THE MAZE
A Thomas Pichon Novel
For Cyne, Emily and Toni
Copyright © 2014 A. J. B. Johnston
This book is a work of fiction and as such contains deliberate or accidental historical or geographical inaccuracies. The characters, places and events depicted are either products of the author’s imagination or are real historical figures but are used here in a fictional context. Any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Cape Breton University Press recognizes fair use exceptions. Responsibility for the opinions, research and the permissions obtained for this publication rest with the author.
Cape Breton University Press recognizes the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, Block Grant program, and the Province of Nova Scotia, through Film & Creative Industries Nova Scotia, for our publishing program. We are pleased to work in partnership with these bodies to develop and promote our cultural resources.
Cover by Cathy MacLean, Chéticamp, NS
Layout by Mike R. Hunter, Port Hawkesbury and Sydney, NS
eBook development: WildElement.ca
The font used in this manuscript is Garamond. It was familiar to all French readers in the 18th century. Claude Garamond created the typeface in the 1540s for the French king, François I. Over time, the Garamond fonts came to be used throughout Europe. The Garamond typeface uses less ink than many other fonts.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Johnston, A. J. B., author
The maze : a Thomas Pichon novel / A.J.B. Johnston.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-897009-76-5 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927492-70-3 (pdf).--
ISBN 978-1-927492-71-0 (epub)
1. Pichon, Thomas, 1700-1781--Fiction. I. Title.
PS8619.O4843M39 2014 C813’.6 C2014-900512-1
C2014-900513-X
Cape Breton University Press
P.O. Box 5300, Sydney, Nova Scotia B1P 6L2 CA
www.cbupress.ca
THE MAZE
A Thomas Pichon Novel
by A. J. B. Johnston
Ambition can creep as well as soar.
Edmund Burke (1729-1797)
Contents
I
Perambulation
II
Escape
III
Arrangements
IV
Appearance
V
Across
VI
Arrival
VII
Welcome
VIII
Seasoning
IX
Education
Acknowledgements and a Note to the Reader
Previous Books by A. J. B Johnston
I
Perambulation
Château Le Mesnil, Brittany
June 1727
From the intersecting paths of golden flint, away from the eyes of any who might have been admiring his measured stroll, Thomas steps under the vine-covered wooden arch and into the garden maze. The walls on both sides rise green and dark, up to the height of the tricorne atop his head. He cannot help but wonder if Marguerite, his wife of several months, watched from one of the château windows as he disappeared. Better still, he’d like to think that her lady companion, the bewildering Hélène, was gazing out from her own room as he perambulated like a prince with a silver-handled cane. He likes the idea of that. Would that his elegance spurred her on to do what he wants, what they both want.
Thomas comes to a halt after the second turn. He reaches out to touch the interwoven branches of the yews. Their leaves of tiny needles are delicate to the touch. Yet poisonous, it’s said. Bringing convulsions and collapse. He’ll not ingest any needles to find out. He begins to move again, slowly inhaling the scent. He keeps his right hand extended so that his fingertips stay in contact with the green wall on that side. It’s the first time he’s stepped into a maze, but he shared a conversation with some gardeners at the Café Procope a few months back, and the subject of mazes came up. The gardeners spoke of the simple secret that lies behind each and every one. “A secret,” Thomas thought to himself, when is there not? He leaned in to hear what it was. In the case of mazes, it seems that you have to keep your hand on the right-hand wall no matter what. The right hand takes you to the centre, no matter how many twists and turns. Disregard the obstructions. Don’t think too much. Keep moving.
—
Hand to the pearl choker around her neck, Hélène sits in the window seat. It gives her a commanding view of the ornamental gardens directly below. Now that Marguerite’s husband has stopped his posturing on the garden paths and gone under the arch that leads into the maze, she’s lost sight of him. She stands to see if she can catch the top of his hat somewhere in the maze.
“There.” She spots the dark grey tricorne a couple of rows in from the entrance to the maze. A deep breath comes out of her. She has a couple of hours before Marguerite needs her to help with her change of clothes and the rest of her toilette. So— so why not? Does she not deserve a little reward for being the dutiful servant for so long?
Affirmation brings a quickening patter in her chest.
Once outdoors, wearing her dress the colour of a robin’s egg, Hélène advances as slowly as a person in a hurry can force herself. She knows she has to pretend to take her time. Madame Dufour, or even worse, Marguerite herself, could well be watching from somewhere inside the château. So, Hélène pauses wherever the empty garden paths intersect, seeming to study which lane of crushed flint between the plantings she should consider following next. Yet it’s a ruse. She knows exactly where she’s going and why. And, if anyone should ask, she has an answer primed. She’ll tell them with a straight face that it was simply for a chat. A chat. The word makes Hélène smile.
—
As expected, Thomas finds a bench at the end of the twisting turning path, in the dead centre of the maze. Made of wood, it’s painted the darkest of green, even darker than the yews. He takes a seat, back stiffly upright, his left leg outstretched in his most pretentious pose.
