Thomas, A Secret Life

by A. J. B. Johnston

  It’s not until Thomas is halfway across the third bridge, the Pont Nôtre-Dame, that something new in his head stirs. He recalls that he has not yet answered Gallatin’s latest letter from London, maybe not the last two in fact. He’s been distracted, busy with plans. He owes his distant friend a reply, that’s certain. It’s an obligation, a kind of friendly debt. He’s not sure what to tell Gallatin about his own life, but something will come when he sits down with quill in hand.

  Until an hour ago he might have bragged about having a lover-cum-servant along with a devoted wife. Not that Gallatin would approve. He’s a defender of the one-woman approach to life. The bastard should have been a priest, except he hates everything about the Church. An odd fellow to be sure. Which is why Thomas must like him so much. He should go see him in London some time. In any case, given what’s happened, with Hélène’s concocted story and Marguerite’s blind acceptance of it, Thomas will not say a word about that part of his life. Instead, he’ll write about an essay he has in mind. Gallatin would prefer that topic. The essay will be about how good and bad are not really fixed. How the distinction shifts according to the context. Killing is bad, except in war, when it is good and much rewarded. Could it not be the same with the other rights and wrongs? He’ll have to find at least one more example to prove his point. None come to him as he steps off the Pont Notre-Dame. He’ll think more about it some other time.

  Maybe Thomas will send Gallatin some news about their mutual scribbler friends of days gone by. He bumped into Tinville and Caylus in a cabaret a couple of weeks ago. It was the first time in nearly a year he’d seen any of the old crowd. He listened to their usual tales of woe until he thought his smiling cheeks might crack. Gallatin will want to read a few of their latest complaints. Their very examples used to convince the two of them, Gallatin and Thomas, that they were superior to the rest of the bunch. Thomas smiles. Maybe, just maybe, it was that shared sense of superiority that drew him to Gallatin and kept them friends? They both shared a sentiment of being apart and above.

  Over the bridges Thomas goes. Along the streets atop the embankments that connect each bridge to the next. Past sleeping houses cloaked in dark. Past looming buildings where there are shouts out the windows and candles and lamps burning bright. Not once but twice the contents of chamber pots rain down just ahead of his hurried path. The flying piss perfumes the air with an acidic touch. Thomas doesn’t give the smell a thought. He’s lived in Paris long enough to know not to inhale until it’s safe. He has more serious matters on his mind than stinking air. He has to keep the other senses fully awake. To venture into the city at night he especially needs his eyes and ears. Cutthroats can be always about, in shadows, round corners, or maybe running at him from behind. The glimpse he had earlier of the nightcap thugs with their bats was reminder enough of that.

  He sweeps across the Pont de la Tournelle, which like the Pont Neuf Thomas appreciates for its openness. No hideaways on it. He is partway across the next bridge, the Pont Marie, when he halts. Before he enters the section where the buildings overhang and create a sort of lurking wooden cave, he looks over the stone rail to the river running underneath. Through the gloom – there are no lamps hanging near enough to cast sufficient glow to the embankment – he spies a set of stone steps that go down to the water. It occurs to him that it being night and with no boatmen around, he could easily go down the steps and get in one of their small, sharp-pointed boats. He has a knife in his pocket. He could cut the tether and liberate any one of them. Up or down the Seine he could go, inland or to the sea. To the sea. As far as Le Havre. Then he’d hire someone to take him across the Manche to England. He could go live with Gallatin. He’d leave the disappointments of Paris behind. Start again in London.

  But then he’d be leaving behind all that he’s gained, would he not? And just what has he gained he could not afford to lose? Is there any particular part of his life he could not find as good somewhere else?

  Frustrating Hélène comes immediately to mind. What will that unpredictable, mischievous woman do next? Thomas cannot help but smile. She would not, could not let herself be dependent on him. She had to come up with something that keeps him at arm’s length. And what a story she came up with. She’s like a line of poetry that has no rhyme.

  A few lines of verse drift into Thomas’s ears.

