The Reincarnationist Papers
Page 13
Louis felt a soft poke in his ribs and looked down to see who it was. “I can’t see. What’s she wearing?” asked Ramsay, looking up at him with a smile.
Louis smiled and looked out at Emil again to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating from overwork. “Purple, a mountain of it.”
“Typical,” said Ramsay.
“My goodness, I can’t believe it. She is huge,” Louis said.
Ramsay laughed. “Their carriage had to be specially built with double doors and heavy springs.”
“A woman like that could bathe in a tub using only a wine glass full of water,” he said, before tilting his glass up.
“Don’t be cruel, it doesn’t suit you.” Ramsay said, scolding. “Le Brun tells me you’re having a hard time out at Tourlaville.”
Louis sighed and looked around the heads for another walking platter of glasses. “It’s more difficult than I thought it would be.”
“Important things are never easy.”
Louis put his empty glass on a tray and took two more fresh ones. “That’s good. I’ll have to remember that one,” he said snidely.
“Oh, come now. Why the long face? I’ll catch up with you later,” she said, disappearing into the crowd.
Louis sank into a corner for six more waltzes and four more drinks before wandering back into the crowd in search of Ramsay.
“Pardon me, Monsieur,” came a voice from behind him. Louis turned to see who it was. The old man wore a long white wig and a pince-nez. “I know everyone here but you. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mansalles, His Majesty’s administrator of this palace. And you are?”
“I am,” Louis slurred, “pleased to meet you. My name is Louis Lucas de Nehon, master glassier.” Louis offered his hand.
“So, Monsieur,” Mansalles said, taking his hand but not shaking it for fear of toppling him over. “What brings you to Versailles?”
“I’m working at Tourlaville on special new mirrors for the Galerie des Glaces project.”
Mansalles stiffened and drew his hand away, almost pulling Louis over as he did so. “I think you must be mistaken, Monsieur. I know the man who is making the mirrors for the hall. He’s only just arrived. His name is Monsieur Jouber—”
“Don’t mention that man’s name to me!” Louis shouted. “His name doesn’t deserve to be mentioned in my presence. I am an artist, a craftsman, and he . . . he is nothing more than . . . than an opportunistic socialite.” A crowd began to gather around them, trapping Mansalles, who looked around, skittishly trying to get away. Louis fought to keep his eyes focused as he spoke loudly enough to draw more people over.
“Monsieur, please. Calm down, people are starting to stare,” Mansalles said through a nervous smile.
“People! What people, these skinny people. Made skinny by your Joubert. Ha! He is nothing more than a purveyor of novelties, a man living off a gimmick.”
“Monsieur,” Mansalles said, loud enough for the crowd to hear, “I must insist that you stop speaking about him in this manner. I won’t stand for this sort of rudeness.”
“Rudeness! Rudeness!” Louis said, spitting the words in Mansalles’s face. “You know why he devised those skinny mirrors, don’t you? So his oversize wife would have the confidence at home to put on that outrageous purple dress. That’s rudeness!” The crowd gave a collective gasp followed by a few giggles. Mansalles went white as his wig. A hand came out of the crowd behind Louis and tapped him on the shoulder. Louis wore a slight smile and chuckled to himself as he turned. The outburst had relieved some of the tension and frustration that had built up in him over the past grueling weeks.
The openhanded slap across his face wasn’t hard but was enough of a surprise to knock Louis off balance. He looked up sideways from the floor. Above the black shoes, the white stockings, the gray leggings, and jacket, was Joubert, rubbing at his stinging right hand. Joubert peered down his nose at Louis with an arrogant look on his face. Louis had gotten up to his knees before someone grabbed him under the arms and helped him up. It was tiny Ramsay.
“You’ve done it now,” she whispered in Louis’s ear.
