‘You are one yourself now.’
‘Do you know,’ she said, pushing her hand up through the hair curling on her forehead. ‘Do you know, I cannot at all begin to see myself as such; but here – in Paris – it does not matter! Here we live in a world of make-believe. I can easy pretend to be Lady Poldark; ’twill be great fun! I shall put on airs if I like to and pretend I am used to the high life. But it will be when we go home…’
‘What then?’
‘Then – there – I will always be – will always be Demelza Poldark – Mrs Ross Poldark, same as I have always been. I want nothing more.’
‘You’ll find in the end it will be just the same thing.’
‘Hope so.’
Outside a clock was striking midnight.
After they had counted together Ross said: ‘I wonder if I am here on a fool’s errand.’
‘Why should you be?’
‘Fitzroy Somerset is astute enough, though so young. Although he is very gracious about it – and friendly towards us because we were already his friends – I think he feels exasperated that Liverpool should keep adding to his reporters and advisers. And I don’t blame him. Anyway, he thinks that fears of an insurrection in France are overdone. So apparently did Wellington, who has only been gone a month. His reassuring reports to Liverpool failed to convince; but Liverpool, I know, is full of apprehensions about Jacobins, whether in England or in France. I feel I should have made something more than a token protest about conditions in England before I came on this mission. For it is much more conditions than principles that make the revolutionary. Do you know, for instance, that the Treasonable Practices Act is still in force in England? This forbids public meetings and makes writing, printing and speaking against the Government a punishable offence.’
She looked at him gravely for a moment. ‘I am not sure as to your meaning, Ross.’
‘Of course I know that Liverpool would say the Act, though still in force, is seldom used. But its existence is a constant threat to the expression of free opinion. And now comes the Corn Bill! What I am asking you is what I am doing receiving a title and a handsomely paid holiday in Paris just to inquire into the Jacobin and Bonapartist tendencies of the French army? If I were more important…’
‘Yes?’
‘If I were more important I would think I might be being bought off. Since that is ridiculous – the amount my influence would sway opinion inside Parliament or out is so small as to be ludicrous – I can only suppose that he was sincere in inviting me to make this excursion. But God knows whether there will be a worthwhile outcome.’
‘This is the first day,’ said Demelza. ‘We have only been here a few hours. Let us wait and see.’
Chapter Six
They slept late and were not wakened. They breakfasted in their rooms, with views over wide lawns to a large boulevard full of traffic, and then a servant took them across to their apartment in the rue de la Ville l’Evêque. It was on the third floor of four, spacious, light, with shutters to keep out the absent sun; sparsely furnished and draughty, though fires burned in the grates and two menservants went with the apartment to stoke them. Fitzroy Somerset had warned Demelza the night before that ‘the French do not quite understand the idea of an English fireside’.
The silken hangings needed washing and there was dust and an occasional web in a corner, also there were far too many gilt mirrors. But the kitchen looked clean, the beds were fairly clean and certainly there was ample room for all. Bella went dancing round the apartment, hopping from rugs to tiled parquet and back again and singing ‘Ripe Sparrergras’, but fortunately only at half power. Henry kept slipping on the rugs and ended up banging his head on a massive stool which he henceforward claimed as his own.
They dined at the Embassy and changed there for the reception, which began at five.
Demelza was glad that she had spent so much money on new gowns for her stay at Bowood a few years ago. What she was wearing might not be the height of fashion, but it reflected the big change there had been in general styles at that time and had not become so outmoded in the last three years.
By the time the reception was in full swing it was a glittering company. Ross early on met a youngish officer of artillery called Brigadier Gaston Rougiet, whom he took a liking to. He was a buoyant, frank, engaging man with a duelling scar that made Ross’s old cicatrice look like a pin scratch. He was stationed at Auxerre, and he invited Ross to visit his unit ‘any day next week when I am back’ to sup with his fellow officers and to spend a couple of nights. He had been very much a Napoleon man until the last grim battles of last year, when he had sided with Ney and the other generals. However, from one or two half-laughing asides, he gave the impression that he found the Bourbon régime not easy to accept. He told Ross that his father had been a tradesman and that he had begun life as clerk to an attorney. He had gone into the army at nineteen and at thirty-eight was the hardened veteran of fifty battles.
