THE CLEVERNESS OF STUPIDITY
Let us in imagination pass over sixty leagues of space and two weeks of
time, and return to Calais toward the close of November, 1557.
Twenty-five days had not elapsed since Vicomte d'Exmès's departure when
a messenger from him presented himself at the gates of the English city.
This man asked to be taken to the governor, Lord Wentworth, that he
might place in his hands the ransom of his former prisoner.
This messenger seemed to be extremely awkward, and very imprudent; for
it was of no use to show him which way to go. Twenty times he passed
without entering the great gate which they almost split their throats in
their endeavors to point out to him, and he stupidly persisted in
knocking at disused posterns and gates; so that the idiot actually made
almost the complete circuit of the exterior fortifications of the place.
At last, by dint of directions, each more exact than the last, he
consented to allow himself to be put upon the right course; and so great
was the power, even in those far-off days, of the magic words, "I have
ten thorn sand crowns for the governor," that as soon as rigorous
precautions had been observed, and the man had been searched, and Lord
Wentworth's orders taken, the bearer of so considerable a sum was
readily allowed to enter the city.
Decidedly the Golden Age is the only one in history that was not an age
of money!
This stupid envoy of Gabriel lost his way again more than once in the
streets of Calais before he succeeded in finding the governor's mansion,
which was pointed out to him, however, every hundred paces by some
compassionate soul. He seemed to have an idea that he ought to ask every
party of guards that he met where he could find Lord Wentworth, and then
he would hasten in the direction indicated.
After wasting an hour in traversing a space which should have occupied
ten minutes at most, he succeeded at last in reaching the governor's
residence.
He was ushered almost immediately into the presence of Lord Wentworth,
who received him with his air of accustomed gravity, which seemed almost
to be positively gloomy on this occasion.
When he had explained the purpose of his mission and had placed a bag
filled with gold upon the table, the Englishman asked,--
"Did Vicomte d'Exmès simply instruct you to hand me this money, and add
no message for me?"
Pierre (so the messenger was called) looked at Lord Wentworth with an
open-mouthed astonishment which did little credit to his natural
talents.
"My Lord," said he at last, "I have no commission to execute with you
except to hand you the ransom. At least my master gave me no further
instructions; and I do not understand--"
"Oh, it's all right!" Lord Wentworth interposed with a disdainful smile.
"I see that Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès has become more reasonable
since I last saw him. I congratulate him that such is the case. The air
of the court of France induces forgetfulness! so much the better for
those who breathe it!"
He muttered beneath his breath as if speaking to himself,--
"Indeed, the power to forget is often the better half of happiness!"
"Has my Lord any message to send to my master?" rejoined the messenger,
who seemed to listen with a very careless and stupid air to these
melancholy asides of the Briton.
"I have nothing to say to Monsieur d'Exmès, since he sends no word to
me," retorted Lord Wentworth, dryly. "You may say to him, however, if
you choose, that for another month--that is, until January 1, do you
understand-I shall be at his service in both my capacities, as a
gentleman and as governor of Calais. He will understand."
"Until January 1?" Pierre repeated. "I will tell him, my Lord."
"Very good! here is your receipt, my friend, and a trifle besides, as a
slight recompense for the tedium of your long journey. Take it, pray!"
The man, who seemed at first to have some scruples, thought better of
them, and accepted the purse that Lord Wentworth offered him.
"Thanks, my Lord," said he. "Will my Lord grant me still another favor?"
"What is that?" asked the governor.
"Vicomte d'Exmès contracted another debt during his stay here, to one
of the citizens of the town, named--what was his name?--Pierre Peuquoy,
whose guest he was."
"Well?" said Lord Wentworth.
"Will my Lord allow me to seek out this Pierre Peuquoy presently, to
repay the amount he advanced?"
"To be sure," said the governor. "I will send some one to show you his
house. Here is your passport to leave Calais. I should be glad to allow
you to remain here a few days; but the regulations strictly forbid our
entertaining a stranger, especially a Frenchman. Adieu, then, my friend,
and a pleasant journey to you!"
"Adieu, my Lord, with many thanks."
On leaving the governor's house, the messenger, not without going astray
a dozen times, made his way to Rue du Martroi, where our readers may
remember that Pierre Peuquoy the armorer dwelt.
Gabriel's envoy found Pierre Peuquoy in his workshop more cast down even
than Lord Wentworth in his palace. He was received with marked
indifference by the armorer, who mistook him at first for a mechanic.
But when the new-comer announced himself as having come on behalf of
Vicomte d'Exmès, the good burgher's face suddenly brightened up.
"From Vicomte d'Exmès!" he cried.
Then turning to one of his apprentices, who was within hearing, putting
things to rights in the shop, he said carelessly,--
"Quentin, leave us and tell my cousin Jean that a messenger from Vicomte
d'Exmès has arrived."
The discomfited apprentice left the room to obey his master's orders.
"Now you can speak, my friend," rejoined Pierre Peuquoy, eagerly. "Oh,
we were sure that the noble lord would not forget us! Speak at once, I
beg! What do you bring us from him?"
"His compliments and gratitude, this purse of gold, and these words,
'Remember the 5th!' which he said you would understand."
"Is that all?" asked Pierre Peuquoy.
"Everything, Master. They are very exacting in this neighborhood,"
thought the messenger. "They scarcely seem to care for good golden
crowns; but they have some mysterious secrets which the Devil himself
could not understand."
"There are three of us in this house," continued the armorer; "my cousin
Jean and my sister Babette as well as myself. You have executed your
commission so far as I am concerned; but have you no other for Babette
or Jean?"
