by Rose Tremain
We stand and gaze at each other, both of us aware that this Reunion will be brief and is only, in truth, the prelude to a new Departure. My longing to take Louise in my arms is so great that I look about me to ascertain whether we are alone in this part of the Jardin and, expecting no one to be near us, I am extremely discomforted to see two Guards approaching at a fast pace, bearing muskets.
‘Louise,’ I say. ‘I do believe I am about to be shot.’
She turns and sees the Soldiers. Her hand flies to her mouth and she positions herself bravely in front of me. ‘He would not dare!’ she whispers.
The men come on. I expect them at the next instant to stop and raise their weapons, as though part of a Firing Party. But instead they click their heels and offer us a little bow, at which sign the heavy beating of my heart is stilled somewhat. Louise reaches out and clutches my arm.
‘Madame, Monsieur,’ says one of the Guards, ‘you may wish to withdraw a little …’
I stare at them and now I realise what it is they are about to do: they are going to kill the Bear.
I ask myself whether I should not be glad at this, the creature’s existence being such a wretched thing. But something in me is repelled by it. My knowledge of animal anatomy is sufficient to tell me that this Bear, for all its pitiful state, is still young. And the notion that its Whole Life will have consisted in being caged and starved and tormented with thirst offends me deeply.
‘I was told,’ I say firmly, ‘that the Bear was to be transported to Versailles.’
‘Yes,’ replies one of the Soldiers, ‘but His Majesty has changed his mind. He has wearied of large animals.’
‘So you are going to shoot the Bear?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. If you and Madame would care to walk away …’
‘No!’ I say suddenly. ‘Please do not kill it!’
‘I’m sorry, Monsieur. Those are our orders.’
In an instant I have done the most surprising thing. I have whipped off my glove and held out my hand, on which I am wearing the Sapphire ring given to me by King Charles – the very one I almost lost to the Highwayman on the Dover Road.
‘See this Jewel?’ I say to the Guards. ‘It was given to me by the King of England. It is worth ten pistoles – or more. And it will be yours if you put down your muskets and do as I instruct.’
Louise looks at me in amazement, as well she might. All I can whisper to her is: ‘It offends me, Louise. I cannot bear the offence!’
The Soldiers confer with each other. They believe, I am sure, that I am quite mad, yet are perhaps saying to themselves that very few madmen can afford the kind of shoulder-ribbons with which my Coat is adorned, so fashion comes, yet again, into the Equation.
‘Listen to me,’ say I. ‘I leave for England tomorrow or the next day. I will pay you to commission a cart to take the Bear, in its cage, to Dieppe and see it safely delivered to the Port there. From Dieppe I will ship it to England. King Louis need know nothing of this. But you, you will live well for some time on the value of this ring, which any good Parisian jeweller will be ecstatic to buy from you.’
The Soldiers gape at me. I take off the dazzling Sapphire and hold it before their eyes. They glance at it for a moment, then shake their heads. ‘How do we know,’ says one, ‘that it is a real Jewel and not a Counterfeit?’
‘Well, surely, you have only to look! This ring came from the Royal Coffers at Whitehall: His Majesty’s atonement for beating me at Tennis so very frequently.’
‘Tennis? Tennis? What is this all about, Monsieur?’ What in the world will you do with a Bear?’
‘I will care for it!’ I burst out. ‘I have a very beautiful park surrounding my house in England. I will make a compound where it can live out its days in tranquillity. I will study its nature and learn something from it. It will give me far more knowledge and understanding than a Sapphire ring could ever yield.’
Louise’s hands flutter about my arm, as if to restrain me from my wild idea, but I am angry now and not to be restrained. Sensing that I am serious, the Guards withdraw a little to confer. Then they turn to me and announce: ‘We will do it for the ten pistoles. You must sell the ring and get the money. Then we will do it.’
I sigh. I did not want to spend the rest of my time in Paris haggling with Jewellers, but I see that there is probably no choice. I reason, also, on the instant that if I am lucky enough to get more than ten pistoles for the jewel, then all my pecuniary anxiety will fade away.