He seemed exactly the sort of man Ross, in his dubious capacity as an agent for the Earl of Liverpool, should get to know, so he accepted the invitation. Rougiet asked him if they were going to the opera tomorrow evening; if so he hoped that they would share his box.
Demelza had stood near her husband for a time in the chambre de parade, listening as far as she could and admiring, without appearing to admire, the lavish decorations and ornaments of these reception rooms, one leading out of another. It was indeed a palace, not as great a mansion as Bowood, but excelling it in magnificence. Dozens of candles already burned in sconces – though it was not yet dark – illuminating the carvings, the statues, the gilded chairs, the paintings; and the bare shoulders and elegant gowns of the women, the brilliant uniforms of the men.
But presently the precocious Bella urged her to take her into the grand salon where ice-creams were being served. Demelza had been exercised of mind whether to allow Isabella-Rose to accompany them tonight; she was just at that awkward age, half child, half woman, when there seemed no sure dividing line. It was Emily Fitzroy Somerset who had suggested she should come – there would be other young people there – and indeed Bella was already tall and well grown, tremendously vivacious and, when she could keep her vivacity within bounds, a very attractive girl. She had behaved herself so well at supper last night and at dinner today that she deserved the favour.
But it was awful to find oneself an island in a sea of French speakers. True, most of them, when they found Demelza uncomprehending, could produce a few words of English and smiled and nodded and were very gracious. Before she was pulled away by Bella she had heard Ross speaking his halting French to Brigadier Rougiet and had resolved that somehow she must make head and tail of the language or perish. Tomorrow morning first thing a teacher should be engaged to teach both her and Isabella-Rose, and if this did not please Mrs Kemp (who had a smattering and thought she had more) it was just too bad.
She had been at the party for quite a time and was wondering how soon she should escape when someone behind her said: ‘Lady Poldark?’
She turned and saw a slim young man with long fair hair down to his shoulders and a drooping moustache. He was dressed in a brilliant royal-blue velvet coat, a green embroidered waistcoat, yellow nankeen trousers and was smiling at her as if she ought to know him. She was sure she’d never seen him before in her life.
She swallowed the lump that always came in her throat when anyone called her by her new title.
‘Yes?’
‘My name is Havergal. Christopher Havergal. Emily told me you were here, and I felt sure – it is such an unusual name – that you must be related to Major Geoffrey Poldark of the 43rd Monmouthshires. If I am wrong pray forgive me.’ He looked at Isabella-Rose and smiled.
‘Geoffrey Charles is my cousin’s son,’ said Demelza. ‘My husband’s cousin’s son. He’s in the next room. My husband, I mean. You are – Mr Havergal?’
‘Lieutenant Havergal, ma’am. I had the honour of serving under Major Geoffrey Poldar
k at the Battle of Toulouse – the last battle of the war. Soon afterwards, alas, Major Poldark resigned his commission.’
Isabella-Rose looked at Lieutenant Havergal and smiled.
‘Are you still in the army?’ Demelza asked.
‘I transferred out of the 43rd before they left for America, and am now in the 95th Rifles. On leave, of course. And since there is no war at present, enjoying an extended vacation in Paris. Is this young lady your daughter, ma’am, may I ask?’
‘Yes. This is Isabella-Rose, our second – third daughter.’
Lieutenant Havergal bowed. ‘What a beautiful girl!’
‘Thank you,’ said Demelza, while Bella glinted back at him, not at all embarrassed.
‘But of course,’ said Havergal, ‘what else could one expect? If you will pardon the familiarity.’ He looked as if he expected the familiarity to be pardoned.
Demelza decided if he didn’t have so much hair he would look very young. Perhaps that excused the familiarity. She said: ‘I’m sure Ross will wish to meet you.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. I believe Major Poldark married a Spanish lady, didn’t he? Is he in Paris, do you know?’
‘I do not think so. The last I heard, he was in Spain. They have a child, a daughter, born late last year.’
‘How delightful. Are you staying long, Lady Poldark? In Paris, I mean?’
‘Well, yes, we’ve only just arrived. We have an apartment on the rue – rue, what is it, Bella?’
