Merivel: A Man of His Time

by Rose Tremain

  *

  In the afternoon we visited a High-Class Tailor, Monsieur Durand, in the rue de l’Oiseau near the Porte Saint Antoine, to take in hand the alterations to my clothes, decreed by my sojourn at Versailles.

  While I cast my eye upon Shoulder-Ribbons and tried on canons of different styles and colours, I reflected mournfully that if Louise had in no way decided to let me become her lover, I could not for long trespass upon her hospitality in Paris, and would soon enough have to return to Versailles and resume my Pauper’s life there.

  Into my bitter remembrance came an image of my cot-bed and of the smell of Peas in Brine, and the sight of Hollers sitting on the pisspot.

  ‘Hey-ho!’ said I suddenly, ‘but assuredly life is all contrast and contradiction!’

  I breathed out a long sigh. A pair of scarlet canons were pinching my legs infernally and I cast them off. I could feel rising in me a mood of immoderate frustration and anger, such as I suffered so frequently in my Former Life, and I knew that I had to force myself to contain it, or lose all possibility of obtaining the thing I wanted above all others.

  ‘Of what are you thinking?’ asked Louise sternly, as the Tailor picked up the canons I had petulantly flung across the room.

  ‘I was thinking of Hollers,’ I said. ‘While Time, here, goes by so swiftly, in such a pleasing way for me, for him it crawls, no doubt. And I know that such a Crawling of Time is very painful to endure.’

  ‘It is,’ said Louise. ‘But your friend must learn patience. Madame de Maintenon is correct: you cannot make up your mind about a clock until you see how it behaves over many days and nights.’

  Nights.

  I wished the night to come and I wished it not to come.

  We sat at supper dutifully, watching Mademoiselle Corinne’s chin dripping with Leek Soup and her black silk gown becoming spattered with morsels of Duck. I attempted to talk to her about the myriad wares to be bought in the rue de l’Oiseau. But all she would say was: ‘Yes, yes, I know that street, but I do not go there now. For why should one go there? To buy brooms or birdcages or toys? Why ever would one want them? Why ever should one go anywhere?’

  I had no reply to make to this. I looked helplessly towards Louise, but she would not catch my eye. We shared no laughter.

  After supper, we all retired to the Salon and Mademoiselle amused herself by drawing profiles of faces upon black paper and laboriously cutting them out to make Silhouettes. For her sad sake I admired them, in the clearest French I could muster, but she did not thank me. She merely remarked that in the winter evenings there was nothing else to do but this, the cutting out of Silhouettes on black paper and that over the years she had completed more than five hundred.

  ‘You therefore comprehend, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘that I am not idle.’

  ‘I comprehend it absolutely, Mademoiselle,’ I said. ‘And, indeed, I would very much like to cast my eye upon the five hundred Silhouettes …’

  ‘You mean you doubt me?’

  ‘I do not doubt you.’

  ‘Then why pester me to see them? Making them is all that counts.’

  Again, I looked over to Louise, but she was silent, working at some piece of complicated embroidery, and did not raise her head. Abandoning the conversation with Mademoiselle Corinne, I thus found myself the only one in the room with nothing to occupy me and this sudden Idleness I found irksome. I remembered what Pearce used to say when I went fishing with him – that I was always and ever ‘too restless’ – and I therefore tried to remain still in my chair and watch the fire in the grate, and put from my mind all thoughts of what the night might or might not bring.

  I looked down at my legs. I had put on a set of taupe canons for which I had paid the Tailor of the rue de l’Oiseau a goodly sum. But now the appearance of my legs, which are somewhat thin and puny (in contrast to my stomach, which is still substantial, despite my diet of Oatmeal and Peas at Versailles) encircled with these ridiculous ruffs, such as Vultures have on their horrible, scaly shanks, struck me as sublimely ridiculous and I could not prevent a great wave of melancholy from overcoming me.

  ‘You are a foolish mortal, Merivel,’ I said to myself. ‘You have been seduced by something which has no future. And the next time you wear these canons will be in the Galerie des Glaces at Versailles, where your role as Supplicant will have no end, except an end in failure.’

