Across the Endless River

by Thad Carhart

  Downstairs he found a thorough transformation. The frotteurs had disappeared and the broad expanse of wood gleamed. The smell of wax was replaced by the perfume of flowers, which adorned every surface. The musicians were all seated, wigs on their heads and jackets in place, a double arc of premature grandfathers, it looked to Baptiste. Tables bearing food and wine lined the salons and wide hallways, and countless candles augmented the gas lamps to cast a glittering light throughout the rooms. There was an expectant hush, like a drawing in of breath before the change that was about to occur.

  A liveried footman whispered in Prince Franz’s ear and hurried back down the main staircase. The prince drew Paul to stand with him just inside the entrance to the main salon. Another uniformed servant stood at attention at the top of the stairs, and when the first guests arrived and gave their names, he struck the floor with a long wooden rod and shouted out to the empty rooms, “His Highness Prince Philippe de Savoie and Her Highness the Princess Elisabeth!” Baptiste stood on the broad landing, keeping well off to the side, where he could lean on the balustrade and watch the parade of arrivals. Within ten minutes the quiet atrium was awash in the din of social chatter: greetings, laughter, the tread of feet, and the constant braying of the maître d’hôtel as he presented the guests to Prince Franz and to Paul. The clatter of horses in the courtyard welled up from below, met by the swells of music that issued from the ballroom and gave those waiting to be announced a sense of urgent gaiety. Baptiste felt a thrill of excitement and let the sensations roll over him like a wave: whiffs of perfume, flashing jewels, uniforms covered with gold braid and medals, gowns that shimmered like liquid.

  The pace of arrivals didn’t slacken, and the broad staircase was crowded with those waiting to greet their host. Baptiste decided it was time to go in to the ballroom. He passed slowly through each of the salons being used, observing the groups of guests gathered together drinking, eating, and talking with determined good humor. They all seemed to know one another and greeted each other easily as they walked about. I am clearly not one of them, he reflected as he returned their occasional looks of curiosity with an even gaze, and they don’t know what to make of me.

  He entered the main salon and took a glass of champagne offered by a servant. Above the din he heard, “Monsieur Jean-François Hennesy et Mademoiselle Maura Hennesy!” Baptiste was surprised and curious for a moment as he strained to see the receiving line, but he told himself he was mistaken. Then, through the mingling guests, he caught a glimpse of the porcelain white skin of her neck and shoulders as she curtsied to Prince Franz. Her hair was up, and a dark blue silk dress set off her light complexion dramatically. Beside her, a tall man with craggy features and gray temples greeted the prince warmly and shared a private joke that made them both laugh.

  Following at a discreet distance, Baptiste watched Maura and her father make their way through the crowd and stop several times to talk with others. He maneuvered so that he could see her from the side and, convinced he was unnoticed, watched her over the shoulders of the couple who had joined her and her father. When she turned to address them, her face was even more astonishing than he remembered. Her dark hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes set off her perfect skin, which tonight was touched by a blush of pink. Her square, strong jaw was apparent in profile. She wore a necklace and earrings of clear blue stones that amplified the deep blue of her eyes, as if they, too, were jewels in the set. How can I talk to her? A thousand doubts raced through his mind and heightened his frustration and his desire. Will she remember me? The little group broke up, and before he could withdraw, he saw her coming toward him.

  “Monsieur Charbonneau, that is you, isn’t it? I was hoping you would be here.” She greeted him in English, and the familiar cadence mixed with her lilting accent was like music. “Come meet my father, won’t you?” He shook her hand and smiled awkwardly, pleased and surprised, and she led him across the room, striding ahead with a forthright step.

  “Papa, I’d like you to meet Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Charbonneau, Duke Paul’s friend from St. Louis in America,” she said as they reached her father.

  “Delighted to meet you, Monsieur Charbonneau,” Mr. Hennesy said with a smile. His face exuded warmth and curiosity, and his grip was strong. “Maura tells me that she and my wife met you in Le Havre.”

