The Condor's Head

by Ferdinand Mount

  So, Wm thought, this is an orgy and all things considered there was a lot to be said for it, though there might have been more to be said for it without Monsieur R. Even so, after a few glasses of brandy, which is what the tiny servants were pouring them now, he could not be sure how much of it had really happened and how much of it he would remember in the morning.

  Monsieur R and Madame Sylvie were whispering together now, she with her head cocked on one side and smiling in a way that Wm found less taking than when she had first greeted him. Monsieur R was shaking his head, with an air of faint dejection. Then he shook himself and advanced towards the tumble of girls and bowed first to them and then to Wm. How formal the French were, Wm thought, they even bowed to you when they had just put their pricks up every orifice you possessed.

  ‘Our revels now are ended,’ Monsieur R said in English and he clapped his hands. The girls might not be well versed in Shakespeare but they were as quick as anyone to know when a party was over and they got up, straightened their dresses and ran their fingers through their tousled hair as though they had just risen from the most undisturbed sleep.

  The party trooped back downstairs and the two men followed after them, Wm still buttoning up as he went. Yes, he thought, it was like waking from a dream, everything felt cold and clammy. The candles had guttered low in the salon and the little Chinese servants were chattering among themselves as they piled up the last of the silver plates.

  The moon had gone down by the time the carriages started back up the park. In any case he was too drowsy to look out for the strange edifices. Too drowsy and too depleted. Perhaps that was why fucking had this sad side, because there was nothing much left of you after it was over, or that was how it seemed anyhow. There was a word to describe the feeling, but in his fuddled state he could not bring it to mind. He had thanked Monsieur R as effusively as he knew how and asked if he might contribute to the expenses of the evening, and Monsieur R had said that of course there could be no question of it, but his refusal was also frosted with melancholy, as though he had suddenly become conscious of how sad it was to pay for one’s pleasures.

  ‘Oh, by all means give the girls a little something, but do not feel obliged to be extravagant. They are only village girls, you know, and I would not want them to be spoiled.’

  And Wm could see how eager Monsieur R suddenly was to be rid of them all. Spent, that was the word. Funny that the same word should do for both sorts of draining. And as he fell asleep with his head lolling against Amélie’s bosom, he felt cold and sticky and at last – how his Skipwith cousins would have mocked if he had confessed it – ashamed.

  But the shame took only a day or two to fade – he could, after all, remember so little of the evening with clarity – and he was back at the sign of the Green Dolphin the following week to see Amélie, who was the one he had taken a shine to, and she, he flattered himself, to him. Thereafter he made a regular appointment with her (he liked to be regular even in his irregularities) for Wednesdays at four o’clock and they came to call him Monsieur Mercredi. Ever afterwards the sound of horses’ hooves slipping on wet cobbles would revive the ecstasies of those Wednesdays and his rides home up the avenue of ancient chestnut trees, sore but happy, to the nourishing soup and lamb gigot at the rue de Lorraine. The Wednesdays broadened his French vocabulary. But the expenses he incurred at the Green Dolphin were not recorded in his little grey account book. Even bookkeeping had its limits.

  Before he went to Paris there was another rite of initiation, of a rather different sort. Mr Jefferson had to be presented to the King and naturally he must be supported by the gentlemen of the legation. TJ did not care much for ceremony, to say the least of it. The old customs of the Virginia back country were good enough for him. But when in Paris …

  So on the seventeenth of May just as the city was enjoying a visit from the sun, that almighty physician as Mr Jefferson put it in a letter to Mr Monroe, a little procession of open carriages set out from the Americans’ temporary headquarters (the Hôtel de Langeac was nowhere near ready yet) and trotted up the Champs-Elysées to take the road to Versailles.

  The presentation of a minister plenipotentiary was a peculiar affair, grand of course, yet at the same time intimate, since the new legate handed over his letters of credence, not like lesser envoys in the dazzling splendour of the Galérie des Glaces, nor in the scarcely less dazzling pomp of the Throne Room, but in the relatively domestic surroundings of the King’s Bedroom.