  I could not sit still on my chair any longer. I got up and bowed to the ladies and apologised, as cheerfully as I could, that all my ‘wonderful geographical wanderings about the city’ had wearied me enough to make me wish to retire to bed.

  ‘What did he say?’ piped Mademoiselle Corinne.

  ‘He said that he is tired,’ said Louise. ‘I have exhausted him.’

  Determined to behave as though I was expecting nothing further to happen to me that evening, I undressed and washed myself and got into bed. I hung my wig upon the door handle. I lay in my linen sheets, scratching my head.

  Hoping that I had not contracted lice from my time with Hollers, I nevertheless felt moderately glad, all of a sudden, that my hair, though wiry and coarse (and likened by me in The Wedge to ‘hog’s bristles’) was still quite thick, whereas many men of my age were persecuted by an uglifying Baldness. Unlike some, I was not afraid to be seen without my wig and I said to myself that were Louise to come to my room, she would not be unduly affrighted by the sight of me.

  But alas, she would not come. Of this I was now almost certain. She had been tender and very flirtatious towards me, but at my crude suggestion that she should take me as her lover she had suddenly drawn back. This I had not expected at all and, I admit, I was still at some pains to understand why she had acted in this way, but I knew that she had her reasons.

  I lay in the dark and asked myself: ‘What would King Charles do now, finding himself in this ambiguous position?’ But then I reflected that in all probability no such problem ever perplexed him, for that no woman ever refused him or drew back from his embrace. They fell before him like daffodils before the scythe. Instead of lying alone, as I was, scratching himself, he would already have been in Louise de Flamanville’s bed.

  But then a new wondering assailed me. Was it possible that Louise, having led me on, even so far as to tell me about her former lovers and the great Incapacity of her husband, wished, as it were, for me to take up the baton and conduct the next movement of our little private piece of music?

  She was a person of great Intelligence and Finesse. Was it not very probable, therefore, that her woman’s sensibilities, when goaded to invite me to a physical union that might have great consequence for both of us, had found themselves too tried? The only way forward, in this case, was for me to act.

  I lay very still, listening to the sounds of the Paris night, which seemed much quieter than the night in London. I was indeed quite weary and part of my mind instructed itself to go to sleep without more fuss and ado. But the other part could not help but imagine how it would be to lie in Louise’s arms and how, if I could become her lover, the coming days would unfold before me in a wondrous parade of glories.

  I was on the very verge of rising and making my way to Louise’s room when it came upon me that if I went there and she sent me away, I would feel far worse than if I had not gone there at all. I therefore tried to measure this potential Worseness against the risk that, even as I was lying here and not moving, she was, in fact, waiting for me and would feel angry and humiliated if I did not come to her …

  While these two alternative possibilities turned and returned, turned and returned in my mind, I fell asleep.

  I woke in the half-dark of early morning. I could hear a solitary Blackbird singing.

  Without any fear or fret, without any hesitation, I drank some water to refresh my mouth, then put on my coat over my nightshirt, opened my door and made my way to Louise’s room.

  I opened her door. She lay asleep, with her candle still burning, yet almost on the verge of guttering out, by her bedsid
e. Her brown hair was spread in soft waves upon her pillow and on her features was the wisp of a smile. I stood over her and admired her stillness and her beauty, and then she opened her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Merivel,’ she said. ‘I am so glad you understood.’

  The joy I had predicted I would feel if I could become the lover of Louise de Flamanville did not tarry, but came into me and filled my being the moment I held her and felt all my passion reciprocated in her.

  Seldom, I reflected, is the ardour of two lovers equal; there is always one who feels more. But with Louise, it seemed to me, we took our pleasure with a kind of exquisitely matched reverence for it, being neither hasty nor slow, but only strong and tender, each for the other, and whispering all the while words of passionate attachment.

  Afterwards we lay in a swoon of love. We slept a little, entwined, and woke with the Blackbirds singing loudly and a cold grey light at the window.