I take out a small purse from my pocket and give it to the Guards. ‘Very well,’ I say. ‘I will sell the Jewel. You must buy meat. Let the Animal eat and drink this afternoon. Let the cage be cleaned. On Thursday, by midday, I will expect to find everything shipshape on the Quayside at Dieppe, at which place and time the pistoles will be given to you.’
The Guards examine the Purse. They confer once more in whispers with each other and I fancy I can hear them plotting to purchase meat for themselves and to give nothing to the Bear.
‘If this animal is not fed,’ I say, ‘It will attempt to eat you. Do you wish to risk that?’
‘Yes, it certainly will,’ affirms Louise bravely. ‘You can note from its saliva how famished it is. Its inclination will be to bite off your hands.’
Upon this cue the Bear opens it jaws and lets forth a mighty Roar. The Guards retreat further from it and regard it anxiously. They grip their muskets more tightly.
‘Well?’ I say. ‘What is to be? Ten pistoles or nothing at all?’
They confer yet again. Both are looking somewhat pale.
‘We will do it,’ they say, almost in unison.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘You have made the right decision.’
I go to them, hold out my hand and they shake it each in turn. They are still convinced that this beribboned Englishman has taken leave of his senses, which, looked at in one way, is true, but it would not be for the first time, nor for the last.
On the eastern side of the Jardin du Roi there is an Evergreen Maze, whose bosky paths rise to a wooded pinnacle, from which the view over the city is most serene and fine.
Louise and I climb up, hand in hand, to this most excellent place, and when we have admired Paris enough, turn to each other and embrace. That I may never hold this woman in my arms again chokes my heart so much that tears come to my eyes and spill down my cheeks.
Louise licks them tenderly away. We kiss again and I sense in her no diminution of the passion we felt in her bed. So we go deeper into the little wood, where we are hidden from the path, and I take off my new Coat and lay it down on the forest floor, and there, in the cold winter’s afternoon, we are lovers once more.
Lying together afterwards, very still and with no inclination to move, despite the chill in the air and the diminution of the day’s light, Louise says to me: ‘I have decided, Merivel. In the summer I am going to Switzerland. I shall stay for a long time. Perhaps you could come to me there? I know my Father would be glad to see you. He has never approved of my Marriage and he knows how unhappy I am. I will make sure that he welcomes you into his house.’
I stroke Louise’s hair. Into my mind comes a wonderful imagining of mountains and wild flowers and skies of cobalt, and some lofty castle sitting among firs and pines. I tell Louise to send word to me as soon as she is there, and I will once again entrust myself to the roads and the sea.
Part Two
The Great Captivity
11
I SAW THE Bear, in its cage, safely stowed on the deck of the boat by French sailors, who asked me what manner of animal this was.
‘It is a Bear,’ I said. ‘It has come from the Forests of Germany.’
‘Bear meat is a delicacy in England, is it, Monsieur?’
‘No. I’m not going to eat it.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’
I did not really know what to answer to this. I had been so intent upon saving the animal that my mind had not proceeded very far towards any Destiny for the creature. I saw
only a safe and commodious compound, like a Stockade, in the park at Bidnold, and here the Bear would be fed and cared for, and Margaret and I would come there and visit it, as a wondrous new pastime, and when I had guests at Bidnold (including the King) they would also be amused to spend time in contemplation of a creature they had never before beheld.
However, what I heard myself say in reply to the French sailors was: ‘I have got the idea of starting a Menagerie, like that to be seen at Versailles. I am hoping, in due time, to hold captive a Giraffe.’
As the boat drew away into the Channel, on a morning of freezing and impenetrable mist, with only the cry of gulls to remind us that our Vessel was not the last and only thing on the surface of the World, I did not go below to my cabin, but positioned myself upon some wicker Chicken Crates and sat very still, regarding my captive.
This stillness was now and again disturbed by the Chickens rudely attempting to peck at my bottom through the gaps in the wicker-weave, but I found some sacking and put this over the Crate, and after that the Chickens showed me a little more courtesy, fancying, perhaps, that night had suddenly descended.
