Merivel A Man of His Time (36 page)

Nobody is there.

I stop walking and turn to the Baron. A robin flutters down from an ash branch and regards us. I consider how terrible it will be to see blood on snow.

The Baron looks all about him and we start to listen for footsteps, but none are heard. I lift my face to the blue sky and think, perhaps after all there will be no duel. The Colonel will return to Versailles and succeed in seducing Petrov back to his side. There will be no Annulment. There will be no marriage with Louise …

The Baron has brought with him a flask of Brandy, and he opens this and we drink. And then we see the two Soldiers coming silently towards us down a narrow path.

They have put on their Dress Uniforms. As they turn towards us, they seem to understand that their long legs carry to this terrible fray an image of Male Perfection, which will never be surpassed. By comparison, I know that I, in my black Coat with my breeks a little too wide, appear like some lowly supplicant
waiting for their favour
.

We move forward to the middle of the clearing, and bow and then clasp hands as is the custom. The Colonel’s face is white and thin. It betrays nothing.

Beck carries the weapons. The two pistols are housed in a wooden box, which he offers to us each in turn, as though he might be offering cigars or sweetmeats. As I take up my pistol I think of the Highwayman on the Dover Road and the death he got, which he had not expected. And I understand that I still do not know how this day is to end.

Beck produces from his pocket two bullets. He holds them in the palm of his hand and the lead shines in the sun. We take them up and put them into the pistols.

Then I look, suddenly, in anguish at Beck, for he appears to carry no weapon. He asks me if I am ready and I reply that I am, and I feel the Baron’s hand touch my arm before the two Seconds withdraw.

I now stand back-to-back with Colonel de Flamanville. On the First Command, we are to start walking away from each other, making ‘good strides’. When the Seconds have counted ten paces, they will
make
the Second Command, calling for us to stop. Then we are to turn and fire.

The First Command comes and I begin walking. The gun is heavy in my hand. Far above me I can hear rooks turning in a circle and crying out.

Part Four

The Great Transition

29

ONCE MORE I
find myself travelling across France, this time in a North-Westerly direction. Far out, and still separated from me by many weary roads and a churning sea, lies England.

Dusk creeps round our Coach as we make progress towards Dijon, with a fine snow beginning to fall.

There are but two travellers in the Chaise, myself and an elderly English Priest. He is scribbling sermons till the daylight fails. Having nothing to read, I have begged to borrow his Bible, which precious Book, I note, is stained and squashed, with a pungent scent to it, as though the Priest cradled it to his body every night (or else kept it under his mattress, with the bedbugs and the mice, like my
Wedge
).

To try to cheer myself, I read of the Miracle at Cana and how the niggardly hosts have not provided enough wine, so that poor overworked Jesus is compelled to fashion it out of mere water. But I am again struck not only by the parsimoniousness of the hosts, but by something else that has always troubled me about this story.

It is set down, in a self-congratulatory kind of way, how the best wine – that made out of the water by Jesus – was ‘saved till last’. But this strikes me as very stupid. For, in regard to wine, I am only too familiar with the Progress of any party. When, in my Former Life, I gave great dinners at Bidnold (and there were many), I always instructed Will to serve my best wines
first
, he and I both understanding very well that when men are as intoxicated as my guests invariably became, and those at Cana probably were, they cannot tell
one
wine from another, or even one kind of
drink
from another, and will just stupidly keep quaffing whatever is put into their hands until they fall over. And in this state, the ‘best wine’ would be horribly wasted upon them. The Saviour might as well have made cheap or ordinary wine, and I find myself wishing that I had been there to tell Him this, in case the Miracle of the good wine was a greater Effort for Him.

I thumb another Miracle, which is the Raising of Lazarus, but I do not enjoy this one very much either, worrying about the Stench that may have lain upon the cadaver in the heat of a Judaea afternoon, and turn from it at random to the Book of Ecclesiastes, where I read: ‘
That which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth so dieth the other; yea, they all have one breath, so that a man has no Pre-eminence above a beast
.’

Death is much on my mind. It aimed at me, but it did not strike me.