Joubert threw his head back proudly. “Sir, I don’t know who you are, but you have slandered me and insulted my wife,” he said as Louis straightened up in front of him, “and I demand satisfaction.” A stunned Louis stood, rubbing his left cheek. “I can plainly see that you are drunk, sir, and I offer you the opportunity to recant before this crowd,” he said, smiling smugly as he looked at the faces grouped around him. Louis stood as still as he could and collected himself. Ramsay poked him in the ribs and gave him a stern look as if to say go ahead.
“All right, Monsieur, but first, please tell me, is it true what they say?” Louis said motioning to his wife.
“Excuse me,” said Joubert, confused.
“Oh, come now. Surely, you must know. It’s been rumored for hundreds of years by several cultures that when a large woman, a woman of your wife’s girth, for instance, approaches sexual ecstasy, she will begin to squeal like a pig with delight.”
The crowd shrieked in unison and burst out in stifled laughter. Joubert stuttered with a stupid look on his face. His wife fainted and collapsed into a purple heap on the floor as several onlookers frantically scrambled out of her way. Ramsay’s brown eyes rolled up into her small head. Mansalles managed to escape the crowd and the embarrassment in the commotion. Louis stood smugly in front of Joubert, his hands tucked into the waistband of his trousers. “I won’t hold it against you if you don’t know,” Louis continued before Joubert could retort. “After all, as I can plainly see, she is a lot of woman to love.”
Joubert, now completely red, was visibly shaking. “You . . . you . . . I demand satisfaction! I demand it!” he said, stomping his feet uncontrollably on the floor. “I am within my rights to demand a duel to defend my honor and the honor of my wife. You may choose the weapon.”
Ramsay tugged hard at Louis’s jacket to get his attention. “Pistols . . . pistols,” she hissed quietly at him between clenched teeth.
“Pistols,” slurred Louis loudly, his voice carrying throughout the ballroom. “The day after tomorrow.”
“Fine,” Joubert said sternly. “Have your second call on mine tomorrow at my home. It’s at—”
“I know where it is,” Louis hissed.
“Day after tomorrow then, at sunrise,” Joubert said as he stooped to comfort his wife.
Louis nodded and stumbled through the crowd toward the door. “Here, let’s take my carriage,” Ramsay said as they left the ballroom.
“Why pistols? I’ve never even held a flintlock before, much less fired one,” Louis asked.
“If memory serves, you’ve never held a rapier before either, have you?”
“No.”
“Then a pistol is your only chance. Stay at my chateau tonight, and we’ll practice tomorrow after you’ve slept it off,” Ramsay said.
louis was pasty white and winced with the report of Ramsay’s first shot. “How’s your head this morning?”
“It’s been better.”
“I’ll bet it has. Here, it’s reloaded,” she said, handing it to him. “You try it.”
Louis took the pistol in both hands. “What do I do, just point it and pull the trigger?”
“Pull back the catch, like so.” She pulled the hammer back until it locked in place. “Now, point it carefully and gently squeeze the trigger.”
“Okay. What am I aiming at?”
Ramsay looked around the barnyard. “That chicken over there by the fence, if you hit it, we eat it for lunch.”
“It’s a bet,” he said as he closed his left eye and drew a bead on the unsuspecting bird. He winced again at the report and peered through the fading white smoke to see the chicken clucking and scurrying about, clearly startled by the shot, but unscathed. “I think I missed.”
Louis sighed. “I was frustrated, I guess. I’ve been working for months trying to perfect larger and larger mirrors, while that talentless buffoon stands to make a fortune, and all because of a gimmick. It’s infuriating.”
“Here, it’s ready,” she said, handing it back to him. “Well, if by chance you kill him tomorrow, the contract would almost certainly be yours.”
“That thought has crossed my mind this morning,” Louis said before he fired again. Again, the smoke cleared to show the chicken running about, still unharmed. Louis looked at the bird, looked at the end of the gun, then back at the bird. “That damn chicken is too dumb to know it’s dead.”