‘Rue de la Ville l’Evêque,’ said Bella, already getting the accent right.
‘I shall be here another two weeks.’ Havergal twisted the end of his moustache, which was smooth and silky. ‘Perhaps I may be permitted to call on you? It would be a great honour.’
Demelza’s attention had been temporarily diverted by the arrival of two extraordinary men, just walking in from the antichambre.
‘Of course,’ said Bella, deputizing for her absent mother.
Both newcomers were of medium height and of middle age. The first was dressed in a silk coat and breeches of clerical black; the white stock cut low added to the impression that he might be of the church; but no recognizable brand of Christianity was observable on his face, which was thin and of a ruddy complexion and simian in expression. He was clean-shaven, wore his own greying hair, which had a reddish tinge; his eyes were small and of a deep bloodshot brown.
The second man was in a pale-blue coat and breeches with a white fur waistcoat. He had a long pendulous nose and sensuous lips. His skin was the colour of a man who has had yellow fever, and he wore an eye-patch. He seemed to be attendant upon the first, not as a servant but as a lesser light of the same order. Both were looking about the room to see who was there.
A flow of French conversation washed over Demelza. She said: ‘Where is your regiment stationed?’
‘Outside Brussels, ma’am.’
‘My son is in the army,’ she said. ‘Jeremy Poldark. He too is in Brussels. Perhaps you know him?’
‘What regiment?’
‘The 52nd Oxfordshires.’
‘I shall make a point of seeking his acquaintance when I return.’
Brigadier Rougiet was introducing Ross to three other French officers, brilliant in their greens and golds, and for a while Ross was content to join in the conversation and listen. Sometimes his knowledge of French failed and the sentences slipped by before he could catch them, but he realized that all these high-ranking officers had been in Napoleon’s army until last year. One had been at the occupation of Moscow and the disastrous retreat; another called Marchand had been at Bussaco under Massena. But that was all over and past. They showed no signs of bitterness or resentment at their defeat – Liverpool had said this was a rampant sentiment – but perhaps it was their natural good manners which did not allow them to betray their feelings to an Englishman.
Some ten minutes later he glanced through the big open doors and saw two strange middle-aged men talking to Demelza, one in black silk, the other in blue, with an eye-patch. She was smiling at them and answering back but clearly not at all comfortable in their presence.
In a gap in the conversation Ross said in an aside to Rougiet: ‘Who are the two men talking to my wife?’
A sardonic expression crossed Rougiet’s scarred face. ‘The one in black is the Duke of Otranto; the other is M Tallien.’ After a moment he added: ‘Both survivals of the revolutionary days.’
‘Indeed.’
‘M Tallien was responsible for sending Robespierre to the guillotine. The Duke of Otranto has been all things to all men for so long that one does not know what he believes in, except himself.’
‘It is hard to remember that the worst excesses of the revolution were not so long ago. What is it – twenty-three years since Robespierre’s death?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘But surely – a duke in a revolutionary council?’
‘He was Joseph Fouché. You may know his name. For many years he was Minister of Police under Bonaparte. Indeed, was so until last year.’
‘And how is it that he – that they – are welcome guests at this reception?’
Rougiet smiled. ‘Perhaps not welcome but accepted. It is impossible for a simple soldier such as myself to understand all the ramifications of French politics. So perhaps even less so for you, sir, as an Englishman. Fouché was one of the signatories of the death warrant of Louis the Sixteenth, yet when his brother ascends the throne Otranto is forgiven and allowed his freedom and his influence. Influence, I suppose, is the word. He always seems to have influence, and the King has made use of him. In any devil’s brew, in any cauldron of muddy political intrigue, Fouché can be relied on to swim to the top.’
Ross stared across the room. ‘I wonder who introduced them to my wife.’
‘I do not suppose they waited for an introduction. Tallien is a great ladies’ man. Indeed, all his life he has been a great lecher. And your wife, sir, if I may say so, is a beautiful woman.’
‘I have often thought so,’ said Ross, nevertheless looking across at Demelza with new eyes.
‘She has such freshness, such a lack of artificiality, of pretence. I mean, of course, as to her physical appearance, for I hardly know her; but I would suppose she is equally untrammelled by affectation in her personal life.’