  Who tends a garden that will grow no rose?

  Who lives a life that fills only with woes?

  Who aspires for poetry

  Yet settles for prose?

  Thomas’s face pains at the lines. He doesn’t even give a thought to writing them down. They ring too close to the bone. He’s twenty-seven and what has he achieved? At best a middling level of accomplishment and comfort. And who knows but that he might already be halfway through his allotted span of years. Thomas rubs his chin. There are times, and this is one, when he wonders if he truly has it in him to become the someone he once thought he’d be. Does he not owe it to the poetry within him to at least try and find out? Surely, he could do what Gallatin has. He could away to a new setting and give it a try.

  But Gallatin did not run away in a huff, did he? He made arrangements, and well before he left. That’s what Thomas needs, a leap, yes, but at the same time a leap of reasonable certainty. Maybe it’s London like Gallatin, or maybe it’s the Low Countries or one of the German states. Or God forbid, one of the wilderness lands France has come into possession of overseas. He has talent. He could be of use to others. Why place limits on himself?

  Thomas’s feet begin to move all on their own. His hands, chest and legs have gotten cold. His body is asking to be in motion. Back into warmth. To be able to think more clearly. He’s not sure how many more bridges he has to cross, but there can’t be too many. The buildings of the city start to thin out in the area up ahead. His promenade to clear his head will soon reach its apex. It’s not long until he begins the journey back. Back where? To Marguerite, with Hélène making things confused, or off to a fresh other land?

  He resumes a marching pace, sucking in the air he needs. It doesn’t stink so much out in the open areas. The cold air is colder, and cold air does a better job than warm air at keeping away vapours and ills.

  Thomas finds the darkness of this night a comfort, a covering surround. In fact, he has to admit that he likes any night despite the risks. Except for once, and that was in the middle of the day, the thieves and brigands have always left him alone. It’s at night when a solitary man like himself can really be himself. Away from the bustle and chatter of others. Is that a weakness in him or a strength? A strength, he decides, definitely a strength. I’m at my best when I’m all alone.

  Thomas is six strides onto the Pont de Grammont, the last bridge, when he starts to feel a little undone. A spinning sensation in his belly is radiating weakness down his legs. His pace slows. He is feeling shaky. Then it comes to him. Since midday he’s not had a thing to eat. He was a little hungry heading home from the magistrate’s office but then came the encounter with Hélène and Marguerite. He never got so much as a bite. He left the apartment in a hurry and he now pays the price.

  Thomas goes over to the rail and comes to a stop. Through the dark he can just make out the outline of the immense stacks of cordwood on Isle Louvier, to which the Pont de Grammont leads. There are at least fifty stacks of wood. No, maybe there are a hundred or more. The sentry for the compound is standing thirty paces farther on, at the other end of the bridge. He’s keeping any intruders thinking of stealing their heat away from the woodyard on the isle. He gives Thomas a stern look. The sentry taps the musket strung over his shoulder then points with his free hand at Thomas to make sure the stranger approaching on foot gets the warning. Thomas has to smile. Does the fool think he’s come to steal an eight-foot length of wood? And carry it away with an invisible horse and wheeled cart? Thomas blows a kiss at the man. The sentry spits and brandishes his musket with both hands.
At no point does the sentry look away.

  Thomas swings round and heads back in the direction he came. That’s it, as far as he goes. He’s done the bridges as planned and worked a few things out as he went. Hélène’s mischief is just that, a playful game by which she hopes to speed her advance. Thomas admits he has no right to complain about that. He’s done the same in his own way and will do it again if and when he gets the chance. Doesn’t everyone when they can?

  No, maybe not. There are those who have limits, who follow certain codes. Religion is one, though morality is the word closer to the mark. Well, so do I, thinks Thomas, hurrying along. I’ve never harmed anyone, at least no one I can recall. What I’ve done in this life so far is simply aspire to independence outside of any other person’s controlling realm. Reason is his instructor, nothing else. What is that little line that Gallatin likes to preach? Let logic be your firmament and reason your guide.