  “Yes, sir. We met in the customs shed. Our ships arrived at the same time.”

  “I’ll wager you are glad to have your legs on solid ground once again,” Maura’s father said. “My wife was still talking about the storm at sea when she left for Bordeaux last week.” He paused. “Overland.” He gestured to Maura. “But my daughter has the sea legs of a sailor: never seasick a day in her life.”

  Maura laughed and put her arm on her father’s shoulder. “I got that from you, Papa. It is very useful to feel at ease in a ship.” She turned to Baptiste. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Charbonneau?”

  “It was my first time on the ocean,” Baptiste said. “Duke Paul and I will travel to Stuttgart by coach in a few days. I expect it will be easier to bear.”

  Baptiste tried hard to focus on the pleasantries, but he was distracted by the beauty of the woman who stood before him, swathed in silk and animated with good humor. Mr. Hennesy signaled with a wave and a nod to someone across the room, then turned to Baptiste. “Sir, may I leave my daughter in your care? There are some gentlemen waiting to talk to me.”

  “Yes, of course, sir. It would be my pleasure,” Baptiste responded, suppressing a smile at the quick turn of events.

  Hennesy turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  Maura spoke first. “He’ll be a while, I’m afraid, Mr. Charbonneau. It’s business he’s talking.”

  “That is my gain. Is he a diplomat?”

  She looked at him appraisingly. “Not exactly. He’s a wine merchant. He supplies Prince Franz’s household and many of the other embassies. But the wine business, to borrow a phrase from the nuns, covers a multitude of sins.”

  Baptiste decided not to ask about the specifics. “How did you know I might be here tonight?”

  “The prince is one of Papa’s better clients. My father learned that the two of you were staying here. You didn’t expect to see me, though, did you?” she said as if she were teasing him.

  “No, I didn’t. I was surprised.” He felt himself blush. “And very glad!” he added quickly.

  Maura laughed happily. “Then why did you follow me about like a schoolboy and not come and say hello?” she gently chided him.

  Baptiste began to stammer an explanation, but she cut him off. “You have not been to many balls. A woman is constantly aware of who is looking at her. She has to be.”

  “And why is that?” Baptiste asked.

  Maura paused, as if considering a riddle. “Let me put it this way: the prey is wise to observe the hunter.”

  “Is this a hunt?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly. Come, let’s find someplace to sit and you can tell me what you think of Paris.”

  Maura led him to a small room opposite the ballroom where chairs and small tables had been set in clusters along the walls. Several small groups of guests, most of them elderly, had installed themselves there to talk. She found two chairs that faced the darkened garden through a window and set her champagne flute on the adjacent table. “We’ll be fine here,” she said as she sat. “No one can accuse us of running off into the night, and we won’t be bothered by the dreary visiting in the main rooms.”

  Baptiste was impressed by Maura’s decisiveness, and glad to be in the company of someone familiar. “Do you know most of these people?” he began hesitantly.

  “Let us say I have met many of them, and been to many of these affairs in their company,” Maura responded. “But that isn’t the same as knowing someone. I’m sure you would agree.”

  Baptiste nodded. “I’ve met a few of them in the last few weeks, but I don’t recognize a soul tonight.”

  “You recognized me!” Maura exclaimed, then added quiet
ly, “Now we can get to know each other better, if you like.”

  They talked intently for a long time. Maura told him about her family. The Hennesys had been in France for many generations but still thought of themselves as Irish. They had been expelled from Ireland by the English at the end of the seventeenth century, and had served as mercenary officers in the armies of France and Spain. Her greatgrandfather returned victorious and rich from one of the many campaigns and had established the family as wine producers in the Gironde region outside of Bordeaux. The business flourished with the extensive contacts he maintained throughout Europe. Fortunately, she told him, the age-old mistrust of France for England allowed for a special relationship with certain elements in Ireland, on the basis of religion and politics, and her family was at the center of that connection. “My father is a passionate republican for both Ireland and France,” she told him, and alluded to the delicate nature of his position under the restored Bourbons. He was convinced that France would be better off without a monarchy, and his ideas set him at odds with French rulers at a time when opposition to the regime was mounting. Baptiste knew little of the specifics of the history and politics she talked about, and he asked many questions. Her passion for justice was clear.

