The Lily and the Lion. Морис Дрюон
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anything.’
Bouville required no convincing on that point. He knew Mahaut to be guilty of two crimes which were far more serious than the mere stealing of documents. She had undoubtedly killed King Louis X; and, under his very eyes, she had killed a five-day-old child whom she believed to be the little posthumous King – and she had done these things in order to retain her County of Artois. It seemed almost silly to be so scrupulous about one’s evidence if it were going to benefit her. She had most certainly stolen her brother’s marriage contract, which she now had the face to deny on oath had ever existed. What a horrible woman she was! Because of her, the true heir of the Kings of France was growing up in a little Italian town far from his own realm, in the house of a Lombard merchant, who believed him to be his son. But one must not think of that. Bouville had once confessed the secret, which he alone knew, to the Pope. But he must never think of it now, for it might lead him into indiscretion. Oh, if only these officials would go away!
‘You’re quite right, let what you have written stand,’ he said in a rather quavering voice. ‘Do I have to sign?’
The notary handed Bouville the pen. But Bouville could scarcely see the edge of the paper. His signature overran the document. They heard him murmur: ‘God will certainly see to it that she expiates her sins before he hands her over to the Devil’s care.’
The notary sanded his signature and put the paper and writing-board into his black leather bag; then the two officials rose to take their leave. Bouville saluted them with his hand, without rising. By the time they were ten paces off they had become no more than vague shadows dissolving behind a wall of water.
The old Chamberlain rang a little handbell beside him to ask for his curds. His thoughts were disturbing. How could his venerated master, King Philip the Fair, have given judgement about Artois and yet forgotten the marriage contract he had once sealed? How could he have failed to be aware that the document had disappeared? Ah, well, even the best of kings did not do only good deeds …
Bouville determined to go one day soon to visit the banker Tolomei; he would ask for news of Guccio Baglioni and the child – quite casually, of course, simply as a polite inquiry during the course of conversation. Old Tolomei hardly ever moved from his bed these days. With him it was his legs that had failed him. Life was like that: in one man the ears grew hard of hearing, in another the eyes grew dim, and in a third the limbs lost the power of movement. One thought of the past in terms of years, but one no longer dared think of the future except in terms of months or weeks.
‘Shall I still be alive by the time this fruit is ripe, shall I be here to pluck it?’ Count de Bouville wondered as he gazed at the pear on the espalier.
Messire Pierre de Machaut, Lord of Montargis, was a man who never forgave an injury, even to the dead. The death of his enemies was not enough to allay his resentments.
His father, who had held a high post at the time of the Iron King, had been relieved of it by Enguerrand de Marigny, and the family fortunes had thereby gravely suffered. The fall of the all-powerful Enguerrand had been a personal revenge for Pierre de Machaut; the greatest day in his life was still that on which, as an equerry to King Louis the Hutin, he had led Monseigneur de Marigny to the gallows. Led, of course, was not to be taken too literally: accompanied had been nearer the mark; and not in the first rank either, but lost amid a great number of dignitaries who were all more important than he was. Nevertheless, as the years passed, these lords had died off one after the other, and whenever Messire Pierre de Machaut told of that memorable progress, he moved himself one place forward in the procession.
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