Toulouse, to punish this fat, ignorant town for the murder of Rapin. Fromthere, on to Carcassonne, which we were careful not to attack, having no appetite to break our teeth on its ramparts. Then to Narbonne, which we also refrained from attacking, instead sacking the inland countryside, our trumpets sounding “Papau! Papau!” to mock the papists there. Then, heading south, we crossed—believe it or not!—into Roussillon, to thumb our noses at Felipe II, this white tombstone of a Spanish king, and prove that all the Huguenots hadn’t died at Moncontour!
There we did some pilfering and, returning through Montpellier (where your two handsome scholars were living), we refrained from attacking this silly town but contented ourselves with pillaging the surrounding villages. But at Nîmes we settled in for a while since this town was now loyal to the Huguenot cause.
From Nîmes, we travelled north through the Rhône valley and reached Saint-Étienne and then la Charité, which is also loyal to us, as you know, and where we were able to recruit some more soldiers and collect arms, cannon and money.
But listen carefully! Almost every time we confronted the royal garrisons in this winding valley, we were beaten, and yet, each time, we vanished only to reappear somewhere else, burning and pillaging, like the wolf who, instead of letting himself be trapped, bites and flees: and so it is that without winning a single battle, Coligny won a war of attrition on his enemies.
“My father,” I said, amazed, “so Coligny won the war by a tactic of retreating?”
“Rouffignac,” laughed my father, “is a Gascon, a braggart and of a bellicose temper. And yet what he says is at least half-true. You should read d’Argence if you want to understand the other half.”And so saying, he handed me the page that d’Argence had filled with a hand as tiny and careful as Rouffignac’s was large and untutored, though, out of an innate prudence, he’d never signed it.
My friend, what a strange world the court is, where, to belong, you must turn your back on everyone: brother, mother, sister and friend! After Moncontour, the Duc d’Anjou’s laurels are causing the king to lose sleep and bite his nails. He wants by hook or by crook to take control of the army but instead of overrunning Coligny in his lair, he’s bogged down at the siege of Saint-Jean-d’Angély. Guise, whose glory has been overshadowed in this army, is also becoming increasingly bitter at the Duc d’Anjou’s current fame. He’s written to Felipe II that the king’s brother is secretly plotting with Coligny. So from the depths of his Escorial, Felipe has decided to believe him and has refused us any of the gold he gets from the Americas. Not a sol in 1570 to help end the war! But Guise has done worse than this: he’s making eyes at Margot, the king’s sister. This flint is sure to spark a fire on such a torch.
She’s as hot—nay, in as great heat—as ever, since she was broken in by her brothers at a very tender age, and unzipped the duc in a trice and tucked him into her bed. The king’s got wind of this profligacy. He ordered Margot to appear at dawn, and scarcely was she in his presence before he and Catherine leapt on her like furious fishmongers, and hit and kicked her, scratching and bruising her, and ripping her chemise. When Guise learnt of this the next day, he naturally feared assassination by the king’s henchmen, so he fled and got himself married. But now he’s in disgrace for having aimed at the throne by the whiteness of her thighs, and all the most zealous papists who were supporting him have fallen out of favour as well.
Catherine has other reasons to be angry with the leaders of the Catholic party. Felipe II, now a widower since the death of her daughter, Elizabeth, refuses to consider Margot, whom Catherine is pressing on him, since he’s doubtless afraid the girl’s flames make a bad match for his own icy nature. And right from under
There we did some pilfering and, returning through Montpellier (where your two handsome scholars were living), we refrained from attacking this silly town but contented ourselves with pillaging the surrounding villages. But at Nîmes we settled in for a while since this town was now loyal to the Huguenot cause.
From Nîmes, we travelled north through the Rhône valley and reached Saint-Étienne and then la Charité, which is also loyal to us, as you know, and where we were able to recruit some more soldiers and collect arms, cannon and money.
But listen carefully! Almost every time we confronted the royal garrisons in this winding valley, we were beaten, and yet, each time, we vanished only to reappear somewhere else, burning and pillaging, like the wolf who, instead of letting himself be trapped, bites and flees: and so it is that without winning a single battle, Coligny won a war of attrition on his enemies.
“My father,” I said, amazed, “so Coligny won the war by a tactic of retreating?”
“Rouffignac,” laughed my father, “is a Gascon, a braggart and of a bellicose temper. And yet what he says is at least half-true. You should read d’Argence if you want to understand the other half.”And so saying, he handed me the page that d’Argence had filled with a hand as tiny and careful as Rouffignac’s was large and untutored, though, out of an innate prudence, he’d never signed it.
My friend, what a strange world the court is, where, to belong, you must turn your back on everyone: brother, mother, sister and friend! After Moncontour, the Duc d’Anjou’s laurels are causing the king to lose sleep and bite his nails. He wants by hook or by crook to take control of the army but instead of overrunning Coligny in his lair, he’s bogged down at the siege of Saint-Jean-d’Angély. Guise, whose glory has been overshadowed in this army, is also becoming increasingly bitter at the Duc d’Anjou’s current fame. He’s written to Felipe II that the king’s brother is secretly plotting with Coligny. So from the depths of his Escorial, Felipe has decided to believe him and has refused us any of the gold he gets from the Americas. Not a sol in 1570 to help end the war! But Guise has done worse than this: he’s making eyes at Margot, the king’s sister. This flint is sure to spark a fire on such a torch.
She’s as hot—nay, in as great heat—as ever, since she was broken in by her brothers at a very tender age, and unzipped the duc in a trice and tucked him into her bed. The king’s got wind of this profligacy. He ordered Margot to appear at dawn, and scarcely was she in his presence before he and Catherine leapt on her like furious fishmongers, and hit and kicked her, scratching and bruising her, and ripping her chemise. When Guise learnt of this the next day, he naturally feared assassination by the king’s henchmen, so he fled and got himself married. But now he’s in disgrace for having aimed at the throne by the whiteness of her thighs, and all the most zealous papists who were supporting him have fallen out of favour as well.
Catherine has other reasons to be angry with the leaders of the Catholic party. Felipe II, now a widower since the death of her daughter, Elizabeth, refuses to consider Margot, whom Catherine is pressing on him, since he’s doubtless afraid the girl’s flames make a bad match for his own icy nature. And right from under
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