Of indelibility.¹

‘Does anybody know precisely why we have to be here eighteen days²? That’s nearly three weeks. For comparison, that’s half a month, quite nearly,’ Abraham of Babka said as he arrived in the forecourt³ of the little fountain.

‘You don’t hear me complaining,’ Father Bunion said, resting against one of the shady trees. His eyes were closed and his straw hat had been pulled over his eyes, and he was eating from a lapful of raspberries.

‘And what sort of business did you have back home that necessitated a vacation?’

‘The Easter Triduum, Ascensiontide and Pentecost⁴,’ the priest replied.

‘The good curé⁵ rarely leaves his home parish, he means,’ Lady Ouiser said.

‘No one has answered my question.’

‘Because I have ordained it⁶,’ boomed a voice (not mine) from the clear blue sky.

The only thing heard afterward was the merry trickling from the fountain. Father Bunion ate a few more raspberries.

‘I rest my case,’ said the priest.

‘No one is doing anything notable, Master Abraham. For all we know, the whole world may be fast asleep during these days when Phœbus’s cart⁷ seems motionless. And you’ll agree that three weeks of unlimited soup, salad and breadsticks isn’t a bad deal in the slightest,’ Xerox of Sabra said.

‘For you, maybe. My wife is going to have all sorts of funny questions after all this.’

‘I thought you told us she doesn’t care where you go so long as you return unburnt,’ Doctor Scholl said.

‘That is one of the requests. My wife is usually accommodating if I have an interesting story or two to tell.’

Then he realized where he was and said:

‘You know what? I’ll stop asking.’

He slapped his hands together.

‘Alright, folks, who’s next? The kids can’t be the only ones here with good stories.’

Lady Ouiser frowned slightly.

‘I was just about to get there, Master Abraham. We have dealt with trust in oneself, trust in others, and now we deal with matters of trust between governments and men. Does the subject meet with all your approval?’

Everyone looked over their shoulder and up at the sky.

When no one uttered a reply, Monsieur Boulevardier rose and bowed gently to the Lady Ouiser and then smiled at the company.

‘I have learned, dear friends, that a man’s pledge advances far in this sinful world. So I believe it necessary to tell you two stories—’

Figma stood and put her hands on her hips.

‘Cut! Stop right there. Two stories? I know the day is long, but I don’t wish to die here of boredom while you search for a suitable turn of phrase like an executor⁸ looking for a dying man’s survivors.’

The ladies all looked back to him.

‘I would proceed thoroughly if I were not interrupted in the telling of it,’ he said.

But what do I know? This always happens to me.

First of all, you should know that Persiflage and I have been the best of friends since boyhood. I have been like the dog of St Roch⁹ to this man, and through thick and thin, we’ve seen it all. We may not have the nobility of the name to follow us through life, but we have our friendship, and trust that our service accounts for something in this sinful world. I would prefer to keep the peace. I do not like killing or maiming, but if the enemy invites it, I will deliver it to him.

Since our dear shepherdess friends do not wish to be bored, I will be frank in telling you what I, Jean le Boulevardier of Nöodli¹⁰, saw happen when I was a lad of sixteen in my town.

When a judge of my canton¹¹ died, a list of nominees was presented to the assembly for their consideration. Of them, Thomas Séquier the Elder was thought the fittest. Although he was born in Dijon¹², he had been living in Switzerland for a very long time, and had learned the ways and language of my people. Furthermore, he was thought a most upright and impartial scholar of laws¹³. He was not wealthy and tried to act honorably in both public and private—or so we thought.

This Thomas Séquier had the approval of Monsieur le Président¹⁴, but there were some men who felt that he had not spent enough time in the canton to judge him truly useful. They, however, approved him. At this point, people in the canton believed he would face no further resistance.

But then came a maid from a town in the Vosges country¹⁵, named Catherine Fournier, dite La Belle¹⁶, who had studied with him some years past, and said that he had mocked her, harassed her and—though it pains me to say it—outraged her¹⁷.

‘Of course you’d tell us a story in which some poor unfortunate woman is outraged,’ Lady Arbonne said.

‘You make it sound as if I personally approved of it, when in truth I very much thought it an injustice. You must not jump to conclusions. I fear you all have developed a poor impression of me.’

‘How can it be otherwise, Monsieur, when you just told us not a minute ago that you would invite death upon the enemy in battle?’ said Lady Arbonne.

‘Please do not be cross with me, Madame, for I take the side of the lady in this.’

‘Pray continue, Monsieur Boulevardier,’ Lady Ouiser said.