“This task might be more difficult than I thought,” Ramsay said. “Let’s try it again.”
“Even if I prevail tomorrow, I wonder if I haven’t burned all the bridges that might lead me to Versailles. I was a bit much last night.”
“You certainly were, but you said things many people have wanted to say for a long while. If you do win tomorrow, I’d bet that you’ll be forgiven and accepted back. You should kill him and make it clean.”
“Do I have to do that? I’ve never killed anyone before.”
Ramsay looked up at him. “Never? In all these trips?”
“No, never,” Louis said, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know if I like the idea of starting now.”
“Well, it’s a little late to be getting cold feet, don’t you think?” she said, handing over the pistol again.
“No, that’s not what I mean. Can I just wound him so that he can’t work?”
“For god’s sake, man, you can’t even rattle a motionless chicken at fifteen paces and you’re talking about wounding a man on purpose. That takes skill.”
“Oh, yeah, watch this,” he said, aiming and firing. The smoke cleared, and again the chicken was still alive, mocking him. “Damn!”
“Do it again,” Ramsay said with a sigh.
they were still practicing when Serge returned from Joubert’s. Louis’s marksmanship had not improved.
“What happened?” Louis shouted to Serge, who was running up to them.
“It’s set—tomorrow morning, an hour after sunrise, in the royal cherry orchard.”
“That’s perfect!” Ramsay exclaimed.
“Why is that?” Louis asked.
“Because I have a plan that might just save your hide,” she said, recocking the pistol. “But first, I want something to eat.” She aimed the gun barrel at the white bird.
“I think the sights are off. That’s why I’m having such a hard time,” Louis said.
“Hmm. If you shoot a pheasant or a chicken in the head, it leaves both breasts undisturbed,” she said as she squeezed the trigger. “Got ’im!” she cried before the smoke cleared.
“Tell me about this idea of yours,” said Louis, looking through the smoke at the headless chicken flapping wildly as it tried over and over to get to its feet.
“Bring him in,” Ramsay said, walking to the house. “We’ll talk over lunch.”
“here’s what i’ve been thinking. You don’t want to kill him because of your conscience,” Ramsay said sarcastically. “But if you wound him, say in the arm or the shoulder, he would be unable to work and would have to forfeit the concession at Versailles, right?”
Louis nodded as he chewed.
“How much is this project worth?”
“A lot. Enough that I wouldn’t have to worry about money for a long time, several lifetimes, perhaps.”
“Good. All right . . . Unless you get really lucky, you won’t be able to hit him, much less just wound him, and you would need to practice for a month in order to get good enough to pull this off. So here is what I propose we do. Go to the duel in the morning, go through all the steps like normal, except that when you both turn and fire on the count of ten, I want you to turn a half second early and fire immediately. And I don’t want you to hit him. I want you to fire just wide, on purpose.”
Louis stopped eating and looked at her without expression.
“Are you getting all this?” Ramsay asked.
“I’m just curious about where this is going.”
“I have a hunting musket, small caliber like a pistol, that I’m very accurate with, even at long range. I will position myself behind you on the small hill overlooking the orchard. When you shoot and miss, I will shoot and hit him in the shoulder, but we have to be careful. We must time our shots perfectly so that nothing is suspected, and we must fire just as he is getting ready to fire his ball. Because if we shoot before he is ready, he will have a free shot at you after he has regained his composure, and judging from his mood last night, I think he aims to kill you. The hill is on the west side of the orchard, so be sure you’re facing east when you fire, otherwise I’ll have to shoot him in the back.”
“I like it,” said Louis. “It’s perfect, but what happens if our shots don’t come at the same time?”
“They will. That’s what we’re going to practice for the rest of the day.”
the morning sun was still below the horizon when they climbed into the carriage. Dark bags had collected under Louis’s eyes during the sleepless night. He climbed into the coach and sat next to Ramsay and Serge without speaking.