In better spirits than when Louise and I had seen it in the Jardin du Roi, the Bear occupied itself for some time with a piece of meat, then turned in a circle and shat copiously, drank water from a tin bucket and after that settled down to regard me, with a settled Quiet, in much the same way as I was regarding it.
Some words of my beloved Montaigne, written, I think, about a dog or a cat, came to my mind. ‘Of Animals,’ he said, ‘silence itself can beg requests’, and I asked myself what request the Bear might be begging of me, or I of it.
For I could clearly perceive that both of us were in Transition from one time to another and that very many Confusions tormented us. The Bear had no understanding of the element – the sea – on which it found itself, nor any concept of Future Time. As for me, it was not difficult to imagine myself as the animal in the cage, constrained as to what success I could ever achieve, after the lamentable failure of my effort at Versailles, and constrained as to whom I could love, without finding myself thrust through with a sword.
To the Bear I said: ‘The boat beneath us moves over the water towards England, my poor friend, but the mist holds us in a ghostly Shroud of Unknowing.’
Cold began to cramp my limbs, but I stayed sitting on the Chicken Crate and comforted myself with my remembrance of Louise, of her sweet warmth and her lively conversation, and her ample breasts, and I asked myself whether, after fifty-seven years of my life, I had not at last found Love.
‘What d’you think?’ I asked the Bear. ‘Am I deluded?’
And the animal, for answer, lay down softly and closed its eyes.
I stayed a night at Dover, at a poor Inn, where no fires burned.
From here I made preparations for a cart to convey the Bear to Norfolk, and had to pay dearly for it, for it was difficult to find any man of Dover willing to make this journey. I do think that all Dover men are salted by their nearness to the sea and do not like to travel far from the ocean. Had I asked them to conduct a Whale in a great water barrel to Bidnold, perhaps they would have done it, out of a Natural Affinity with this monster of the deep, but the warm-blooded Bear and the distance they would have to travel in its company affrighted them to the tune of seventeen shillings.
Luckily, I was well provided with money, having got twelve pistoles for the Sapphire ring, from a Jeweller acquaintance of Monsieur Durand’s, of which only ten had been promised to the Guards of the Jardin du Roi, and in the time to come I would be grateful for the extra two hundred livres the transaction had gained me.
Only at moments did I chide myself for having sold something so precious and which I could never, ever come by again.
The moment my hired carriage turned, at last, into the drive at Bidnold, where the park was dusted with snow, I had the sudden feeling that something attended me at my house that I would not like. I cannot say why I felt this, except that, arriving there as the dusk was falling, everything appeared to me very shadowy and dead-seeming, with no Deer in sight, nor any bird or animal at all, and my habitual gladness to find myself once more at my beloved Bidnold was strangely absent from my heart.
As we drove up to the door, Will Gates came out – as he was ever wont to do – to greet me. But on his face I could read at once a very Great Anguish, and when I stepped out of the carriage he reached out to me and took both my hands in his and looked up at me with eyes glittering with tears.
‘Will,’ I said, ‘tell me the Matter at once.’
‘Oh, Sir Robert,’ said Will, ‘I can barely say the words. ’Tis Miss Margaret, Sir. Taken very ill. And nobody knows what to do for the best.’
No news could have been more terrible to me than this – save news of Margaret’s death. Stiff from my journey, I felt myself falter and almost sink down where I stood outside my front door. Will, all bent over as he is, was able to take hold of me and helped me inside, where my frame collapsed itself onto a wooden settle in the Hall.
‘Where is Margaret?’ I managed to say. ‘Is she not far away in Cornwall?’
‘No, Sir. Sir James and his family could not leave for Cornwall. Miss Margaret was taken ill on the eve of their departure. She could not travel. They are nursing her at Shottesbrooke, and hoping and praying …’
‘What is the illness, Will?’