Looking up, above the manicured top of the hedge, Thomas is able to make out a good portion of the vast roofline of Madame Dufour’s château. The black slates tiling the roof and the windowed turrets jutting up here and there glint in the afternoon sun.
Thomas takes a long deep breath. He likes this world of green. He likes being out of sight of anyone and everyone.
There come to him a few lines of verse, the first he’s heard in many months.
A beaten path,
A winding maze,
We journey on,
We journey long.
He comes to a halt. Waits. More words arrive.
The air it stirs,
There comes a blur,
We find ourselves.
Life is a maze.
He isn’t sure if he wants to keep the lines or not. He tries them again, this time aloud, to see if they will hold up.
A beaten path, a winding maze
We journey on, we—
Thomas hears his name break the spell of the verse. Then light footsteps on the gravel pathway.
—
Marguerite Salles takes in the grandeur of the suite of rooms her cousin Madame Dufour has given her for this stay in her Britanny château. Marguerite’s apartment in Paris cannot compete with this. The qu
ality of the furnishings, especially the frieze above the wainscot, makes her eyes go wide. Still, which of the two of them has a new husband, one barely a third her age? Marguerite smiles. Dear cousin cannot match her there, can she now?
Yet where is her errant Thomas right now? He said he wanted to stroll upon the grounds. Marguerite wraps a pale green shawl around her shoulders and steps round the ottoman over to the turreted windows of the room. She scans the brick courtyard that defines the front of the house and peers into the darkness of the open stables across the way. Next, over to the garden with its diagonal paths. Marguerite wrinkles her brow. She shifts her gaze to where meticulously cropped yews stand as a maze.
—
With the day’s light fading fast and the first of the château’s candelabra and sconces lit, Thomas descends the stairs, heading for the salon. Along the length of the hall, with its half dozen tapestries of hunting scenes and the two coats of arms connected with the family of Madame Dufour’s late husband, he feels his stride go a little longer and lighter than of late; his posture is definitely correct. He’s not felt this good in weeks – nay, months.
The door to the salon is already ajar. Stepping in, Thomas glances at the small clock on the mantle above the roaring fire. It is as he thought: precisely seven o’clock. Tardiness is something he silently holds against those who arrive after him.
Two menservants stand erect as sentries at their posts. There is an angelic lad with tousled hair kneeling by the fire, tending to the grate. As for the people whose good fortune it is to be served by this staff, only their host, Madame Dufour, has arrived. Wide to begin with, she is seated in a vermilion chair as though it’s a part of her, hands not resting but gripping the arms of the chair. And heavens, her expression. As glum as any Thomas has ever seen. Hers might be the face of an angry man rather than a woman of grand standing.
“Good evening, Cousin.” Thomas offers a quick curling gesture with his right hand, followed by a tight bow. Then he presents what he is certain is one of the best of his smiles. He wants her to think that he feels honoured to be one of her guests.
Madame Dufour slowly cranes Thomas’s way. She looks him up and down. “Good evening?”
Is this a question or a greeting? He understands she’s never been overly fond of him – in fact, Marguerite has told him she tried to block the marriage – but she is the hostess here and he the guest.
Thomas twists toward the head male servant of the household, a pop-eyed fellow with a loose-fitting jacket. He’s approaching with a decanter wrapped in a linen napkin cradled in one arm and a tray of stemware in the other. The glasses catch the light with their own glow.
With the elderly servant standing at attention, Thomas selects a glass off the tray. He takes his time undressing the carafe, then does the pour himself. He makes a point to stop at halfway up his bowl, glancing at Madame Dufour. “The others are not down yet I see.”
“Your wife is not here yet, no.” Thomas winces at the pointed emphasis in her voice.
Oh my. Why is this woman in such a sour mood? When their coach arrived at midday, Madame Dufour was at her best. She specifically mentioned how at seven in the evening the four of them would sample a much heralded rosé she had had sent up from Provence. Then they would move into the adjoining room and sit to dine. Where did that obliging hostess go? If this keeps up, he might suggest to Marguerite that they cut their visit short.
Thomas takes a tiny sip of the rosé.
“Fine, Madame, very fine.” Thomas holds out his glass in acknowledgement of Madame Dufour’s wise choice. “Flowery and with a lovely nose. And such a delightful pink. I’ve not been to Provence, you know. Not to the south at all.”
Madame Dufour makes no return remark. She does not even glance his way.
“Last-minute touches, I suppose,” Thomas says. “For my wife I mean, for your cousin. And her companion, of course. But then you know women better than I.” He tries to manufacture a smile.
This time Madame Dufour does look over and up, to where he is standing a dozen feet away. When her gaze meets his, slowly, barely moving at all, eyebrows arched, she shakes her head.