  Baptiste watched Maura’s lively eyes and the way the skin of her throat grew taut and then slackened, and he realized that he was listening to every word she had to say while at the same time being lost in her features, the sound of her voice, the imagined velvet of her skin beneath the crisp folds of silk. The awareness of the contradictory impulses that crossed his mind was both disquieting and pleasurable.

  Her mother was Irish, and Maura had been born in County Cork. Her mother and she were on a trip to France when Maura was seven, and they had been barred from returning to Ireland. She had lived for much of her life in Paris.

  “Why couldn’t you go home?” Baptiste asked.

  “It was during the Napoleonic wars,” Maura explained, “and the British blockade of France became impassable, even for my father. So my mother set up house in Paris for the duration, before moving to our vineyards in the Gironde when peace came.” Now Maura was a student, determined to study medicine, though it was unheard-of for a woman to be accepted at the medical faculty of the Sorbonne.

  Her account of sudden departures, new beginnings, and endless travels comforted him and made it easier for Baptiste to talk about himself. He told her about his parents and she seemed interested as he described his youthful wanderings. He explained how he came to be in Paris with Duke Paul.

  “What do you think of the French?” she asked.

  He hesitated, trying to find the right words. “The French certainly value their opinions. I’ve met people who know about the history of America and others who know nothing of my country, people who love the king and others who hate him, people who want change and others who fear it, but I am never in doubt about what they think.”

  “Yes, the French will always state their point of view forcefully. But that is not necessarily a bad thing. Don’t you agree?”

  She asked what he thought of the Palace of the Louvre; she wondered if he had visited any of the quartiers populaires, the poor sections of Paris; she wanted to know what he thought of Prince Franz’s ball. None of her questions were frivolous. Here is someone, he thought, who would always be worth talking to.

  “Do you think you will stay in Europe for a long time?”

  “Duke Paul talked about a year or two when he proposed that I come here to help with his collection,” Baptiste told her. “I’m seeing wonders every day, meeting his acquaintances, and learning about things I never imagined. Even though I expect that will change once we settle down in Württemberg, I’m in no hurry to turn around. The frontier will still be there when I go home.”

  They both paused, sipping champagne and sharing glances. Then Maura continued. “Are you enjoying your travels?”

  “Yes, I am,” he responded without hesitating, “but it is taking some getting used to. In America, I was the one with experience and useful contacts. While we were on the river, Duke Paul depended upon me to handle the officials, the Indians, the riverboat men and traders. That changed when we arrived in New Orleans, and here in Europe I might as well be a newborn. It’s peculiar to be on the other side of the fence.”

  When he whispered that Paul had been intent on shooting anything that moved in North America, “for the collection,” Maura laughed and looked around hurriedly to make sure that no one could hear them.

  “Heavens above, the German collectors! Papa says they’ll shoot your cow if she’s not on a lead, all in the name of science.” Baptiste found her charming.

  “I will say this for them, though,” Maura continued. “They are interested in our fellow human beings. Some of them are prepared to regard servants and foreigners as something other than animals, and are not blinded by the curse of class. Why, right here in Paris, Mr. von Humboldt has been very outspoken on the subject of slavery.” She added in a more reflective tone, “My father says the dignity of man might actually amount to something if these new travelers continue with their questions about the human race, but meanwhile”—she looked about her—“very little changes.”

  She inclined her head to the side, signaling Baptiste to listen to the group of four seated nearby. He heard the patter of frivolous commentary on clothes, houses, hunting, and the other guests. She met his eyes with her own and shook her head very slightly.

  “There you are, the two of you, hiding like a pair of bandits! I’ve been through half this house to ferret you out.” Maura’s father winked at his daughter as he sat down. His face was flushed and he seemed in high good spirits.

