Paris: The Novel

and on his return, Richelieu had sent him off on another commission. Charles had not thought that Mazarin was in Paris.
    Ten minutes later he was back in Richelieu’s office.
    “It is done, Eminence. I spoke with the queen and gave her the letter myself.”
    “Good. Did you see anything else?”
    Charles hesitated, just a second. What did the cardinal know? What answer did he want? If in doubt, discretion.
    “The queen had just retired. She came out and received me in the anteroom. Having delivered the letter, I withdrew. That is all I can say, Eminence. I had the impression that she was about to go to sleep.”
    “And so you should yourself, de Cygne. Go home to your wife and son. How old is young Roland, now?”
    “He is seven, Eminence.”
    “I am glad you have a son. It is a fine thing for a man to have a son.” The cardinal paused. “Let us hope the king will have a son, before too long. That’s what we need.”
    Charles stared at him. But the great man had already started to write another letter, and he did not look up.
    So Charles remembered that strange evening, nine months later when, to general rejoicing, King Louis XIII of France and his wife had a son, to whom he gave his own name, Louis. Everyone said the birth of the child was a gift from God, and so no doubt it was.
    Thus Louis XIV was born, a strong and healthy baby. Richelieu was relieved.
    And Charles de Cygne said not a word.
    •  1665  •
    The Pont Neuf was a curious place. When Henry IV had built it, he had wanted a fine, simple bridge, uncluttered by houses, that spanned the entire river from Right Bank to Left, with the Île de la Cité serving as a central platform, a station, as the new bridge strode across the water. He wanted something handsome.
    But then humanity came flocking, from every alley, every tavern, every dark cavity of the city. And instead of a jostling narrow thoroughfare squeezed between houses, like the other bridges, it found a broad open platform, delightfully set over the busy river, where there was ample room to play.
    Singers, dancers, musicians, acrobats, jugglers, women selling love potions, cutpurses, preachers—they all gathered on the Pont Neuf. Anyonecrossing the bridge on a sunny day was certain to find something to claim their attention and make them late for their meeting.
    And not the least among these entertainers and villains was a large man, quite a handsome fellow really, with a mop of dark hair, who wore a red scarf around his neck, who made extemporary speeches from which he would continuously break off to insult any passerby. The richer and more important they looked, the more vigorous and more pointed his insults. It would have shown a lack of Gallic spirit if his victims had not thrown him a coin or two for insulting them—so long as it was done with wit. But there was always the possibility that someone would not see the humor of it, and try to punish him. And this would cause merriment as well, for he was not only large but exceedingly strong.
    “I was born a huge baby,” he would declare. “So my father called me Hercule, after the hero Hercules. My mother, after giving birth, called me Salaud. And I have been both ever since.”
    His speciality was logic. He would take any proposition—it might be supplied by his audience, the more absurd the better—and then with extravagant logic, with indefatigable reasoning, and with asides insulting anyone who caught his eye, he would prove that the insane proposition must be true.
    “I am the modern Abelard,” he would shout. “But I am superior in three ways. My logic is better than his. And I have two balls.” And then, to the nearest pretty woman, irrespective of whether she was a streetwalker or a fashionable lady in her carriage: “Permit me, madame, to furnish you with the proof, the absolute proof, of my assertion.”
    If anyone crossed him, however, they could expect no mercy. When a young noble passed by him with a look of scorn, Hercule Le Sourd’s revenge was to call out instantly:
    “He will not pay me for my wit
,
    This noble in his fine outfit
    Fine clothes, monsieur—a perfect fit
    On a piece of SHIT!”
    And when the young man made as if to draw his sword: “He draws his sword. By day he wears it at his side. By night, between his legs. After all, he needs something to get his hands on.”
    When he wasn’t holding court on the Pont Neuf, he made a living as a shoemaker. That was his craft. But this he did at