  ‘You must go,’ whispered Louise. ‘The servants will be stirring. And Corinne …’

  But I could not go before I had loved her again, this time very quietly, for fear of disturbing the Household, and she clung to me silently, with her mouth held to mine and only cried out with a stifled breath when she came to her pleasure.

  It was when this second blissful Exertion was over and we were lying in a silky sweat together, letting our hearts return to their normal beating, that we became aware of a commotion below in the driveway. A carriage, drawn as it sounded by four horses, was arriving.

  For a moment neither of us moved. Then Louise threw back the bedclothes with a look of terror on her face. ‘De Flamanville!’ she whispered. ‘I recognise the sound of his coach!’

  I leapt from the bed, searched the floor for my nightshirt but could not find it. I caught sight of my coat upon a chair and flung this on.

  ‘Quickly, Merivel!’ said Louise. ‘He must not know! He must not know!’

  I cast a kiss towards her with my hand and hurried to the door. I listened for a moment, but could hear nothing in the passageway, so I scurried out into it as silently as I could and went along towards my room, trying to mimic the quietness and agility of a rat.

  How ridiculous I appeared, in my unfastened coat, with bare legs and my hair all damp and crazed with my recent Endeavours, I only realised when I was back in the safety of my room and caught sight of myself in the large looking-glass. But I did not stop to contemplate my image.

  I hurled away my coat and hid, naked and cold, under my covers, and pretended to be asleep. Now I could hear numerous feet upon the stairs: Servants woken in the last minutes of the night and hurrying down to their Master, whose loud tread was soon enough heard on the flags of the hall.

  To my great relief, this tread did not embark upon the stairs, but progressed towards the Salle à Manger, where Colonel Jacques-Adolphe de Flamanville began calling for his breakfast.

  9

  VERY FORTUNATELY FOR me and for Louise, Colonel de Flamanville had long ago ceased to share a room with his wife. When he had taken his breakfast and come upstairs, he went straight to his sister’s room and did not therefore subject himself to the sight of Louise’s rumpled bed, scented with my unmistakable presence.

  Indeed, he did not come near his wife, so she was able to wash and dress herself, and descend to the Salle à Manger at nine o’clock for her own morning repast, looking clean and calm.

  I, too, managed to attend to my person sufficiently so that no trace of Louise’s perfume clung to it. I even soaped my head and dried it, and shaved my face. Only my left ear-lobe, very red where Louise had bitten it, suggested any Misconduct beneath de Flamanville’s roof, but my wig concealed this, so that all in all I appeared the very Picture of an Innocent Guest, who has passed a chaste night and risen moderately early, refreshed with sleep.

  I did suffer, however, from a ravening appetite, and in a very short space of time, consumed no less than four lamb cutlets, together with a dish of Coddled Eggs and three bowls of Chocolate.

  When I saw Louise smiling at this I said: ‘My servant in Norfolk, Will Gates, is always amused by my gourmandising. He considers it may be bad for my heart.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Louise, ‘I do hope that is not the case.’

  It was at this moment, when my snout was once again hidden in the Chocolate bowl, that Colonel de Flamanville strode into the room.

  *

  In common, I suppose, with many military men, de Flamanville was a tall person of exceedingly upright bearing. He even held his head fiercely high, as though perpetually undergoing some exercise to stretch his neck. This, coupled with his long Nose, gave his person a kind of haughty Authority, upon which, I surmised, he depended to get his way with people he considered beneath him, such as myself.

  Yet there was something in his deportment that could not help but remind me of a Giraffe, so despite all that I had done in secret to cause his extreme displeasure, I found that I was not in the least afraid of him.

  He sat down at the table and asked Louise how we had passed the time since leaving Versailles. I set aside my Chocolate bowl and wiped my face.

  Louise remained very still and calm and said: ‘We have mainly been at work in my Laboratory, mon chéri. You remember that Sir Robert Merivel is a Doctor of Medicine? His knowledge of my compounds is impressive.’

  ‘Ah,’ said de Flamanville, ‘I did not know that. A Doctor? You do not look like a Doctor. Are you in the employ of Monsieur Fagon?’

