on each other’s actions and appearance.
‘Did you see that?’ someone would whisper. ‘Orsini has greeted the younger Frédol. Stefaneschi has been talking for quite a while to Mandagout. Are they rallying to the Provençaux? But Duèze doesn’t look at all well; he’s grown much older.’
And, indeed, Jacques Duèze was making an effort to control his youthful lightness of foot, and walked in with slow step, replying to greetings vaguely, as if he were already detached from this world.
Guccio Baglioni, dressed as a page, formed part of his suite. He was supposed to speak nothing but Italian and to have come straight from Sienna.
‘Perhaps I should have done better,’ thought Guccio, ‘to have put myself under the Count of Poitiers’s protection, for I should certainly have gone back to Paris with him today and I should have been able to make inquiries about Marie, of whom I have had no news for so long. Instead of which, here I am, entirely dependent on this old fox, to whom I have promised my uncle’s money, but who will do nothing for me till the money has arrived. And my uncle does not reply. They say that Paris is in turmoil. Marie, Marie, my beautiful Marie! She’ll think I’ve abandoned her. Perhaps she even hates me now? What have they done with her?’
He imagined her shut up at Cressay by her brothers, or in some convent for Magdalens. ‘Another week like this, and I shall go back to Paris.’
Duèze turned every now and then to look behind him with a curiously alert expression.
‘Are you afraid of something, Monseigneur?’ Guccio asked.
‘No, no, I fear nothing,’ replied the Cardinal, who began secretly observing his neighbours.
The redoubtable Cardinal Caetani, with his thin face divided by a long aquiline nose, and his hair which seemed to shoot out like white flames from the edge of his red skull-cap, made no attempt to conceal his triumph. The catafalque, symbol of Louis X’s death, corresponded in his mind to the waxen doll, pierced with pins, with which he had cast a spell. The glances he exchanged with his following, the Abbé Pierre, Father Bost and the clerk Andrieu, his secretary, were those of victory. He wanted to say to all those present: ‘This, Messeigneurs, is what happens when you attract the vengeance of the Caetani, who were already powerful at the time of Julius Caesar.’
The two brothers Colonna, each heavy chin divided by a vertical cleft, looked like warriors disguised as prelates.
The Count of Poitiers had not economized on the choir. There were a full hundred of them, their voices sounding above the organ, which had four men pumping at its bellows. A royal, reverberating music echoed among the vaults, saturated the air with vibrations, and enveloped the crowd. The junior clerks could gossip among themselves with impunity, and the pages laugh or mock their masters. It was impossible to hear what was being said three paces away, and still less what was taking place at the doors.
The service came to an end; the organ and the choir fell silent. Both wings of the great door stood open; but no daylight penetrated into the church.
Suddenly, the Cardinals understood; and an angry clamour broke out. A brand-new wall blocked the doorway. During the mass, the Regent had bricked up the exits. All occurred during the ceremony, obscuring the sun. The Cardinals were prisoners.
There was a fine panic; prelates, canons, priests and valets, all mingled together, ran to and fro like rats in a trap. The pages, climbing on each other’s shoulders, hoisted themselves up to the windows, from where they shouted: ‘The church is surrounded by armed men!’
‘What are we going to do, what are we going to do?’ groaned the Cardinals. ‘The Regent has played a trick on us.’
‘That’s why he favoured us with such loud music!’
‘It’s an attack on the Church. What are we going to do?’
‘We’ll excommunicate him,’ cried Caetani.
‘But what if he starves us to death, or has us massacred?’
The two brothers Colonna and the people of their party had already armed themselves with heavy bronze candelabra, benches and processional maces, determined to sell their lives dearly. The Italians and the Gascons were already beginning to hurl reproaches at each other.
‘All this is your fault,’ cried the Italians. ‘If you had only refused to come to Lyons. We knew some dastardly trick would be played on us.’
‘If you had elected one of us, we should not be here now,’ replied the Gascons.
‘It’s your fault, you bad Christians!’
They were almost on the point of coming to blows.
One door alone had not been entirely blocked; barely room for a man to pass through had been left, but the narrow opening was a hedge of pikes held in iron gauntlets. The pikes lifted and the Count de Forez, in armour, followed by Bermond de la Voulte and a few more armed men, entered the church. They were received with a volley of threats and obscene insults.
His hands crossed on the hilt of his sword, the Count de Forez waited till the clamour died down. He was a strong, courageous man, unmoved by threats or entreaties, profoundly shocked by the example the Cardinals had given during the last two years, and prepared to go to any length to obey the Count of Poitiers’s instructions. His rugged, wrinkled face appeared through his open visor.
When the Cardinals and their people had grown hoarse, his voice rang out over their heads, precise and emphatic, reaching to the end of the nave.
‘Messeigneurs, I am here on the orders of the Regent of France to ask you to devote yourselves henceforth solely to electing a Pope, and to inform you that you will not leave here until that Pope is elected. Each Cardinal may keep with him only one chaplain and two pages or clerks of his choice to serve him. Everyone else will leave.’
The Gascons and the Provençaux were no less indignant than the Italians.
‘It’s a felony!’ cried Cardinal de Pélagrue. ‘The Count of Poitiers promised us that we should not even have to go into seclusion, and it was because of it that we agreed to meet him at Lyons.’
‘The Count of Poitiers’, replied Jean de Forez, ‘was then speaking in the name of the King of France. But the King of France is dead, and it is in the name of the Regent that I am speaking to you today.’
There was unanimous indignation among his hearers. There were oaths in Italian, Provençal and French. Cardinal Duèze had fallen prostrate in a confessional, his hand to his heart, as if his years could not bear the shock, and he pretended to join in the protests with inaudible murmurs. Arnaud d’Auch, the Cardinal Camerlingo, a corpulent and sanguine prelate, advanced on the Count de Forez and said menacingly: ‘Messire, a Pope cannot be elected in such conditions, for you are violating the constitution of Gregory X, which obliges the Conclave to meet in the town in which the Pope died.’
‘You were there, Monseigneur, two years ago, and you dispersed without having made a Pope, which is also a breach of the constitution. But if, by any chance, you should wish to be taken back to Carpentras, we will conduct you there under a good escort and in closed coaches.’
‘We may not deliberate under the threat of force!’
‘That is why there are seven hundred men outside, Monseigneur, to guard you.