  Hélène’s uppity new story does not necessarily mean that the two of them can’t still find ways to be together, at least once in a while. She owes it to him, does she not? He created the situation that is allowing her to write her new life the way she is. If it’s less frequently than he imagined then maybe that will only sweeten the game. Suspense and holding back are pleasures of their own, as he discovered a few years ago. The fact that the two of them know each other’s lies and secrets is something else to keep in mind. Each has to keep the other’s fabrications quiet or else. Or else they’ll both sink. There is a trust in mutual lies, it would seem. So given that, why wouldn’t they once in a while meet alone in her room or maybe his?

  As for Gallatin’s example of moving somewhere else, Thomas thinks he’s figured that out as well. He’ll stay put for the time being but keep his eyes peeled. He is only twenty-seven. He should have a few good years yet. Who knows when his life will open up to become more than it now is?

  A sudden gust pushes abruptly out of the west. The blast knocks Thomas to a halt. He hangs on to his wig as he watches how the wind scuffs up swirls of dust on either side of the river. He raises the hood of his cape and turns his back to the gust. The weakness in his body, the faintness he felt moments ago, is temporarily gone. His legs have renewed life. They will get him home.

  As he bends into the wind, words faintly heard swirl through his head.

  Advance soft shadow

  Down the dark wind

  Deepen the twilight

  Dust of the sinned

  Thomas smiles at the familiar lines. Someday he should see if they might have life on a page, in some kind of larger work. He has never yet heard them reach their end. They were interrupted first by Jean-Chrys and later by Jean Gallatin.

  Shadow swing round

  Out of the deep

  Blanket this air

  In night’s soft sleep.

  There. Thomas likes them well enough, though it seems odd to have “soft” twice in eight lines. Maybe it should be “night’s final sleep.” No, maybe not. That sounds like death. But what’s wrong with that? Does death not loom over everyone and all the time? He’ll have to get back home now and record the lines. He’ll play with them for a while, the quill cradled in his hand.

  As the Pont Neuf comes into view Thomas is struck by a bright glow in the sky that wasn’t there when his walk began. Peeking above the rooftops is the rounded tip of a cream-coloured moon. It’s on the rise, its corona of illumination lighting the way, brightening the city’s countless rooftops and spires an inch at a time.

  Stopping on the bridge, one hand on the cold stone rail and the other fingering the silk-lined mouchoir in the pocket of his veston, Thomas is for a moment transfixed. He is once again a boy in sock feet. Only not in his attic room in Vire but wandering through the woods. The trees are tall and straight. A blanket of snow. The ground is frozen. It resounds like a drum. He hears the footsteps of others, quiet and soft to begin, then a menacing thrum. The boy turns round. His breath paints the air in the snowy woods with steam. A large dog is coming. No it’s not one dog, it’s many. No, it’s a pack of wolves. Their bodies lean and stretched. Snarls echo off the trees.

  Thomas shivers. He averts his gaze from the moon and the memory it brings. He glances up at the equestrian statue of Henri IV. “Better get back,” he mutters to the king. A last look at the river coursing down below.

  The final steps back toward Marguerite’s place are grudgingly and slowly begun. The rapid footsteps approaching from the other side of the bridge are only faintly heard.

  Thomas squints but continues on, angling his head to hear better as he begins to pick up the pace. Nearly too late he turns to glance back over his shoulder. There are two bats upraised maybe twenty feet away. And fierce faces beneath two nightcaps coming at a near silent run. They are after the solitary man foolishly out for a nighttime river walk. They will take his purse and have a bit of whacking fun. Where they were approaching as stealthily as they could, now that Thomas has spotted them there is no holding them back. They advance side-by-side in a full run. He sees their angry faces before his ears process their threatening gasps and grunts.

  Thomas takes off. The thugs are right behind. A wasted blow from one of the bats makes a whoosh as it strikes his windblown cloak.

