The old hero had lost two fingers, but that was all. He was receiving people. The royal family had been to see him. They were determined to find his attacker. The only fear was of a Protestant backlash. And with large numbers of Protestant knights and men-at-arms being lodged in the buildings of the Louvre, this was frightening indeed. But as the hours passed, nothing happened. Whatever their suspicions might be, the Protestants were holding back.
    It was a long, hot August day. As evening fell, a dusty warmth pervaded the streets. Tomorrow, in the calendar of the Catholic Church, it would be the Feast of Saint Bartholomew. Both the serving girl and the apprentice had been allowed to go to their families for the day, so Simon and his parents were quite alone in the house.
    Dusk was just falling when there were the sounds of a horseman coming to the door of Pierre Renard’s little house. The horseman entered quickly. It was Guy.
    He came into the room where the family was sitting. His face was pale.
    “Pierre. You must take these.” He held