In Search of Mademoiselle

by George Gibbs

Not for two weeks did we have word or sign from Admiral de Coligny; but at last a messenger came speedily for De Brésac, who followed in haste to the Hôtel de Châtillon. The Admiral sought further information. Then there was another long silence and our impatience was not diminished when the report of the massacre got abroad and a rumor came from Madrid that a vessel had reached Spain from San Augustin and that the messengers of Menendez to King Philip had been received with great good will and circumstance. I wished this business brought to a favorable conclusion, but if naught were to come of it, I longed to justify myself before Captain Hooper and would rather have sought other employment at the Pelican in Plymouth than to dilly-dally at the French Court.

Yet what we saw and learned in this great city of Paris was most instructive. Through the good offices of M. de Teligny, and of Coligny, I had been enabled to renew my costume; and Goddard had been given a purse well-lined with pistoles, out of which he had bought himself from a dealer in cast-off garments a most gaudy vesture of red and yellow velvet and silk, these being the colors most to his liking. He had a gray, high-pointed hat, of a bygone fashion, ornamented with a wide-flowing plume; the breeches were most capacious and trimmed with ribbons; the stockings were gray and the shoes were high, ornamented with great flame-colored rosettes. His sword was of a most prodigious length, and though hooked well up by his shoulder straps, clanked and clattered upon the paving stones like that of a swaggerer of the Reiters. Much of the time he spent below in the courtyard smoking and conversing with La Chastro, the body-servant of our host, a roystering man-at-arms who, second only to Goddard himself, had the most voluble proficiency in camp language I had ever heard. There upon a bench in the sun the two of them would sit during most of the day, the one rolling out his roundest, mouth-filling speech, which the other would set in some fashion into a language of his own. Goddard had soon cut his hair short in the prevailing fashion, and by the end of a week his upper lip was blue with stubble which, with elbow aloft, he vainly strove to stroke and twist after the manner of the raffinés he had seen coming from the levee. When I, marveling and curious at his wonderful jerkin and shadowy lip, called him to me and asked him how it was that he was turning frog-eater upon so short occasion, he sent a great whiff of smoke from his pipe, saying,

“’Tis a wench, sir,—a most comely wench who vows that ’til I grow a beard upon my face, she will have none of me. ‘A man without hair upon his face,’ says she, ‘is like a pasty without truffles.’ What think you of that for a saucy minx?”

I went off to the fencing hall. Here Pompée, the maître d’armes to the King, sometimes gave a showing of his art; and I picked up one or two tricks of fence on the use of the dagger and had much interest in some strokes which had come newly into vogue at court. Once when we were returning thence, we came to a small hostel before the door of which a crowd had gathered. From within there was a babel of voices and much laughter. A familiar odor saluted my nostrils, for there was Job Goddard teaching mine host the art of smoking. That ’twas not altogether to the fancy of that worthy was readily to be seen by the grimaces he made and the groans which he let forth from his throat. But La Chastro was behind him, the point of his rapier touching the wide breeches, prodding at intervals between the puffs to spur his energy. Goddard, with his tall plume waving in the air, was standing in front of him holding the reed within his lips and saying,

“Suck,—suck my little pasty-flipper! Thus only you may learn the virtues of the tabac. ’Tis none so sweet as malvoisie, eh, my little wine-bibber?” then, leaning forward, imitating the grimaces of the rogue.

“Ventre de loup!” roared La Chastro. “So! you do not like us to make a smoke in your house—eh? You say we shall not! Quarrelsome little pig that you are! Bah! Now puff! puff! puff!”—and each time came a new prod in the breeches, making mine host to writhe the more, though he puffed and clung to the pipe which Job Goddard held, as though death alone could separate them.

“Parbleu!” said Goddard, “puff, and puff again! ’Twill make ye proof against the plague,—and other things. Also it is of much benefit to the manners, taking away all fretting an’ excitement. ’Tis a way we have among the Caribs, when all is in agreement. The pipe of peace is what ye smoke, me lad. When ’tis finished, no more discussion will there be atween us.”

But the little man had no further humor for discussion of any kind, for he turned the color of lead, and, putting his two hands upon his wide paunch in dismay, he spat forth the pipe and dashed frantically back among his pots and pans, La Chastro aiding his departure with the toe of his boot.

The on-lookers roared with merriment, and Goddard blew out some marvelous smoke rings from his lungs, to the great delight of the wondering crowd.

So, after all, there was much to amuse and entertain. M. de Teligny took us out upon the streets at the hour of the afternoon when the world was abroad, pointing out to us those of the courtiers who were closest in the councils of the King. He showed us the beauties,—and their lovers—and told us the number of duels fought over each, and how, the greater the number, the greater the fame of the lady. Here was one favorite who numbered her duels in the twenties; and there another poor creature for whom but four men had fought, and no person been killed. We saw little Comminges, Prince of raffinés, who had more deaths to his credit—or debit—than any man in France. He had once taken a man out to the Prè-aux-clercs. When they had uncloaked, he had said to his cavalier, “Are you not Berny of Auvergne?” “No,” says the other, “I am Villequier from Normandy.” “’Tis a pity to have been mistaken,” said Comminges, “but I have challenged you, and of course we must fight.” And he killed him with a beautiful feint and thrust in tierce. We passed the house of Réné the Florentine, the poisoner for Catherine de Medicis. We saw Thoré de Montmorency, “Little Captain Burn-the-Benches”; His Grace the “Archbishop of Bottles,” who by reason of the early hour was still walking with much steadiness; the Count de Rochefoucauld, nicknamed the “Cabbage Killer,” who had ordered his arquebusiers to cut a plot of cabbages to pieces, his poor sight taking them for lanzknechts. There the Tuileries, just a-building; and here the Louvre, where the King and the Queen-mother were holding court. Once we saw the royal cavalcade returning from the hunt at the Château de Madrid, and the jerkin of the King was covered with blood, it being his delight to kill the stag with his own hands.