Queen Jezebel

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WITHIN THE THICK STONE WALLS, Paris sweltered in the heat of the summer sun. For weeks now, from the far corners of the land of France, travellers had been passing through the city’s gates. Noblemen came with their retinues, and following in their train were the beggars, rogues and thieves who had joined them on the road. It seemed that the whole population of France was determined to see France’s Catholic Princess married to the Huguenot King of Navarre.

Now and then a glittering figure would ride by to a flourish of trumpets and with a band of followers to announce him as a nobleman. On his way to the Louvre, he passed through the streets of tall and slender houses, whose roofs crowned them like grey peaked caps, and if he were a Catholic gentleman he would be cheered by the Catholics, and if a Huguenot, by the Huguenots.

In the winding alleys, with their filth and flies, there was tension; it hung over the streets and squares, above which, like guardians, rose the Gothic towers of the Sainte Chapelle and Notre Dame, the gloomy bastions of the Bastille and the Conciergerie. The beggars sniffed the smell of cooking which seemed to be perpetually in the streets, for this was a city of restaurants, and rôtisseurs and pâtissiers flourished, patronized as they were by noblemen and even the King himself. Hungry these beggars were, but they also were alert.

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