The door opens at the far end of the salon and Thomas turns away from his sour hostess in relief. He takes a few quick steps toward the other end of the room but is brought up short at the appearance of his wife. She is wearing her new light green silk dress, purchased expressly so as to impress Madame Dufour. Yet Marguerite is walking stiffly, her usually rather handsome face drawn tight. The eyes, always so generous, hold no kindness. She is locked into a fixed, hard stare. And behind her, shoulders slumped, comes Hélène, in the same blue dress she was wearing earlier, only it looks unprepared, unrefreshed, almost battered. Her face empty, completely blank.
“Aha.”
Thomas turns toward the voice, toward Madame Dufour. He sees something of a smile on her previously glum face. And it’s not just any smile. It’s a gloat. What is going on? His eyes scramble for an explanation from the faces in the room.
“What— how are we all this evening?” His gaze shifts back and forth, alighting even on the servants, who appear startled to have him notice them at all.
“Indeed,” announces Madame Dufour.
Thomas gives his hostess the stiff shoulder she deserves. He focuses instead on Marguerite. But she gives neither nod nor blink, her steady stare making Thomas step back. His hands search the empty air. “Is something wrong, my Marguerite?” He takes a tentative half-step toward his wife.
Marguerites make a snorting sound, followed by a definitive shake of the head. Thomas has never heard or seen her do anything like that. At last she makes eye contact. It’s a chilling gaze, a gaze she holds as she takes her seat. She lowers into a chair, grasping the arms in much the same heavy way as Madame Dufour is doing across the way.
A brittle silence descends. Thomas feels his head go a little light, as if the wig he put on a half hour ago up in his room is lifting off the top of his head. He widens his stance to make sure he is solidly in place. He turns away from Marguerite and scans the now bewildering room. He makes sure to avoid the gloating Madame Dufour. When he reaches the fireplace he allows his lids to close. How warm and good that feels. And what a comfort to hear the little clock on the mantle ticking on.
“Attention, sir.” The servant boy by Thomas’s knees is pointing at the fire he’s tending.
“Of course.”
Thomas slides his feet back and moves away. A spark might burn his pants or coat, and the boy was right to warn him away. Thomas watches the lad use his iron poker to stir the embers on the front of the grate. He wonders if he should tell the boy that the room is hot enough as it is. That he could and should leave the fire alone. But then, nothing in or about this château and its staff is his. He has to hold his tongue.
Thomas fills his chest with air as he shifts back to face the room. The first thing he notices in his en passant scan is that Hélène is no longer where she was. She has taken a chair, a bare wooden one positioned midway between his wife and Madame Dufour.
Thomas pretends to stretch, then to yawn. He risks taking a fleeting look squarely at Hélène. Her eyes are down. No, they are fully closed. The only movement she makes is with her hands. They are churning in her lap.
“Monsieur?”
Thomas nearly jumps. The elderly servant has come up beside him, come very close. He no longer has the tray of stemware, but he is holding out the linen-wrapped carafe for Thomas’s consideration. It’s practically under his nose.
“More rosé, Monsieur?”
Thomas shakes his head. “Go away,” he says.
“Only doing his job,” Madame Dufour intones.
The servant pulls quickly back. Madame Dufour gestures to Marguerite. “Sooner or later,” she says, “one reveals who one really is. It comes out.”
Thomas seeks out Madame Dufour with his angr
y gaze. She accepts the challenge; neither backs down.
“Just apologize, Thomas,” says a weary Marguerite. “You, not the servant, are in the wrong.”
Thomas breaks off the staring match with Madame Dufour, bowing first to his wife, then to the servant. The wide-eyed man is now ten feet away, standing well behind Marguerite’s chair. Thomas redirects the reverence. “Please excuse me, my captain. As my wife has just said, I was in the wrong, not you. The rosé is excellent, as is your service.”
“Enough, enough,” comes from Madame Dufour. “Sit down, Monsieur Pichon. Will you sit down?”
“As you wish.” Thomas adds a shrug.
He picks up one of the four bare wooden chairs in a line against the wall, farther down past the fireplace. He brings it back and places it so that he will be closest to Marguerite. As he lifts the chair it occurs to him that it’s entirely possible that the sour mood in the room may have nothing to do with him. Maybe whatever it is – that which has made two women angry and the third subdued – concerns only the women. If he can simply remain apart from the passing storm he’ll not likely be touched. Thomas brings his hands together in his lap. He presents his wife with what he is confident is a perfectly innocent face.
“Well, look at you.” Marguerite shakes her head.
Thomas inclines his head but does not say a word. He will not take any bait. This has nothing to do with him, he is sure of it. He maintains his posture and his clasped hands.
Marguerite casts a tiny smile. The ends of her lips, only the tips, curl up. “You’ve not spoken to Hélène.” Marguerite gestures toward her downcast lady companion seated to her left. “No greeting at all for your friend?”
Thomas feels his stomach pinch. Referring to Hélène as his friend does not sound good at all.
“You are correct. I am sorry.” Thomas adjusts his posture. He turns slightly in his seat. “Good evening, Hélène.”
“Butter would not melt,” mutters Madame Dufour.
The Maze Page 1