I departed from the snow-covered clearing in the woods, but Colonel de Flamanville did not. He lay upon the ground, shot in the heart by Beck. His blood pooled upon him, above and below, crimson and bright. Beck knelt down beside him and wept and kissed his face, and all Beck’s fine uniform was stained red. And I thought how courageous was this Capitaine to hide his weapon so that he might fulfil such a fearful pledge. I knew, on the instant, that he had done it for love of the Colonel.

I returned to him the pistol, which I had fired far wide of my adversary, inadvertently despatching a Pigeon, which plopped down from a frosted bough. I shook his hand very warmly, then the Baron and I walked back towards the Château, leaving the grieving Adjutant to make arrangements for the corpse. At first we were silent as we walked, then the Baron said: ‘You were courageous, Merivel. There was, I now perceive, a chance that you might have died.’

I wished to say that, in my understanding of a complicated and Uncertain Situation, there was a deal more than ‘a chance’, but I did not. I did not want to taint, by cynical words, my feelings of gladness to be alive.

We walked on. The sun was full up and shining on the snow. Far
above
us the great mountains peered down upon us, immovable, indifferent. I found in me a great Thirst for Sack.

At length the Baron said: ‘We shall let a suitable interval go by. Then we shall arrange your wedding to Louise. I shall invite all of Neuchâtel. Marc-André Broussel will sing for you. I shall spare no expense. It shall be the finest celebration I have hosted in my life! Perhaps, your daughter will travel from England and bring the Duchess of Portsmouth with her? We would be greatly honoured …’

From what I knew of her, I could not imagine Fubbs wishing to rise from her Chaise Longue and transport herself and her Wardrobe, and her mountain of jewels, halfway across a Continent to bear witness at the wedding of a Glovemaker’s son, so I said to the Baron: ‘My daughter tells me the Duchess is not very fond of fresh air, so perhaps Switzerland, with its abundance of air of impeccable freshness, may daunt her? But of course she shall be invited.’

And then I fell to thinking whom, indeed, I might invite, and it came to me that the person whose presence at my Marriage would move me most would be Will. I longed to see his features afflicted with a sudden gladness of heart.

But of Will I had no word. Every day I looked for some chaise or mule that would convey to me a Letter from Bidnold, but none arrived. I would have risked writing to Cattlebury to enquire after Will, but Cattlebury is almost incapable of reading, ‘Unless, Sir Robert, it be a Recipe and all laid out on Individual Lines, with numbers writ as Numbers, and then I can comprehend it.’ So this did not seem a very useful thing to do.

I had now resolved to write to Sir James Prideaux, and beg him to ride to my house and give me some report of how things stood there, but so taken along by the anxieties of the Duel had I been that this I had not yet done.

‘What say you to a May wedding?’ said the Baron suddenly.

Towards evening, as Louise and I lay in her bed, exhausted by the afternoon’s Exertions, celebrating our forthcoming marriage, she said: ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Merivel. A letter arrived for you this morning.’

At once my heart flew to Will. But it was not his laboured hand upon the letter, it was Margaret’s, and she wrote thus:

My Dearest Papa
,

I pray this letter reaches you and is not Stopped by snow
.

You must forgive me for disturbing your sojourn in Switzerland, but I have no choice but to do this. The King is lately taken ill with terrible Convulsions. He has rallied a little, but we are all able to tell, by his Countenance, that he is weak. He has much pain in his Bladder and in his Kidneys. His leg is very Sore
.

Dear Papa, I would not trouble you with this, but today he comes into our Chambers and lies down upon the Duchess’s bed and sends for me. He takes my hand and says to me, ‘Margaret, I pray you, write to your Father and ask him to be good enough to come to me. I know not what is coming upon me, whether I am bound for Death, or no, but I know that my Spirit would be greatly cheered by having your Father near me, to attend on me and to make me smile
.’

So, Papa, please come at once. I beg you to come. The Duchess is full of fear that His Majesty is going to die. I know that you would do anything to forestall this. You can be housed in the Duchess’s apartments, so that you may be near the King, day and night
.

We shall await your arrival every day
.