Jean Peuquoy the weaver entered the shop just in time to hear Gabriel's
messenger reply,--
"I have nothing to say to anybody but you, Master Pierre Peuquoy, and to
you I have said all that I was commanded to say."
"Very well! You see, brother," said Pierre, turning to Jean, "Monsieur
le Vicomte d'Exmès is grateful to us; he returns our money with all due
promptitude. Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès sends this message to us,
'Remember!' but he himself does not remember!"
"Alas!" sighed a weak, piteous voice behind the curtain.
It was poor Babette, who had heard all.
"One moment," rejoined Jean, who persisted in hoping against hope. "My
friend," he continued, addressing the messenger, "if you are of Monsieur
d'Exmès's household, you must know one of his retainers and your
fellow-servant named Martin-Guerre?"
"Martin-Guerre? Yes, to be sure, Martin-Guerre, the squire. Yes, I know
him, Master."
"Is he still in Monsieur d'Exmès's service?"
"He is."
"Did he know that you were coming to Calais?"
"He did know it," the man replied. "He was present, I remember, when I
left Monsieur d'Exmès's house. He accompanied me with his--with our
master as far as the city-gate, and saw me well on my way."
"And did he give you no message for me, or for any one in this house?"
"Nothing at all, I tell you again."
"Now don't lose your patience, Pierre," continued Jean. "My friend,
perhaps Martin-Guerre enjoined upon you to deliver your message
privately? But you may as well understand that all precautions are of no
avail. We know the truth now. The suffering of--the person to whom
Martin-Guerre owes reparation has opened our eyes to everything; so you
may speak freely before us. And yet if you still have some doubts upon
this point, we will withdraw; and the person to whom I alluded, and whom
Martin-Guerre indicated to you, will come and talk with you privately at
once."
"By my faith!" said the messenger, "I swear to you that I don't
understand one word of all your talk."
"That is enough, and you may as well be content, Jean," cried Pierre
Peuquoy, whose eyes were inflamed with anger. "By the memory of my
father, Jean! I cannot conceive what pleasure you can take in dwelling
upon the insult which has been put upon us."
Jean sadly bowed his head without speaking, for there was only too much
reason in what his cousin said.
"Will you be kind enough to count this money?" asked the messenger, who
was rather ill at ease in the part he was playing.
"It is not worth the trouble," said Jean, who was more composed, though
no less depressed than Pierre. "Take this for yourself, my friend. I
will bring you food and drink as well."
"Thanks for the money," returned the envoy, who seemed, nevertheless,
decidedly loath to take it. "As for eating and drinking, I am neither
hungry nor thirsty, for I breakfasted at Nieullay. I must take my leave
at once, for your governor has forbidden my making a long stay in the
city."
"We will not detain you, then, my friend," said Jean. "Adieu! Say to
Martin-Guerre--but no! we have nought to say to him. Say to Monsieur
d'Exmès that we are grateful to him, and that we will remember the 5th.
But we hope that he, as well, will remember."
"Listen to me a moment," added Pierre Peuquoy, emerging for the time
from his gloomy meditation. "You may also say to your master that we
will continue to await him for another month. In that space of time you
will be able to return to Paris, and he to send some one hither; but if
the present year comes to an end without our hearing from him, we shall
believe that his heart has ceased to remember, and we shall be as sorry
for him as for ourselves. An upright and honorable gentleman, who is so
sure in his memory of money loaned, ought to remember still more
tenaciously secrets intrusted to him. With that, my friend, adieu."
"May God keep you!" said Gabriel's messenger, as he rose to depart. "All
your questions and all your messages shall be faithfully reported to my
master."
Jean Peuquoy accompanied the man to the door, while Pierre remained
despondently in his corner.
The lounging messenger, after making many a détour, and losing his way
many more times in this perplexing city of Calais, where he had so much
difficulty in finding his way about, at last reached the principal gate,
showed his passport, and was allowed to pass through after being
carefully searched.
He walked for three quarters of an hour at a quick pace without a halt,
and did not slacken his gait until he was fully a league from the city.
Then he permitted himself a short rest, and sitting on a patch of turf,
seemed to be lost in thought, while a satisfied smile shone in his eyes
and lurked about his lips.
"I don't know what there is in that city of Calais," he mused, "to make
each man more melancholy than his neighbor, and more mysterious.
Wentworth seemed to have an account to settle with Monsieur d'Exmès,
and the Peuquoys surely have some grudge against Martin-Guerre. But what
have I to do with that? I am not sad, by any means! I have what I want
and what I need! Not a stroke of the pen, and not a scrap of paper, it
is true; but everything is impressed upon my memory, and with the aid of
Monsieur d'Exmès's plan I can easily reproduce the whole place, which
has such a depressing effect upon others, but the memory of which makes
me equally light-hearted."
In his imagination he ran over all the streets and boulevards and
fortified positions, to which his affected stupidity had led him so
conveniently.
"It is all there," said he, "as plain and clear as though I had it
before my eyes at this moment. The Duc de Guise will be well pleased.
Thanks to this little expedition, and to the invaluable suggestions of
the captain of his Majesty's Guards, we may bring our dear Vicomte
d'Exmès, also his squire, and with a strong force at their back, to the
rendezvous appointed by Lord Wentworth and Pierre Peuquoy for a month
hence. In six weeks, with the help of God, and favorable circumstances,
we shall be masters of Calais, or I will lose my name there!"
And our readers will agree that the latter alternative would indeed have
been calamitous, when they learn that this name was that of Maréchal
Pierre Strozzi, one of the most celebrated and skilful engineers of the
sixteenth century.
After a few moments' rest, Pierre Strozzi resumed his journey, as if he
were in great haste to be back at Paris. He thought much about Calais,
but very little about its inhabitants.