  Barely had they clattered up the Queen’s marble staircase lined by a hundred Swiss guards in full fig than their little procession was standing in the famous Oeil-de-Boeuf with only a couple of Swiss barring the way to the bedroom, which belonged to the old palace and looked out on to the pink courtyard, the part of the palace Wm loved the best. Here Louis XIV had died, here he and his successors had conducted their levees and their couchees. Even when the King was not there, anyone passing through had to make a bow to the bed, for this was the very heart of the matter, the locus of royal potency.

  As they waited, the door in front of the Americans opened to admit some flunkey or other, and it was just possible to catch a glimpse of them all grouped under the great brocade hangings: the court officials, the pages, the dukes and princes and, in the middle, sitting bolt upright like a plump hen on her nest, the King.

  The introducteur (as they had learnt to call the pop-eyed little master of ceremonies), who was standing at Mr Jefferson’s left with the Captain of the Bodyguard, whispered something in Mr Jefferson’s ear and the new Ambassador moved a few steps forward with that strange shambling gait of his. TJ was a thin man, skinny even, but somehow his clothes always seemed too small for him. He was accounted stiff in company (he had nothing of Mr Franklin’s easy charm), yet there was something loose, off-centre, canted to one side about him whether he was standing or sitting. He had a curious vacant look too, as though his mind were elsewhere, but unlike most dreamers he was the very reverse of taciturn. Indeed, he spoke almost without ceasing and he would talk to anyone.

  When Wm as a boy had first met Mr Jefferson, he had been taken aback by the deluge of talk. Another man would have said on being introduced, ah, so this is my dear wife’s young cousin and asked Wm how he did and whether he was getting on at school. But Mr Jefferson instantly hared off on a discourse about the difficulties of protecting vines in a Virginia winter, about the recent incidence of smallpox among his slaves, about whether he, Wm, should practise law when he came of age or immerse himself in agriculture or both or neither. It was unsettling, overwhelming, but irresistible.

  And three years ago when poor Mrs Jefferson had died and her relict had taken to riding all day in a distracted haze, seeking out the wildest woods and loneliest pastures, Wm had thought it a great honour that, after Jefferson returned soaked and exhausted to Monticello, he would often send word across the river that he would be glad if his cousin would join him for dinner as he had need of his advice. Since Wm was then the greenest, most newly qualified lawyer there ever was, it was not likely that he would have much learned counsel to offer, although he was later able to dispose of some minor items of Mrs Jefferson’s estate, notably her rights in the Shelton and Wayles properties, for which service Mr Jefferson paid him the generous fee of thirty-five pounds sterling. But what the distraught widower wanted was company and Wm now being an orphan (his father having died soon after Martha Jefferson) they became attached to one another and there was no impropriety in Mr Jefferson declaring that he looked on Wm as his adoptive son.

  Wm returned this affection from his heart, and his concern for his new father’s well-being had redoubled three months earlier after they met again in Paris and the terrible news came from Virginia that TJ’s two-year-old daughter Lucy had fallen martyr to the complicated evils of teething, worms and the whooping cough. It had been after Lucy’s birth that her mother’s health had so rapidly declined. And their successive deaths had brought what Jefferson called ‘my unchequered happiness�
� to an irreparable end. Sunk in melancholy, he had withdrawn into his studies, buying books in shoals as distracted scholars tend to do, his tall shambling figure to be seen in the afternoon among the booksellers in the arcades of the Palais-Royal or mooning along the quays talking at random to startled promenaders. He had brought his elder daughter Patsy, not yet twelve, with him to Paris (the younger Polly, still only five years old, had been thought too young to come over just yet), but as a dutiful parent he had lost little time in enrolling her in the most fashionable convent school, the Abbaye Royale de Panthémont, and her visits to the embassy were all too rare to comfort the buttoned-up widower. Besides, Patsy was sad and lonely herself.