  ‘Monsieur Fagon?’

  ‘The King’s Surgeon. You do not know him?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I came out from England with a Letter from King Charles, for whom I have worked for very many years, recommending me for some medical appointment within His Majesty’s circle. Unfortunately—’

  ‘You know how difficult it always is,’ interjected Louise, ‘to get the King’s attention and Versailles is so crowded at the moment. But I also saw that it was important for Sir Robert to come to Paris, so that his English attire could be … ah … adjusted to the standards of the French Court. His best coats are with Monsieur Durand undergoing Alteration.’

  The Giraffe raised his neck still higher and stared down his nose at me, wrinkling it slightly, as though I might have been a morsel of vegetation upon which he was planning to graze. ‘And then what is your plan?’ he asked. ‘When your coats have been altered?’

  ‘Well,’ I said (and once again the ghastly image of the room I shared with Hollers came, unbidden, into my mind), ‘I shall of course return to Versailles. I have great faith in my Letter.’

  De Flamanville looked at me for a moment longer, sniffed and stood up. ‘I play Billiards in the morning,’ he said. ‘Will you join me?’

  I looked over at Louise, who nodded her head in the most inconspicuous of assents, so, obediently, I rose from my chair. Yet I must confess that the idea of a Billiard Game with Colonel de Flamanville wearied me most intolerably. My very bones ached at the thought of it. I had never been skilled at this game, which consists in having a hand steady enough (and a mind empty enough) to knock balls of Ivory through wooden hoops on a table covered with carpet, for hours upon end. It had always seemed to me to be the reverse of a ‘pastime’: indeed, a stupid activity in which Time was stretched out to such an unbearable degree that one despaired of it ever being ‘past’.

  But here I am now in the room Colonel de Flamanville calls his Library, but which does not appear to contain very many books. I meditate that if you are a Colonel in the Swiss Guards, as well as being a member of the infamous Fraternité, there is some possibility that you have little leisure for reading.

  Chief in the room is the gigantic Billiard Table, upholstered with a very intricate tapestry carpet, and I am at once invited to choose my ‘weapon’, from a pile of seemingly identical weapons, for pushing the balls around.

  I have forgotten the correct name of these implements. It amuses King Charles to call them ‘spoons’, for that they are tilted up at their wider end and I suppose that
one might be able to eat a Broth from them, if no other cutlery was at hand. I choose one and examine its fine workmanship. (I am beginning to form the impression that, in France, most Things are better made than in England.)

  The Billiard balls can be made of Lead or Ivory, and these, of course, are Ivory, very finely wrought. Colonel de Flamanville likes to hold a spare ball in his hand while he watches me begin my lamentable play. He has also acquired the habit of sniffing and snorting disdainfully when his opponent plays a weak shot. I imagine the mucus in his Giraffe nose in a perpetual state of confused Flux.

  The Score starts to mount irreversibly in his favour, and this notwithstanding the fact that, as well as sniffing, he talks all the while to me, asking me questions about my work for King Charles and my station at Whitehall, and the Measurement in hectares of my Estate at Bidnold, together with much else (such as my marital status, most exceedingly ambiguous in a Catholic country and about which I am forced to lie, as I lied to Louise) that I have no particular wish to touch upon and which I do my best to circumnavigate.

  After a while, when one of my erratic balls has bounced into the structure of a hoop but distressingly failed to pass through it, he suddenly says: ‘I am returning to Versailles tomorrow. I suggest you come back with me. I have the ear of the King from time to time, and I will do my best to get you an Audience.’

  My heart fills with dread. ‘Colonel de Flamanville,’ I say, ‘that is more than kind of you. However, I do not think that my Coats will be ready by that time …’

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Your Coats. What adjustments are being made to them?’

  ‘Well, alas, they were quite without Shoulder-Ribbons …’

  De Flamanville looks down at me with all the Disdain that a Giraffe might demonstrate towards a vexing little wild dog yapping round its feet. ‘So this is all?’ says he. ‘The sewing in of ribbons?’