“Here, have some,” Ramsay said, offering a small silver flask. “It will help with your nerves.”
“My nerves are fine,” Louis said, looking out the window.
Ramsay shrugged and tipped up the flask quickly. “You’re on your way to becoming a rich man.”
“I just wish it didn’t have to happen this way.”
Ramsay rolled her eyes and drew on the flask again.
“Have you dueled before?” Louis asked.
“Yes, I’ve been in dozens of duels. Being a soldier, it comes up more often than you might think.”
“Do you have any last-minute tips?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “Mind you, don’t get yourself killed out there this morning.”
Louis looked solemnly back inside the coach at her.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll all be over in a few minutes. I should get out here and find my position. The orchard is just over this hill.” The driver stopped, and she hopped out. She wore shabby brown peasant’s clothing and new brown leather boots. The driver handed down Ramsay’s musket and equipment satchel. The gun was as tall as she was. “Don’t forget to pick me up on the way back,” she said before disappearing like a rabbit into the dense thickets beside the road.
The morning sun cut low through the rows of cherry trees, highlighting each white spring blossom, like votive candles in a church. The cool, still air was thick with the smell of the honeysuckle bordering the orchard. A double-doored coach stood at the edge of the trees. Three men milled around in the first row.
“That would be them,” Louis said to Serge. “You remember the way Ramsay told you to check the pistols, don’t you?”
“Yes, I practiced most of the night. I’m prepared,” answered the valet.
“Good,” he said, reaching over to squeeze Serge’s knee. “Let’s go.”
They walked into the low trees to meet the three: Joubert, his second, and a referee who held a wooden case containing the pistols. Serge and Joubert’s second shook hands and spoke softly before going aside with the third man to inspect the weapons. Joubert looked as tired as Louis.
“It’s not too late to apologize, Monsieur Nehon,” Joubert shouted over to Louis.
Louis turned quickly and looked hard at him. Joubert hadn’t known his name, or so Louis thought. He despised him more than ever now. Only a coward could forgive s
uch an insult as he’d received two nights ago. Louis took a deep breath. “I came here to defend my statements, not to grovel.”
“Very well,” said Joubert, his voice almost cracking.
“We’re ready,” said Serge, carrying a polished mahogany flintlock in his hands.
“Take your places, gentlemen,” said the referee, motioning for Joubert and Louis to come over. The trees were planted in east–west rows. The sun shone brightly down their row up to the bramble-covered hill Ramsay had spoken about. “We’ll draw lots to see who will shoot into the sun,” he continued.
“That won’t be necessary,” Louis said quickly. “I’ll shoot facing east, unless you object?”
Joubert shook his head and stepped into the middle of the row, cocking his pistol as he went. Louis cocked his and took his place back-to-back against Joubert.
“Gentlemen, I’ll count off as you take your paces. When I reach ten, you may turn and fire at will. Do you both understand?”
Joubert nodded in time with Louis.
“Good luck. One, two, three . . .”
Louis squeezed the handle of the gun with each stride and scanned the sunlit hillside in front of him for any sign of Ramsay. He thought about her sitting out of sight against some short tree, bracing the long barrel for careful aim. He thought about her watching him at that very moment, counting the steps along with him.
“Eight, nine, t—”
Louis snapped around and fired his ball through a narrow cone of white smoke at the blazing sun hanging in the sky behind Joubert. There was only the sound of one shot, the way it had been during practice the afternoon before. Joubert took an extra step back then dropped to his knees, still clutching the pistol in his hand. The smoke cleared, and Louis’s eyes adjusted to see Joubert kneeling with an astonished look on his face. A thin trail of blood trickled down from the small, perfectly round black hole over his right eyebrow. Louis looked on in horror as Joubert blinked three or four times and swayed on his knees. His pistol bucked wildly in his relaxed hand as he fell facedown on the short grass. Joubert’s shot grazed Louis on the leg, just below the knee.