  Thomas unclasps the cloak. He half throws it as he lets it fall behind. He hears them curse at the sudden billowing obstacle and hears what he takes to be a thud. He hopes and prays it’s made one or both trip. He tells himself not to glance round, yet that’s exactly what he does. Yes, one of the runners is down, holding on to his knee. There is now only one attacker but he’s closer than before. He’s gone round the cloak and is only a few feet away. A surge goes into Thomas’s legs.

  He feels a hit upon his shoulder. It hurts like a fire burn but the pain has come and gone. Since it did not knock him down it spurs him on. He figures that to swing a bat means the thug likely had to break his stride. That gives Thomas a chance to widen the gap. A second blow comes low down on his back. It hardly burns at all. That means that Thomas is for the moment getting away.

  Thomas reaches up and yanks at his wig. It’s attached more snugly than he wants. It comes free at last but at the cost of a bit of foot speed. Thomas takes another blow, this time high up on his back. The thug is closing in. The next blow will likely be upon his head. As he has no purse on him to lose, it occurs to Thomas that the angry thug might just decide to beat him to death to make up for the wasted run.

  Thomas sends his wig backward. He hears a sputter then a cough. And the slowing of the footsteps coming behind. Thomas looks over his shoulder and slows down as he does. The man who was chasing him has stopped. His face is whitened from the powder that was amply sprinkled this morning on Thomas’s wig. He shakes a fist at Thomas as he gives up.

  Thomas does not stop. He continues to run, though at a slower pace, all the way to the building where he and Marguerite, and now Hélène, live. The blows upon his shoulder and back he begins to feel. In fact, they hurt a lot. He’ll have bruises, for sure. But what are bruises compared to what might have been? There’s nothing like a risk of loss to sweeten one’s appreciation for the good things one has. Thomas cannot stop from smiling as he uses his key to open up the door to Marguerite’s suite of rooms.

  “Well, there you are.” Marguerite’s face is stern. “I was getting worried.”

  Thomas does not lose his mood. He’s pleased to be welcomed home, even if it is by an angry face. Besides, sternness is just who Marguerite is. Stern faces, it occurs to Thomas, come with the aging process. It’s a part of knowing that one’s days are numbered and the number is getting smaller all the time. He supposes he’ll get a stern face of his own one day.

  Coming into the hall out of the salon comes Hélène. She sends a concerned look to Thomas but not a spoken word. Marguerite does enough talking for everyone.

  “You’re all a mess, Thomas. Your ha
ir, your clothes. You’re perspiring like a … like I don’t know what. You’ll have to clean up.” Marguerite turns to Hélène. “Would you ask one of the men servants to heat up some water, please?”

  “Of course.” And Hélène is away.

  “As for you …” and thus begins a fairly long discourse from the worried wife.

  Every so often, when and where he thinks it necessary, Thomas inserts a few words of his own. He does, for instance, eventually explain that he went out to get a bit of air in front of the building and was immediately attacked by a gang of thugs. He thought that sounded better than admitting what really sent him away and the conclusions he drew. Right in front of the house it happened, he said. The large gang chased him all over the city, all along the river, over half its bridges, before Thomas was finally able to make it back home.

  “Poor darling.” Marguerite smiles enigmatically.

  Thomas wonders if she knows that he sometimes has a tendency to embellish or even to just make things up.

  “I was fast and I was tough.”

  “Of course you were.”

  And so the rest of the evening unfolds rather pleasantly for Thomas. He is treated as someone sorely wronged, someone who needs special care. That includes a little treat in his bedroom. Marguerite does not want the man to hurt himself any more than he already has. So instead of him coming to her in the usual way, she goes to him in his room. And she is pleased to do most of the work.

  With Marguerite gone back to her room afterwards, Thomas fights off falling right away into sleep. He would like to reflect a little bit about where he is in his life and what it all means. It’s not easily done. The call of slumber this evening is strong. It’s been an eventful day. His body twitches and trembles on its own. To stay open the eyelids require a fight. Only for a short while is Thomas able to stay awake.