Day I, Story II

Having heard the story of Anne of Swabia, and finding it quite charming, Ouiser looked to Persiflage and said:

‘Well then, young man, you have seen the boldness of young women who deceive the upright and wealthy with so many sob-stories and incredible words. What of young men who do the same? What can you tell us of the company you and Monsieur Boulevardier keep?’

The handsome Swiss soldier stood up and everyone stared at his codpiece again¹.

‘My lady, Boulevardier and I are of a far more upright character than to even contemplate having friends such as these. But I will tell you all a story that came to me from our Lieutenant-General², who heard it as a boy in Wallonia.’

‘Proceed,’ said Ouiser.

And Persiflage, having adjusted his codpiece, began the tale:

There was, in the time of Charles IX³, a young man who came to Paris from Antwerp⁴, arrayed in fine silks and riding a white horse. The whole city whispered much about him—especially lowborn young men. For, they said, he was not really of noble rank, and not really from Antwerp either. The rumor ran hot that he was really from some distant place in the southern part of France, though no one had either the proof or the bravery to call this man out to the authorities. He at once took up residence in the house of a petty lord attached like a tick to the Mayor and some men from the University of Paris⁵.

He began at once to tell tall tales that almost everyone believed from the outset: he had studied the seven liberal arts⁶ in less than two years, having entered with an above-average command of Latin, Greek, and the classics; he had also become wealthy in Antwerp and Amsterdam in matters of trade with the Hanseatic League⁷, the Indies and England; he had a city house, a country house, and had even managed to buy up two farms in the Ardennes⁸.

‘My goodness! All that at a young age, too? How old was this fellow?’

‘Twenty-three, I’m told,’ Persiflage said.

He went on:

Despite having no claims to nobility or rank—and, rather distressingly, no wife or eminent lady to whom he could tie his fortunes—he also claimed to be related to some famous Jews and said that this was how he became wealthy.

‘Wait a minute,’ replied Abraham of Babka. ‘You’re telling me this man was crazy enough to hint at a connection with Jews? Which Jews, precisely? No Jew I know would ever look upon someone that young and say, “You know what? My accountant cousin knows a guy.” ’

‘That is precisely what the Jews of Paris thought,’ Persiflage replied.

He also claimed to be quite good at real tennis⁹, backgammon and chess. It is enough that a man know chess—one of the most ridiculous and boring games ever conceived by Rational Man. But real tennis requires skill and physicality, and as far as anyone could tell, this man—let’s call him Georges de la Toussaint—was evidently no fit and trim athlete. But I should tell you that his name in Paris was Antoine de Voulder. It is too tragic that our Protestant brethren in Holland cannot be among us to tell us the meaning of that strange name.

Furthermore, some had said Georges had been known some years prior as an actress of some popularity in the Latin Quarter¹⁰, under a strange Greek name. People who saw Georges in Parlement¹¹ said: ‘Now wait a minute! Something’s off here.’

Some clerks at the University of Paris and elsewhere then made the necessary inquiry into his legal and scholarly credentials¹². No university either on the Continent or in England knew of him, despite his boasts of having attended the Alma Mater¹³, Oxford, Cambridge and Louvain¹⁴. He claimed to have apprenticed in the Guild of Saint-Éloi¹⁵¹⁶ in Antwerp, but, this guild having been suppressed by the crown for its supposed counterfeiting¹⁷, the story was not credible. Nonetheless, he held the office given to him¹⁸, and the King, while not able to participate, found him somewhat useful.

As all Paris whispered of Georges’ bombast¹⁹ and shocking pronouncements, it became known that he took the likenesses and the names of his unwary friends to secure more money without their permission, stole money from the Church’s allotted payments to the poor²⁰ and those out of work, and then spent the money on fineries befitting a great house or at least a lady residing therein.

‘A lady? Did he keep a lady in this house? Was this man’s foolhardiness such that he entrapped a good Christian soul into keeping his bed?’ then asked Arbonne.

‘My dear lady, such a man is frankly too stupid to even retain a common streetwalker,’ Persiflage then said. ‘But I will explain what I mean.’

The Parlement made to expel him from their assembly. He did not go quietly. And while he did admit to some churchmen that he had sinned venially²¹ in inflating his claims, he maintained that he wished to find a wife, and the extremity of his situation clouded his judgment.

But the final nail in the coffin was this. Sometime prior to his expulsion, a servant girl named Blanche de la Houette went to the Bishop of Paris with a miniature Georges wished to give²² someone he fancied.

The portrait, dear friends, was a likeness of Georges bearing the inscription: Cithara of Ravanches²³, to the man of her fancy, Lord S—. The bishop found this most odd, and immediately went in to tell the King of it. Behind the portrait was a tiny cache of letters²⁴, with some of the most licentious things ever written. The King was put off by it, but reserved his judgment.

Cithara’s portrait did indeed show her holding the lyre of the ancients, but I must add that this lyre was naughtily depicted, I imagine, for Lord S—’s private enjoyment.

Eventually, Georges could not withstand the ire of both the Parlement and the people, abandoned his hôtel particulier²⁵, refused to pay his retinue²⁶ for their services, and escaped into the country. Sometime afterward he was caught, was returned to Paris, and was put in prison.

He would have been put to death for these offenses²⁷. But the King, who was beset with problems of his own, commuted his sentence, and Georges—or rather, Cithara of Ravanches—went into exile. I am told she lives in the place called Canada²⁸ now.

What is astounding to me is that Georges and many of his kind can and really do make themselves look and act like real women! And vice versa. There was in the Spanish army in the Indies a lady who dressed and acted like a man, and was respected as such.²⁹ She became a lord of a manufactory³⁰ there, and no one had a problem with it.

‘I’m so glad you brought up the affairs of the Indies,’ Oura then said, rising, ‘for a woman of France marooned among them is the subject of the tale I now wish to tell.’