‘You are entirely correct, sir,’ said Ross.
Lady Poldark being much preoccupied with her two middle-aged revolutionaries, Lieutenant Havergal had been able to draw Isabella-Rose aside.
‘I hope, Miss Poldark, your mother will permit me to show you something of Paris while you are here.’
‘Curse me,’ said Bella, who had never been called Miss Poldark before. ‘That would be enjoyable, but I do not think my mother would allow it! For is not Paris a very wicked place?’
‘Wicked, yes. But also exciting and beautiful. Perhaps your mother would consent to come with us and then we could go to the Tivoli Gardens together? There is great entertainment to be had there.’
‘It would be enjoyable,’ said Bella again, looking at his moustache and wondering if it tickled. ‘You must ask Mama, for if you asked she would be far more likely to agree than if I did.’
There was a silence between them for a moment.
‘Have you seen the boudoir rose?’ asked Havergal. ‘See, it is just through here…’ He led her off, a finger on her arm. ‘That is the Princess Borghese’s bed. She was Napoleon’s sister, you know. She used to recline on this bed all morning, entertaining visitors.’
Bella stared round the room, with its elegant draperies, and at the blue silk and satin bed. Then she glanced up at Havergal, who was regarding her with frank admiration. She looked back at him for a few seconds with equal frankness and then dimpled at him and had the grace to lower her eyes.
They walked back slowly into the grand salon.
‘I was damn near involved in a duel this morning,’ said Havergal. ‘There’s always duels about in this town. But it was Charlie Cranfield –
Lord Cranfield, that is – who provoked it. We’d been out together, the four of us…’ He paused. ‘Perhaps this is not a suitable story for a young lady’s ears.’
‘You must tell me at once,’ said Bella, ‘or I shall explode with frustration.’
He laughed. ‘Well, ’twas all a storm in a teacup, believe me. You see we had all been dining at Very’s, which is a famous restaurant near the Palais Royal, and had been looking upon the wine when it was red, if you follow. In coming out there were some mendicants trying to sell us a variety of nasty trinkets, and Cranfield kicked their merchandise into the gutter. A Frenchman stopped to protest, and Cranfield pushed him into the gutter. Alas, the Frenchman was a captain in the 3rd Chasseurs, so after an angry scene cards were exchanged for a meeting this morning.’
‘Oh,’ said Bella.
‘Well, d’ye know, my dear Miss Poldark, when I got to my lodgings last night it was very late and they were all bolted and barred, so Charlie Cranfield says come home with us, Christopher, he says. So home I go with them and bed down on a sofa in front of a crackling fire. Next thing I know it is early in the morning and a hammering on the door and who should be there but our chasseur and his two friends all anxious to proceed with the duel! Now out of the bedroom appears Charlie Cranfield himself wearing nothing but a baggy pair of trousers and a nightcap full of holes. Ye see, he is so particular to have it aired that it has got many times singed in the process. And following him comes Captain Merriman of the Leicestershires wrapped in a huge blanket and wearing his army trousers and no more; and then the other chap whose name escapes me, rubbing his eyes and whistling through the hole in his teeth that he has had bored to imitate the coachmen, and not one of the three can understand a word of what the chasseur and his seconds are saying!’
‘Oh,’ said Bella, clasping her hands.
‘Well, you may imagine I was much in demand as an interpreter, since I was the only one in the room with any pretensions to be bi-lingual, and I am none too fluent. But I was able to convey to Charlie Cranfield that M le Chasseur wished him to choose his weapons. Now Charlie has quite forgotten all about the quarrel and what offence he gave, but he is ever ready for a bit of a fight so he says fusils. He thinks it means a duel with pistols, my dear, dear Miss Poldark, but fusil means a musket or a fowling piece, which at twenty paces would be certain Kingdom Come for the one who was slowest at pulling the trigger. Our French friends are much taken aback, but I believe are about to agree when Merriman, standing with his back to the fire, which is still glowing hot, lets go his hand upon his belt, whereupon his trousers slip down over his ankles!’
The Twisted Sword: A Novel of Cornwall 1815 Page 7
