Merivel A Man of His Time (13 page)

De Flamanville plays a deft shot, sending his ball through the hoop and simultaneously knocking mine wide of it. He straightens up, measuring his next move, which is to attempt his first hit on the End Post. Then he turns to me and says: ‘And while you are going through with fittings and so forth, where do you intend to lodge?’

I have not anticipated this question. I find myself desperately wishing that Louise were in the room and could intervene on my behalf. But I know that I must answer with the greatest possible composure. ‘I admit,’ I say, ‘that I had not given this my attention,
Colonel,
only because your wife has been kind enough to invite me to reside here. If this arrangement is in any way inimical to you, I will leave straight away and go to one of the excellent-seeming Auberges I glimpsed along the River.’

De Flamanville makes no comment, but only continues to pace about, snorting, on his side of the Billiard Table, still apparently measuring his ball’s distance from the End Post. ‘Are you absolutely sure,’ he says after a moment, ‘that you do have a Letter from King Charles?’

‘Yes. It is upstairs in my Valise.’

‘Very well. Perhaps you would be kind enough to fetch it.’

On the stairs, en route for my room, I meet Mademoiselle Corinne. Louise has told me that she never appears for breakfast, but takes this in her bedroom, under the blind and watchful eyes of her five hundred paper Silhouettes.

‘Ah,’ she says, while I wait patiently and courteously for her to descend. ‘
You
.’

‘
Bonjour, Mademoiselle Corinne
,’ I say. ‘I trust you slept well.’

‘No, I did not sleep well,’ she says. ‘I was woken before dawn by the sound of people Moving About. If it had not been so cold, I would have risen up to investigate.’

‘I assume it was the Servants you heard, making preparation for the Colonel’s early arrival.’

‘I doubt it. They are a lazy and dim-witted assemblage, who leave everything to the last minute. No. I do believe it was you. The footsteps had an English Echo to them.’

‘An English Echo?’

‘Yes. French people walk more elegantly. You flap your feet like Penguins. I distinctly heard a Penguin.’

I cannot help but laugh at this, thus incurring Mademoiselle’s greater displeasure.

‘And there is another matter, Monsieur
le “Docteur
”. I simply do not understand what you find to laugh at all the while. Is not the suffering in the world great enough for you? Have you not presided over the deaths of Patients? Are many not betrayed by those they love? Was Jesus Christ not murdered on a Cross?’

‘He was,’ I say quickly. ‘But He rose again. ‘My laughter comes all from my joy at the Resurrection, which gives hope to us all, Sinners though we may be.’

At this she closes her toothless mouth and says no more. She comes on down the stairs with infinite Slowness, but as she passes me she jabs my chest with a bony finger, and declares: ‘I am watching you! You may depend upon it. And so is Jacques-Adolphe. For I have told my brother everything.’

Now my fear of the Giraffe is suddenly woken. I curse my Fortune that I have fallen in love with the wife of a Colonel in the Swiss Guards. I know that there may be no limit to the wounds, both social and physical, such a Soldier might decide to inflict (even one who belongs to the
Fraternit
é) in order to defend his supposed ‘honour’. Coward that I am, I look helplessly around my room, wondering if I should try to make some immediate escape from the house. But I conclude very quickly that this would be foolish and quite probably fatal.

One night … I think with sadness. I had but one night with Louise and now I am to be ignominiously thrown out by a husband who has never ever loved her …

I decide to play the Innocent Man insofar as I am able. I reflect that neither Mademoiselle nor the Colonel knows anything with any certainty, unless – a very agitating thought! – my Nightshirt has been found in Louise’s room.

Taking a deep breath, I return, outwardly contained and calm, to the Billiard Room and present my letter to the Colonel, who snatches it out of my hand.

‘The Seal is broken,’ he says at once.

‘The Seal was broken by one of the
Surintendents
of the
Grand Commun
. I remonstrated with the man, but he was unmoved.’

‘If the Seal is broken, your Letter is worthless.’

‘Well,’ say I, ‘it is compromised, I agree, but it is not worthless. I have no doubt that King Louis will recognise that this is the hand of King Charles, his cousin. Did you know that they used to play together as children, by the way?’