‘All I know is she has been a-bed for more than thirty days. And there is no sign that she rallies. I sent Tabitha over to help with her care. We would have gladly nursed her ourselves here at Bidnold, Sir Robert, but Lady Prideaux thought it best that she be not moved. So I did not know what more to do …’
I sat huddled on the settle and Will stood over me, and I could hear his congested breathing and see his gnarled old hands wringing themselves in Desolation. And then I became aware that Cattlebury and some of the other servants has come into the Hall and were standing silently round me.
‘We are mighty sorry, Sir Robert,’ I heard Cattlebury say. ‘I am making broths with choicest Marrowbone and taking them myself to Shottesbrooke. And Lady Prideaux, she says to me: “Your broths, Cattlebury, they are keeping her alive, for she will take no other thing …”’
‘Thank you, my kind man,’ I said. ‘That is most considerate.’
I looked round me at my Household and saw the silent cluster of faces, all watching me with great tenderness of feeling, and this loyalty, for which I felt most heartily grateful, made me try to rally myself. I stood up, unaided by Will, and announced: ‘I will go to Shottesbrooke without delay. Bring me a cup of Alicante, Will. Simmer it a little with cloves and cinnamon, to warm me. I will take it in the Library. Then I will set forth.’
‘You had best take some food, too, Sir Robert.’
‘I have no appetite.’
‘I will bring you some broth,’ said Cattlebury. ‘It will revive you.’
I thanked Cattlebury and the other Servants for their kindness, and walked with slow steps to the Library, where, to my great comfort, a fire was burning.
Will helped to settle me in a chair. As he removed my cloak and caught sight of the new ribbons sewn into my coat seams, he could not refrain from asking: ‘What are these strange Adornments, Sir? I have never met the like of these.’
‘Nor I, Will,’ I said, ‘until I came to Versailles. ‘And costly they were, yet they brought me one piece of good fortune. But none of that signifies now. Is my daughter going to die?’
Will made a great Performance of folding my travelling cloak over his arm, smoothing it down and down, until it could be smoothed no more. ‘I cannot say, Sir Robert,’ he said.
It was dark night when I arrived at Shottesbrooke Hall.
Sir James and his wife came down and greeted me, in their night attire, and gave orders that a bed be made ready for me. Then Arabella Prideaux clung to my neck and wept.
‘It is our Fault, Merivel!’ she cried. ‘We got from Lowestoft some boiled Shrimps, to give Margaret
a taste of what she might eat in Cornwall. And she did not like them, but Mary and Penelope urged her to try more … And in the night she was very ill, vomiting everything she had eaten, and then came on a high fever and a great Headache and a pain in her stomach …’
‘Her stomach we have managed to soothe a little, with Asses’ milk and the excellent broth your Cook insists upon bringing to us,’ said Prideaux. ‘But the fever will not abate, nor the great Agony in her head. She has been purged and bled. We have tried Cantharides and all else that Dr Murdoch can think to do, to try to get the fever to subside. Sometimes it breaks for a little and the Pain lessens. But then it always returns. And she is getting very weak.’
I felt a chill sweat break on my skin.
‘Are you telling me,’ I said, ‘that nobody has put a name to the thing she from which she suffers?’
‘Dr Murdoch does not know,’ said Arabella.
‘Dr Murdoch is a Quack,’ said I, ‘and always was. Who else have you summoned?’
‘Another physician from Attleborough, Dr Sims. But he could not diagnose any cause, either,’ said Prideaux, ‘beyond a poison got from the Shrimps.’
We stayed silent for a moment. Then I asked: ‘Is there, on Margaret’s face or body, any sign of redness or rash?’
‘There is a rash,’ said Arabella, ‘in the area of her neck and breasts. We have tried washing her with Nettle Soap, to draw out the sting of the rash, but it is stubborn …’
Now the sweat on me was like ice and I felt it course down my body. I stared at Prideaux and his wife, all helpless in their nightshirts and with their hair in embarrassing disarray, and holding in their hands each a trembling candle. And though I knew that they were good and honest people, I wanted to howl and scream at their ignorance and at the ignorance of the doctors.
‘She has Typhus,’ I said.
She lies in a high, spacious room, in soft, clean linen. A fire burns in the grate.