  “I’ve been hearing about Monsieur Charbonneau’s first experiences in Europe, Papa, and trying to help him understand the French.”

  “Good luck to you on that!” her father shot back. “We can’t understand ourselves, we French.” He shrugged. “Though we’ll talk you under the table while we try.” He looked around as if searching for something; his features brightened as a uniformed servant entered the room with a tray of glasses. “Splendid! Let us drink a wee dram, the three of us together. What do you say?”

  Baptiste and Maura nodded their assent. As they waited for the servant to reach them, a woman’s voice rose shrilly. “Now they want half the day Sunday free. ‘To go to Mass, Madame.’ ” The woman parodied a peasant’s accent, then sailed on in a tone of injury. “Have you ever heard the like?”

  The three were riveted by the woman’s pronouncement, silenced by the pitiless message in her words. Mr. Hennesy coughed to cover his discomfiture. As the servant leaned forward to offer the glasses, Baptiste saw that his eyes glistened and his jaw muscle was clenched in a mask of control beneath his powdered wig. Underneath that ridiculous costume, Baptiste said to himself, there’s a man who could break that woman’s neck with his bare hands. The servant withdrew, the moment passed.

  Maura’s father raised his glass and said in a loud voice, “To the rights of man.”

  They drank and then Mr. Hennesy said, “Come, what do you say to a breath of fresh air?”

  Clearly familiar with the layout of the rooms, he led them along a crowded corridor to the end of the wing opposite the ballroom. He opened a door hidden in the painted woodwork and they stepped out onto a wide terrace that capped the wing. To their left, across the central courtyard, was the house’s other side and the ballroom. To their right, they could look down to where the stables and the servants’ quarters were set around a roughly cobbled square, one floor below. Hennesy inhaled the night air deeply and said, “Prince Franz calls this his ‘secret terrace,’ where no one can find him. We often come here to smoke a cigar and talk business.”

  Baptiste looked across to the dancers and the immense chandelier glittering through the row of tall windows, the orchestra resonant but muffled. The ballroom looked like a colossal music box with figures turning and bowing in time to the melody. He imagined the floor fle
xing and creaking under the weight of the dancers.

  “This is much better! Thank you, Papa.” Maura looked over the stone banister to the stable courtyard at ground level. “I’m not sure I would call it secret, however,” she said in a quiet voice. “There are plenty of others to keep us company.” Dozens of servants and grooms were drinking and chatting in small groups, their forms lit by lanterns hung from the stable bays or placed directly on the cobblestones where they were gathered. Baptiste saw two Negro servants sitting apart from the others on stone steps, dressed in a green-and-gold livery whose splendor outshone even the lavender silk worn by the musicians. Maura saw Baptiste take notice and volunteered, “They’re the Duchesse de Chaumont’s grooms. They come from her sugar plantations in the West Indies. She’s very proud of what she calls her free Negroes and their fancy suit of clothes.” Baptiste saw a hardness in her blue eyes. “They’ll sit by themselves all night, two tigers in a zoo, until Madame la Duchesse is ready to return to her palace.”

  Hennesy lit a cigar and gestured to the servants’ courtyard. “These are two separate worlds.”

  “Why is there such hatred for those who serve?” Baptiste ventured. “That woman inside talked as if the servant were invisible.”

  “In the minds of their masters, they don’t exist, certainly not as equals. Yet thirty years ago a king was put to death to prove that they did exist, that they drew breath and dreamed and laughed and suffered just like their betters.”

  “Then why does this go on?”

  “Do you know what Talleyrand said of the Bourbons?” Hennesy asked him. “ ‘They have learned nothing, and they have forgotten nothing.’ But if I may make so bold, history has not forgotten. Some say that Louis the Eighteenth is sitting on a powder keg. It only remains for someone to light the fuse”—he lowered his cigar as if doing so—“and boom! No more Bourbons.”