‘That changes nothing.’

‘My Master, King Charles, told me that they used to play very
gravely,
sometimes almost in silence, so conscious were the two Princes of the Grand Destiny that awaited them …’

‘I think you are prattling, Monsieur. Let us return to the matter in hand. Your Letter from Whitehall is made worthless by the broken Seal and is very likely to be seen as a Forgery by King Louis.’

‘On my honour, Colonel, it is not a Forgery. The breaking of the Seal does not mean that the Seal was never made. For here it is. You may still plainly see the initials imprinted in the wax, here, C.R.’

De Flamanville peruses the Letter for a brief moment, then hands it back to me. ‘It is of no value and will obtain you nothing,’ he says. ‘You have wasted your money on new fashions in vain. Your return to Versailles is now quite pointless.’

He makes this assertion with such a degree of venomous certainty that for a moment I can find nothing to say.

‘What I suggest,’ he says, ‘is that you pack your Valises and my coach will take to you whichever Auberge you select. In this way you may stay in Paris long enough to collect your new clothes and show them off in England when you return there. I’m sure they will be much admired.’

‘If you wish me to leave,’ I say as calmly as I can, ‘then of course I will. I am never a man to trespass on anybody’s Hospitality, as my King would certainly vouch. But I would remind you that I am only here because your wife expressly invited me to stay and would take no refusal.’

With his own spoon, Colonel de Flamanville now beats harshly against the edge of the Table. ‘My wife,’ he barks, ‘does nothing without my Permission! Her invitation to you is withdrawn.’

I look down at the half-completed Billiard game. In the haphazard arrangement of the balls on the tapestry carpet I fancy I can clearly see the wandering dispositions of my hand, and the unerring, arrow-straight trajectory of his.

‘Very well,’ I say. ‘As you will.’

I lay down my spoon. I bow to the Colonel and walk to the door. As I open it, I hear some sweet music being played on a spinette and I know that it is Louise who is playing, and this fills my heart with agony. I hesitate at the door, listening to the melody.

From behind me de Flamanville shouts: ‘Let me say to you, further,
Monsieur,
that I
will not
have my sister tormented by lewd behaviour under this roof! If I hear from her that you have returned to my house, I will have you killed.’

10

THAT A PALTRY
thing, the alteration of my Coats, kept me in Paris a while longer was, as it transpired, a matter of some consequence.

Though I had little idea how, knowing no one, I should spend my time, except to walk about and admire the great wintry city, it afforded me some space for reflection upon my state.

This reflection chiefly took place, two days after my departure from de Flamanville’s house, inside the great Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, where I had walked the length of the Nave, passed through the Transept and sat myself upon a stone slab in the Chapel of the Seven Sorrows at the eastern End of the Choir. Here I kept the company of some melancholy-seeming saints, frescoed in pale colours upon the southern wall.

These figures, put there, by my reckonings, some three or four centuries ago, when all their coloration may have been vibrant and bright, were so faded by Time that they appeared to me to embody the Transience of each and every living thing – even when some attempt has been made to make those living things eternal in Art. For let the years pass and we perceive that by some terrible, soundless trick the Art, in its turn, has faded and flaked away.

One of the saintly figures, dressed in a sombre brown robe, reminded me of Pearce. His face was thin and his expression agitated. In his hands he held a large cross, which he clutched to him in precisely the way that Pearce used to clutch his soup ladle, as though fearing, at every moment, that some Thief or highwayman was intent upon its misappropriation.

‘Pearce,’ I whispered to this Fresco, ‘my life has once more pitched
me
into Confusion and Muddle. And I really do not know where I am to go.’

The immovable face of the painted saint regarded me with sorrow. In the quiet of the great church I fancied I could hear Pearce sigh.

‘Shall I go home to Norfolk?’ I asked my departed friend. ‘Or shall I try, by some means, to come again to Louise, for whom … (and I hasten to add this, Pearce, because I know that you regard all my Amours as shallow and driven only by lust) … for whom I have the very greatest regard … and from whom I have some proof of reciprocated Affection.’

