Paris.
Incensed, Taignoagny warned his brother to mind his tongue or he would cut it out. Domagaya reiterated that the women did not understand a word. They could speak as they pleased as long as the language remained Iroquois.
Taignoagny took the initiative to speak French, the language understood by animals, and perhaps, as he’d recently thought, the language understood by women in need of a man. His gentle words escaped his lips in a halting, tentative style the women found endearing. He asked the girl with the flashing green eyes and the great bundles of black hair if she would come with him back to his room.
This time, Domagaya’s eyes went wide. His mouth fell open. He seemed to stop breathing. He sat down in the chair behind him, and trembled.
The young women continued giggling, their faces pale as they furiously fanned themselves and looked at one another, wondering whether they ought to break into hysterics or run. The large woman who was new to court, Francine Tousignant de Tocqueville, did not take her eyes off Taignoagny’s. When the giggling around them had ceased, everyone present—with the exception of the still-quaking Domagaya—remained motionless, and the woman said, “Monsieur le Sauvage, comme te veut.”
The two went off alone to Taignoagny’s chambers, and Domagaya, gripping himself in a fierce hug, fell upon the floor, quivering. The other women mopped his brow with silk handkerchiefs and called for wine and warmed him with their hands and soothing words. They counselled the servants to take him to his room while they traipsed along behind, all atwitter.
At the port of Palermo, Cartier was greeted by three odd-looking, black-robed monks dispatched by the cardinal to escort him to the nearby village of Monreale. One short, another tall. One smiled, another frowned. Two bowed often, one did not—he of average height and moderate disposition. The four men travelled in a pair of open carts pulled along by donkeys, the dusty journey drawing them through a cool day into a sweeping valley before they ascended, by late afternoon, towards Santa Maria Nuova and the immense cathedral of Monreale. The donkey carts came to a halt before the extraordinary Romanesque bronze doors, with their inlaid carving that depicted Biblical scenes across its forty-two panels. Cartier nodded approval, hoping that this sudden stop marked the limit of his sightseeing for the day. The monks jumped down from the carts and to his dismay led their visitor through the imposing doors.
The Frenchman was guided to a central spot in the nave from which he could properly view the cathedral’s mosaics, created in an extravagant, grandiose sprawl across the vast walls of the interior. The monks stepped back. Two bowed slightly, while the third turned and walked out, probably to water the donkeys. The distinguished captain was left alone to experience the artwork in the fullness of its glory.
Jacques Cartier understood that his appreciation was being solicited. Disconcerted by this tangent after the lengthy journey, he nevertheless accepted that he remained at the mercy of his hosts and shook off the road grit. He turned in circles—at first fairly quickly, glancing around at random, then slowly, as he gazed upon the walls’ murals and those on the heights above. The mosaics were brilliantly coloured, exquisitely detailed. As he relaxed, they instilled in him a sense of tranquility, even of solemnity, and he felt the comforting motion of being on a ship at sea. Virtually the complete surface of the walls was covered by the artwork, from two metres above ground to the ceiling vault, each one set upon a background of gold tiles. The full length of the interior ran a hundred metres. Gazing out upon the astonishing glitter of storied mosaics from above the chancel was the Christ Pantocrator, a portrait of Jesus more than forty metres wide and thirteen metres high, stunning in its impact. The seafarer, who had impatiently entered
Incensed, Taignoagny warned his brother to mind his tongue or he would cut it out. Domagaya reiterated that the women did not understand a word. They could speak as they pleased as long as the language remained Iroquois.
Taignoagny took the initiative to speak French, the language understood by animals, and perhaps, as he’d recently thought, the language understood by women in need of a man. His gentle words escaped his lips in a halting, tentative style the women found endearing. He asked the girl with the flashing green eyes and the great bundles of black hair if she would come with him back to his room.
This time, Domagaya’s eyes went wide. His mouth fell open. He seemed to stop breathing. He sat down in the chair behind him, and trembled.
The young women continued giggling, their faces pale as they furiously fanned themselves and looked at one another, wondering whether they ought to break into hysterics or run. The large woman who was new to court, Francine Tousignant de Tocqueville, did not take her eyes off Taignoagny’s. When the giggling around them had ceased, everyone present—with the exception of the still-quaking Domagaya—remained motionless, and the woman said, “Monsieur le Sauvage, comme te veut.”
The two went off alone to Taignoagny’s chambers, and Domagaya, gripping himself in a fierce hug, fell upon the floor, quivering. The other women mopped his brow with silk handkerchiefs and called for wine and warmed him with their hands and soothing words. They counselled the servants to take him to his room while they traipsed along behind, all atwitter.
At the port of Palermo, Cartier was greeted by three odd-looking, black-robed monks dispatched by the cardinal to escort him to the nearby village of Monreale. One short, another tall. One smiled, another frowned. Two bowed often, one did not—he of average height and moderate disposition. The four men travelled in a pair of open carts pulled along by donkeys, the dusty journey drawing them through a cool day into a sweeping valley before they ascended, by late afternoon, towards Santa Maria Nuova and the immense cathedral of Monreale. The donkey carts came to a halt before the extraordinary Romanesque bronze doors, with their inlaid carving that depicted Biblical scenes across its forty-two panels. Cartier nodded approval, hoping that this sudden stop marked the limit of his sightseeing for the day. The monks jumped down from the carts and to his dismay led their visitor through the imposing doors.
The Frenchman was guided to a central spot in the nave from which he could properly view the cathedral’s mosaics, created in an extravagant, grandiose sprawl across the vast walls of the interior. The monks stepped back. Two bowed slightly, while the third turned and walked out, probably to water the donkeys. The distinguished captain was left alone to experience the artwork in the fullness of its glory.
Jacques Cartier understood that his appreciation was being solicited. Disconcerted by this tangent after the lengthy journey, he nevertheless accepted that he remained at the mercy of his hosts and shook off the road grit. He turned in circles—at first fairly quickly, glancing around at random, then slowly, as he gazed upon the walls’ murals and those on the heights above. The mosaics were brilliantly coloured, exquisitely detailed. As he relaxed, they instilled in him a sense of tranquility, even of solemnity, and he felt the comforting motion of being on a ship at sea. Virtually the complete surface of the walls was covered by the artwork, from two metres above ground to the ceiling vault, each one set upon a background of gold tiles. The full length of the interior ran a hundred metres. Gazing out upon the astonishing glitter of storied mosaics from above the chancel was the Christ Pantocrator, a portrait of Jesus more than forty metres wide and thirteen metres high, stunning in its impact. The seafarer, who had impatiently entered
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