  Thus Wm was anxious that his master might sink into one of his trances and forget where he was and what he had to do. Indeed, he saw him turning to engage the Captain of the Bodyguard on some no doubt irrelevant and probably inopportune topic, the superiority of Mansart to Le Vau as an architect perhaps or the problems of obtaining manure for his new parterres at the Hôtel de Langeac. If not firmly shepherded, he might wander off in the wrong direction to examine the tapestries in an adjoining chamber.

  At this very moment, however, the doors were flung open and the fussy little introducteur propelled Mr Jefferson into the chambre du roi. The moment he caught sight of Mr Jefferson, the King put on an expression of mild but gracious surprise, as though he had expected someone entirely different and rather less agreeable to come through the door, then he removed his great feathery hat and rose to his feet. Mr Jefferson, still seeming somewhat absent from the proceedings, advanced into the chamber, bowed, advanced again, bowed again, advanced another three paces exactly as prescribed by the introducteur and bowed yet again – all most perfectly executed. The King sat down and put his hat back on. So did Mr Jefferson. Everyone put their hats back on. Mr Jefferson began his oration. He and Wm had concocted this flowery discourse between them, with a little help from the Comte de Cheverny who was the stage manager of these proceedings and, though Wm had to say so himself, it sounded like the genuine article. TJ’s French was mediocre at best, not a patch on the standard Wm had now achieved with the aid of Lilite and his tutor at St Germain, but something about his loose rustic twang gave his words a certain dignity.

  But what was so gloriously risible was that every time Mr Jefferson mentioned the name of Their Most Christian Majesties (either one of them) he had to take his hat off, and so did the rest of them, and as there weren’t above two sentences at a trot that failed to refer to Their Graciousnesses, the hats were going up and down like grasshoppers. Then the whole thing happened again, only with the King doing the talking. Then the gentlemen of the legation were presented, which was Wm and Mr Humphreys, who was not only a disagreeable fellow but was at that moment packing his traps for England, so Wm could see no reason why he should have hitched a ride on this wagon.

  Then the Americans had to make their bows all over again but going backwards this time. When they had rehearsed these manoeuvres back in the temporary legation, Mr Jefferson had shuffled and all but tripped, and that old wooden floor was nowhere near as shiny as the marble of Versailles. But somehow TJ did it now as perfectly as a dancing master. He always came up to the scratch when Wm least expected him to.

  And when they were all done and Mr Jefferson and his gentlemen were back in the Oeil-de-Boeuf, they scarce had time to catch their breath before the Comte de Cheverny came through the door, banged his tall gilt staff and summoned them through to dine in the Salle du Conseil.

  Now this particular Salle lay on the far side of the King’s bedchamber, so they had to troop through there again, though this time there was no King to bow to, but of course as they passed the royal bed all the courtiers made a low bow. Wm kept his eyes fixed on TJ to see which way he would jump, because when the details of the custom had been vouchsafed to him by Monsieur de Cheverny he had exclaimed that this must be the most ridiculous custom in the history of humanity. But could he alone remain upright en passant, a solitary heron amid the bobbing ducks?

  Not for the first time the great man found an ingenious solution. As he came up to the huge contraption with its swirling falls of deep red velvet and its nodding plumes at each corner, Mr Jefferson paused and turned, lowering his head a little to one side as though to inspect some object of interest in the vicinity of the bed, perhaps the fine needlework on the royal pillow. You could not have said that it was a bow in the full sense, but you could not have said that it was not a bow at all. Wm and Mr Humphreys imitated this ingenious manoeuvre as best they could, thereby giving to bystanders the impression that this was some peculiar American form of salute.

  As he passed through the chamber, Wm was conscious of a disagreeable odour. He had heard tell that the plumbing at the Château de Versailles had not had the benefit of modern improvements, certainly not of the kind that were being installed at the Hôtel de Langeac to Mr Jefferson’s precise specifications – it would not be the first water closet in Paris but it was still enough of a novelty to be the object of excited enquiry from everyone who had been shown around. At Versailles, by contrast, it was hardly an exaggeration to say that nothing had been altered in that respect since the death of Louis XIV. Hard-pressed courtiers, expected to stand on ceremony for hours at a stretch, would relieve themselves where they could (the stairwell was a favourite spot). But in the King’s own chamber William had not expected such courtly effluvia, unless of course what was reaching his nostrils was the King’s own.