La Belle Fournier had been happily married for some years before Séquier’s name was brought forth. She came all that way to sit before these elders who poked and prodded at her in the most awful manner, like Susannah of old¹⁸. Needless to say, some of the things asked of her had little to do with whether or not Séquier put his hands on her.

‘How could they do that to a poor lady? The thing was probably terrified for her life,’ said Lady Lunesta.

Only she was no lady¹⁹, but a scholar in her own right, and those who attended her attested to it. The assembly did not know what to make of what she said. There was controversy among the common people for it, and the lady suffered much.

This man Séquier, she said, once asked her if she had laid a hair from her secrets²⁰ atop his drinking cup in the chamber where he read; spoke of the size and girth of the male member as if she were one of Oholah and Oholibah’s²¹ lesser handmaids, and of other disgusting things that only a vile man says to streetwalkers²². She withstood these things despite the suffocating presence this man brought to her. On various occasions he foolishly asked for her hand.

A friend of hers came to her defense. Another kind-hearted member of the panel did as well. But it was all for naught. Séquier was brought to testify on his own behalf²³, and said the assembled testimonies amounted to things said by mobs sweeping up heretics to the gallows²⁴. Well, believe it or not, the woman’s testimony was set aside, and he was confirmed as a justice, a post he still holds, more unpopular than ever. The lady returned to the Vosges and continued to teach other ladies the law and other sciences, and in time she was forgotten.

As for Séquier, he married a German lady some time later. When the Calvinist and Zwinglian reformers²⁵ came through the canton, she took their side. She was troublesome to say the least, and wrongly (and loudly) spoke against the Swiss. Her disgrace was multiplied, however, through her intrigues with Parma and Spoleto²⁶, and her name is reviled more than ever. Séquier also fell in with some cardinals of the Church²⁷, whose favor he enjoyed, to such an extent that Lady Justice²⁸ would lose her sight again if she found the riches this man takes on in delivering his opinions.

Some time later, another vacancy on the same tribunal²⁹ occurred, and a nominee for the post was sought. A man named Paul L’Héritier came forth, having had the favor of the President of the assembly and of some other jurists³⁰ and the Church. But as the President was unpopular regarding his unseemly character, liking of non-Swiss cheeses and wines, and strange opinions regarding the indwelling of the Holy Ghost³¹, L’Héritier’s nomination was not expected to proceed without some degree of objection.

I was about twenty-one and saw this scandal with my own eyes. His wife and children were well-known in the canton, and were neighbors of Monsieur Persiflage. Well, it came out through rumor first and then through the local constable³² later that, when this young man was in the Académie³³, he had met and become friends with a lady named Valérie Descant, dite La Sage³⁴.

This lady was called La Sage because her father was a wise man, and she practiced alongside him in treating maladies related to disjunct humours³⁵. And this lady was telling people—or rather, people were remembering—that this man had attempted to outrage her while attending the Vespers of St Martin³⁶. She said Judge L’Héritier and another youth held her down while they, in some sort of drunken stupor common to pranksters, put their hands to her in an ungentlemanly fashion. The canton thought it was either a very grand lie or the most atrocious thing in the world.

Listening to that as a young man, I felt the whole world go still as death as I watched that poor woman—now a proper wife and mother—recount what Monsieur L’Héritier had done to her. Yet again, like Susannah before the elders, Valérie La Sage was brave and held her ground. Another member of the assembly said that, if it were true that this man did these things, their confidence in him would be lost.

But alas! Look on the desperate misfortune attending these things. At the last hour, the judge was confirmed, was given the post he now occupies, and the woman was left to the vilification of the rabble³⁷. She went into hiding. Not even the Church would deal with her.

Not too long afterward, I left my canton in the service of the English king³⁸. When I returned, that judge did away with some customs of the country that made our Swiss liberties³⁹ indispensable and uncommon among the men of the world. He was also somewhat backward in his beliefs regarding Our Lord’s atonement on the Cross⁴⁰. I will forgive a man who differs in his religion, but I cannot forgive one who has laid waste my beautiful country.

A man of some honor must reconcile himself to the fact that the public will learn of his deeds eventually, be they written or not, and soon enough, the Kings and Generals of Hell—whose tribunals are more rigid than even the most cruel crowned heads of Earth—will justly reckon with these men for the crimes they do to cement their power.

While I have killed in the name of a sovereign, I would not do so to uphold his blasted honor, and never have. And neither, I add, has Monsieur Persiflage. For, my ladies, I am a man of a kind heart, if not a misplaced tongue. Therefore, I beg you for Christ Jesus’ sake to forgive me—for my words, while ill-placed, do not redound⁴¹ to the truest sentiments of my heart.

And, having said these things, Boulevardier bowed deeply to Lady Ouiser.