From your loving daughter
,

Margaret

I sat very still and petrified on Louise’s bed. Seeing me thus turned to stone by the letter, she took it from my hands and read it, and, being a woman of admirable Judgement, she said, without hint of disappointment or self-pity: ‘You must go at once. Father’s Coach will take you to Neuchâtel in the morning, and from there you may get a Chaise to Dijon and on to Paris.’

I brought Louise to me and kissed her cheek. ‘You are right,’ I said. ‘I can do no other.’

‘I shall wait for you, Merivel. I shall not let Life take you away from me for ever.’

‘No, indeed. And I shall visit the King’s Jeweller in London and buy you a ring.’

‘Shall it be Sapphire, like the ring which saved Clarendon?’

‘It shall be of whatever stone pleases you.’

‘Bring me a Ruby, then. As hot and fiery as my blood.’

Louise clung to me and wept when I departed. It was as though we were making some terrible adieu.

As I got into the coach, the Baron thrust into my hands a sheaf of Papers, torn from his Notebook. I hoped that these might be his own Observations on my Treatise, in which he seemed to take a passionate interest, but the Baron’s Papers contained no thoughts upon my Great Subject. They were mere lists of all the People he would invite to my wedding, and plans for what Entertainments we might have and the Songs Broussel would sing for us, and the Banquets we would devour.

I barely glanced at them, but only thrust them into my Valise, remembering as I did so my wedding to Celia long ago and how I had first wept at it, and then later found myself imprisoned in a Closet, watching through a crack in the door as the King made love to my new bride.

And I thought how all the Arrangements of my life had flowed out from this Wedding, which had not been real, but only Counterfeit to suit the King’s lusts, and how, in my fifty-ninth year, I was now headed towards a second Marriage Ceremony, which did not, in truth, seem quite real to me either, and which was being arranged to gratify the late-flowering lusts of Louise de Flamanville.

Looking over at my Coach companion, the Priest, garbed all in black, sleeping now as the coach jolted through the darkness, I imagined that it was not he but Pearce who sat opposite me. But Pearce did not sleep. He cast upon my features a stare that was without Pity.

‘What are you doing, Merivel?’ he said. ‘What is the
meaning
of this Second Wedding?’

I imagined leaning towards Pearce, and taking one of his cold hands in mine and putting it against my heart to try to warm it.

‘I am going to be honest with you, Pearce,’ I said. ‘I shall not lie. I have great admiration for Louise de Flamanville. Among women, she is remarkable. And there are more than a few moments when I
feel
love for her. But truly, this marriage is about riches. It is about the getting of a great Estate and a life of ease.’

‘Just as it was the first time.’

‘If you will.’

‘And you are not ashamed?’

‘Only a little. Not as ashamed as you would wish me to be.’

‘’Tis a great pity, my friend.’

‘If it is such a “pity”, what else would you have me do?’

Here I could not guess what Pearce might say. His voice came no more. All that now haunted the coach was that Silence of his, which is like no other silence on earth, and this I had to endure without flinching. I let go of his hand. I closed my eyes and turned my thoughts towards the King.

On the 29th of January 1685 a Barque named
The Kentish Maid
took me across the Channel, and although the seas were lumpy and flecked with foam, and spray was hurled again and again onto the decks, I remained well and was once again made strangely happy, finding myself in this new Element, where Man can alter nothing, but only Accept what the wind decrees and try to steer his fragile tub to safety.

And I thought how, in my restlessness and longing for Wonders, I might have made a good Mariner and come at last, perhaps, to be the Captain of some trading vessel, bound for far-off continents and never settling anywhere, but always moving across the Globe under crimson skies and uncountable stars.

And it seemed to me, too, that there is a kind of peace to be found on the ocean, a beautiful quiet that is almost always absent from life upon the land, where both men and objects have the habit of
calling out
to us and importuning us with this or that demand, and there is no stillness anywhere.

And I wondered whether, had I spent my life at sea, I would now be a person of Stoical calm, accepting without complaint all that Time and weather could cast at me, and inhabiting at last that mantle of serenity with which Pearce always longed to clothe me, and always and ever failed.