  He was relieved to pass through into the Salle du Conseil where the fragrances were altogether more enticing. There must have been covers for fifty at the long table and the servants were already handing round oysters and lemons and what the gilt-edged menu card said was a croustade à la béchamel.

  ‘The sauce is named for Monsieur le Marquis de Béchamel, he was maître d’hôtel to le Roi Soleil,’ the plump lady on Wm’s right hand informed him. She went on to declare that although Monsieur de Talleyrand claimed that the French had three hundred and sixty sauces the classic tradition only countenanced four: the béchamel, the velouté, the allemande and the espagnole, although the last named she personally thought a vulgar intrusion worthy only to grace a peasant’s table.

  ‘Ah,’ she said as the waiters approached in a magnificent line bearing huge gilt tureens wreathed in steam, ‘le potage.’ She spoke with a reverence that was both sonorous and hushed, as though she were explaining to some latecomer in church that the Host was just about to be elevated. Having supped Madame Royer’s good bourgeois cooking for nigh on six months, Wm was by now accustomed to the homage paid in France to the pleasures of the table and was amused to find that the passion reached to the highest levels of society, for he had established by squinting at the little silver cherub whose chubby hands clasped his neighbour’s place à table that he was seated next to Madame la Princesse de – but he could not quite read her name in the curly court script.

  ‘It is a potage à la condé, one makes it with partridge and haricot beans. The legend is that le grand Condé’s chef, Vatel, first prepared it for him when he was fighting against the Spanish in the Ardennes where the partridges are so plentiful, but my grandmother said this was a fairy tale, she had tasted the soup at the Prince’s own table years before the Ardennes campaign.’

  As each dish was set before her, the plump Duchess had some fresh anecdote to offer or some criticism – too much salt here, more rosemary needed there – so that as the banquet wore on, Wm’s head began to swim, not least because of the glasses of Margaux and Yquem chasing each other down his gullet. And it was something of a relief when the signal came for them to rise to their feet while the King passed among them.

  His Majesty passed down the long line of distinguished faces, many now flushed by the sumptuous dinner and by the proximity of royal personages. Close up, he himself seemed even less distinguished than when Wm had first caught sight of him through the open door but even more endearing. He had the air of a portly grocer
who likes to stand outside his store and pass the time of day with his customers. You would never have picked him out in a crowd.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Er ah, William Short, sire, Mr Jefferson’s secretary.’

  ‘Shott, Shott,’ the King tried out the word as though sipping a strange liqueur.

  ‘Yes, sire, it means court in English.’

  ‘Well, it is a very court name.’

  Everyone within earshot erupted in hysterical, uncontrollable mirth. It appeared to be the greatest jest ever cracked in the history of France.

  ‘Yes, sire, it is.’

  ‘And you are a very court man.’

  The first jest had clearly been no more than a pipe opener, a mere hors d’oeuvre. This was the cruncher, the joke of jokes. To speak of gales of laughter would be a criminal understatement. This was a hurricane of hilarity. Madame la Duchesse looked as if she would faint for excess of amusement. The pop-eyed little introducteur was heading for an apoplexy. Everywhere eyes were weeping tears down powdered cheeks, raddled faces contorted with guffaws. If there was anyone in the entire company who was sticking to Voltaire’s precept that an honest man never laughs, Wm could not spot him.

  William himself was too steady a fellow to be much concerned about his stature but if his interlocutor had been anyone other than the King of France he would have retorted that there couldn’t be much in it between the two of them where height was concerned, not more than an inch at most.

  ‘Your Majesty is most perceptive,’ he said, bowing as low as he knew how, feeling (a) that he was showing himself to be a true courtier and (b) that it was not a trade he greatly cared for.

  ‘My dear, here is Monsieur Shott. His name means court in English and he is a very court man, is he not?’