‘Reciprocated Affection?’ said Pearce. ‘I doubt it.’

At this moment a young Priest passed by the Chapel of the Seven Sorrows, and when he saw me there, talking to myself, he paused and asked: ‘Is there anything that I can do for you,
mon fils
?’

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘no, I do not believe there is.’

‘Do you wish to make a Confession?’

‘A Confession?’

‘Yes. Only if you wish it.’

I did not say to the Priest that I had been brought up in the Protestant Faith, nor that this Faith had deserted me after the terrible death by fire of my innocent parents. I did not admit it, because, at this particular moment, for some reason the idea of a Confession – of a laying down of my Burden of Sin, Failure and Indecision onto the thin shoulders of this man of the Church – appealed very strongly to me.

I followed the Priest to the Confession Box, which, being a very confining space, has always put me in mind of some kind of prison cell, or Oubliette, but I endured it. From sitting on the stone slab in the Chapel of the Seven Sorrows, my bottom was somewhat cold and aching, and the wooden plank of the Confessional did nothing to alleviate this. And I fell to pondering whether it might not be wise to supply cushions in Confessionals, so that the Sinners are not tempted to hurry through their Transgressions, or leave some out altogether, for the simple reason that their arses are in distress.

Through the grille I could see the Priest’s eye, very brown and bright, like the eye of a Mistlethrush, regarding me.

‘Go on, my son,’ he said. ‘Speak.’

I turned away from the Mistlethrush and looked down at my hands. I knew that I should really begin upon an account of my Chief Sin, which had been to fornicate with the wife of another man, but a welling up of loyalty to Louise prevented me from doing this, my Amours with her now seeming to me both private and precious, and having nothing to do with any Priest.

Instead I said: ‘
Mon père
, I confess that I am lost. Out of ambition and greed, and out of a kind of restless Loneliness, I came to France in the hope of some Preferment. But I have not got it and now I do not know which way to turn.’

‘Go on, my son,’ said the Priest again.

‘That is all,’ I said. ‘I do not know what more to add. I confess my Greed. But I have no reward for it, only bitter Disappointment. And now I am running short of money. I would that God might tell me what to do next.’

There was a short silence from the Priest’s side of the Box. Then he cleared his throat and said: ‘God does not give Instructions. To find what you should do, you must look into your own heart.’

I spent some time sitting alone in my room at the Auberge St Denis, where de Flamanville’s coachman had deposited me, and which was on the Ile de la Cité, looking outwards to the shining River.

It amused me to watch all the Commerce that passed on the waterway. I saw barges carrying wood and Sea Coal and bales of wool and heaps of sand and shale. I saw one piled up with furs and another with onions and another with live ducks in wooden crates. And the shouting of the Bargemen and the cries from the other Oarsmen, ferrying passengers up or down or across the Seine, sounded, to my ears, much as they did upon the Thames, all intent upon Trade and nothing but. And I thought how England and France were as one in their commercial souls, and how the two countries should, by rights, be squashed into a commodious Confession Box, there to divulge all their avarice.

Around the steps and wooden walkways that descended to the water clustered raggle-taggle packs of beggars, just as they clustered in London, with their hands outstretched and their eyes wide with Hunger. And remembering, from my first night at Versailles, what
terrible
pain real Hunger can cause, I here and there gave them a few
sous
.

But I had not lied to the Priest when I said that I was running out of money, so I could not part with much. And, indeed, it was this awareness of my own forthcoming Penury that led me, on my second night at the Auberge St Denis, to write the following letter:

To Wm Gates
,

Bidnold Manor, in the County of Norfolk

Angleterre

My dear Will
,

I write to you from Paris, where I have taken Lodgings, and not from Versailles, where I expected to be, but am Not, for the Reason that His Majesty King Louis has Doctors enough surrounding him and has no need of Me, to add to their Number
.

I have thus decided that, before Christmas comes, I shall make my return to Bidnold. I know that Miss Margaret stays in Cornwall until Twelfth Night, but I will nevertheless come back, and hope I may devise some Lively Entertainment to cheer us at Christmastime, so that no Angel of Melancholy will visit us and no more Handkerchiefs will be worn out
.