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servants that crowded into the hall. “Not that I imagine they will,” she added, her face cold and hard.
“Mother,” I said, “you act so—so experience d .”
“I am not unacquainted with the aftereffects of murders,” she said, her voice with that even and distant tone that means one can never ask why. ‘‘Sometimes things come around in a circle. But it seems that the circle never ends in quite the same place, now, does it?” She looked about her, as if she were in some sort of strange reverie, to the desk, to the front door still open, where the faint starlight showed the outline of a boy pulling the dead dogs away by their feet. “I see the stars fleeing the dawn out the front door, my daughter. You must dress and go.”
“But where? What shall I do?”
“Where? Why, to Pauline, of course,” said mother.
“Father would never forgive me—”
“Your father? He will not be able to forgive anyone unless he is more fortunate than I imagine. But I see you were writing a letter on the desk. Your candle is quite burned down. It is a great waste to write by candlelight. You know we must economize.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I imagine you had conceived a plan of writing to the Bishop, whether or not I wished it. Am I right?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Then take the letter with you. It will explain to the world why you have left so suddenly. It might even do some good. Pauline will know what to do. I have not been permitted the pleasure of seeing her for many years, but I trust her implicitly. Now, help me back to bed. I am very weary.”
Within the hour, I had put on my mourning gown and departed my father’s house on the little packhorse, with an armed valet at the bridle. But once over the bridge and past the trees, as I turned to say a last farewell to home and family, I saw a lolloping hound, nearly as big as a calf, running in pursuit. His tongue was hanging out, and his great, ugly, spotted face was frozen in an expression of foolish eagerness and utter adoration. It was Gargantua.
Five
March 16, 1554
My wife will lose her best shawl two days before next Michaelmas. It will be taken by a new maid hired next month after Marie elopes with that tinsmith who has been insinuating his way into the kitchen with his pots and pans. Remind Anne not to hire any maids missing a front tooth. I told her we did not need the laundry boiler mended. But when do women ever listen?
***
Last Tuesday completed my son Cesar’s natal chart. What truth to the saying “the shoemaker’s children go bare”! The boy is almost a year old. What promise! He will become a distinguished historian, looking backward in time as I have looked forward. Perhaps his will be the safer path—no, tyrants and patrons want their pasts as tailored to their desires and fancies as they desire their futures. Ah, God! Only saints do not want this kind of flattery—and saints do not patronize either historians or fortune-tellers. I plan to dedicate my great work, The Centuries , to him, if the All Bountiful spares me the time to complete it.
***
Ordered a face cream compounded for Madame de Peyrés. Told that wretched apothecary I would take my business elsewhere if he did not make better speed. Madame’s son does better from his catarrhus , after anointing his head with my balm of oil of lilies, rue, dill, and almonds, and the employment of a clyster of my own secret composition, which I did send to expel the hurtful humors. Ha! And all this after that false physician from the Faculty of Paris ordered blood to be taken from the liver vein! Had he read my book instead of adhering to the so-called wisdom of his wretched masters, he would have known it is a cure only for the pleurisy, which the fool could not tell from a winter rheum. Having failed in the cure, he has crept back to his kennel by the Seine. I say, bleed them with their own lancets, dose them with their own false remedies until they cry mercy to heaven for their
“Mother,” I said, “you act so—so experience d .”
“I am not unacquainted with the aftereffects of murders,” she said, her voice with that even and distant tone that means one can never ask why. ‘‘Sometimes things come around in a circle. But it seems that the circle never ends in quite the same place, now, does it?” She looked about her, as if she were in some sort of strange reverie, to the desk, to the front door still open, where the faint starlight showed the outline of a boy pulling the dead dogs away by their feet. “I see the stars fleeing the dawn out the front door, my daughter. You must dress and go.”
“But where? What shall I do?”
“Where? Why, to Pauline, of course,” said mother.
“Father would never forgive me—”
“Your father? He will not be able to forgive anyone unless he is more fortunate than I imagine. But I see you were writing a letter on the desk. Your candle is quite burned down. It is a great waste to write by candlelight. You know we must economize.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I imagine you had conceived a plan of writing to the Bishop, whether or not I wished it. Am I right?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Then take the letter with you. It will explain to the world why you have left so suddenly. It might even do some good. Pauline will know what to do. I have not been permitted the pleasure of seeing her for many years, but I trust her implicitly. Now, help me back to bed. I am very weary.”
Within the hour, I had put on my mourning gown and departed my father’s house on the little packhorse, with an armed valet at the bridle. But once over the bridge and past the trees, as I turned to say a last farewell to home and family, I saw a lolloping hound, nearly as big as a calf, running in pursuit. His tongue was hanging out, and his great, ugly, spotted face was frozen in an expression of foolish eagerness and utter adoration. It was Gargantua.
Five
March 16, 1554
My wife will lose her best shawl two days before next Michaelmas. It will be taken by a new maid hired next month after Marie elopes with that tinsmith who has been insinuating his way into the kitchen with his pots and pans. Remind Anne not to hire any maids missing a front tooth. I told her we did not need the laundry boiler mended. But when do women ever listen?
***
Last Tuesday completed my son Cesar’s natal chart. What truth to the saying “the shoemaker’s children go bare”! The boy is almost a year old. What promise! He will become a distinguished historian, looking backward in time as I have looked forward. Perhaps his will be the safer path—no, tyrants and patrons want their pasts as tailored to their desires and fancies as they desire their futures. Ah, God! Only saints do not want this kind of flattery—and saints do not patronize either historians or fortune-tellers. I plan to dedicate my great work, The Centuries , to him, if the All Bountiful spares me the time to complete it.
***
Ordered a face cream compounded for Madame de Peyrés. Told that wretched apothecary I would take my business elsewhere if he did not make better speed. Madame’s son does better from his catarrhus , after anointing his head with my balm of oil of lilies, rue, dill, and almonds, and the employment of a clyster of my own secret composition, which I did send to expel the hurtful humors. Ha! And all this after that false physician from the Faculty of Paris ordered blood to be taken from the liver vein! Had he read my book instead of adhering to the so-called wisdom of his wretched masters, he would have known it is a cure only for the pleurisy, which the fool could not tell from a winter rheum. Having failed in the cure, he has crept back to his kennel by the Seine. I say, bleed them with their own lancets, dose them with their own false remedies until they cry mercy to heaven for their
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