Certainly not to be sharply translated to a strange capital city with no knowledge at all of the outlandish language they all talked. Not understanding a word, coming to grasp a word here and there, making do with the many sentences of halting English her friends and hosts and neighbours spoke, somehow surviving and surmounting the barriers of communication. But out of the blue, as it were, suddenly, as it were, without the least intention or design, as it were, finding herself the centre of so much male admiration as to take her breath away.
All right, perhaps all foreigners were like this; perhaps it was a sort of hot-bed society in which attractions and repulsions sharply flourished but she was overcome – and as the Lord was her witness she could not say unpleasantly overcome – by this wave of sexual attention. She had no thought in her mind of being unfaithful to Ross; but one simply could not fail to be inspirited, laughingly diverted, occasionally thrilled and excited by it all.
There was a belief abroad that she really knew more French than she pretended, and that her stumbling attempts were a sort of conspiracy on her part to make fun of the language and of them. Her frank replies to subtle compliments were looked on as witty. Her company was sought by women too – much older women who looked on themselves with confidence as still being in the prime of life.
She had to do some shopping – for the Bowood purchases were simply not enough – and Jodie de la Blache went with her, acting as interpreter and consultant. Not only did she take her to the right shops, she insisted the merchandise should be at the right price, denigrating some beautiful material or costume in a way which would have deeply offended Demelza had she been the milliner, until it was bought and paid for and they were on their way home; then she was full of admiration. Jodie was a very feminine woman in a very French way, and Demelza had never met anyone like her.
With Ross’s tacit acceptance as to expense they bought two new gowns, one for evening, one for afternoon, and two outdoor habits. The afternoon frock was of jade-green gauze over a grey sheath of silk marocain, the evening one a rich plum-purple velvet, much off the shoulders but with a wide necklace of silver tulle. And there had to be sandals – much in vogue – and stockings and fans and reticules. Demelza died at the thought of the expense but died with pleasure at the thought of wearing them. And like many of the men, Ross approved of the result; and unlike the other men, he was able to prove his approval when he got her home at night or most often early in the morning. It was many years since he had been out of love with his wife, but now he fell in love with her over again.
He even, wonder of wonders, allowed himself to be persuaded to order a new suit for himself, from Staub in the rue de Richelieu, for his evening clothes were horribly out of date. Knee breeches and stockings had altogether gone except when royalty was present. The young men in particular wore bright coats and embroidered waistcoats but tight ankle-button trousers with low shoes.
Jodie tried to persuade Demelza to have her hair cut à la Titus, which meant a short cut curling round the head: it made the new hats so much easier to wear and was all the rage; but the most Demelza would agree to was a shortening. She was reluctant to lose too much of her hair which for so long had been a part of her, and she was scared to face Ross. But when he was faced, albeit with a compromise, he approved it.
Sometimes she would watch Jodie making up her face. Jodie would put rouge on her bare ears, on her temples, under her eyebrows. It was extraordinary. Demelza wouldn’t let Jodie touch her own face, but, left alone, she experimented a bit and the result was interesting.
Of course there was much that was surprising in this strange city. Everyone spat, women as well as men, in church and in shops, rubbing out the spittle with their heels. The streets had no pavements for pedestrians to use, and you had to be careful lest a window should open and slops be emptied on you. All the ordinary people wore sabots, which made the noisy streets even noisier. The air was much cleaner than London, but the litter even greater. The food was strange, often poor in quality but rich in flavour.
It was embarrassing to be picked out as English and followed by a crowd of urchins, dancing and jeering; nor were some of their elders so much better behaved, making loud and unflattering observations about hats or clothes as they passed. On the other hand, you scarcely ever saw a drunken person in the street, or a badly treated horse, and those pedestrians who didn’t choose to be insulting were notably polite. Bella on one occasion was immensely diverted by seeing a man arrested for urinating against a wall.
It was all heady fun.
Or almost all fun. The persistence of Jean-Lambert Tallien, who absolutely refused to be put off by competition from younger and better-looking men and by Demelza’s distaste for him, which in the interests of good relations she tried to disguise but which a less thick-skinned man would soon have perceived, led to the first unpleasant scene of their stay.
No more tolerant of people he did not like than he had ever been, Ross pursued his chosen policy of listening to everyone and being superficially agreeable to everyone, so M Tallien was accepted with a degree of patient, cold courtesy that he may have mistaken for friendship. Or perhaps he thought nothing of Ross’s feelings either way, being certain that no wife long married to one man could continue to care for him and that this ingenuous Englishwoman with such a pretty face and engaging manners could not fail to fall for him who had had so many agreeable conquests in the past.
It came to a head when Ross returned from Compiègne, where he had been to spend a night at the Palace there as a guest of a M Vendôme, a friend of the de la Blaches. When he returned Tallien had called at their flat and found Demelza alone except for the two servants, Mrs Kemp being out with Isabella-Rose and little Henry.
It was midday, and Ross was dusty and tired after an early start, his horse having just been taken round to the stables by a groom. M Tallien and Lady Poldark were sipping coffee, Lady Poldark very much on the edge of her chair and preparing to retreat from the Frenchman’s advances.
‘Ah, Sir Ross, is it not,’ said Tallien, putting down his cup and rising. ‘I have called to invite you both to a supper party I am giving, with the Duke of Otranto, at the house of a good friend – Mme de Brune – who will play the hostess on our behalf. There will be supper and a little gaming. A very fashionable evening.’
‘Ah, M Tallien, is it not,’ said Ross. ‘I regret we shall not be able to accept your invitation.’
Tallien adjusted his eye-patch and smiled at Demelza. ‘But you do not know the date yet! I am sure madame will enjoy the company in which she will find herself.’
‘I am sure’, said Ross, ‘that madame is not enjoying the company in which she finds herself at present. Do I make myself clear?’
‘In what way is he clear?’ The Frenchman still addressed Demelza. ‘We were very happy, were we not, in simple conversation. Tell your husband, pray, that he is mistaken.’
Ross did not wait for Demelza to reply. ‘All I can say, sir, is that I am not happy to see you here. Nor is my wife. Nor shall we expect any sort of meeting with you again.’
Tallien bent and finished the rest of his coffee. ‘We do not take kindly to insults in this country, monsieur. Unfortunately I am somewhat handicapped in the matter of demanding satisfaction, since the absence of an eye puts one at a disadvantage. Perhaps you had counted on that before offering me such offence.’
‘If you wish me to,’ said Ross, ‘I will meet you with a patch over one of my own eyes so that the contest can be fair. It would give me the greatest pleasure and satisfaction to rid the world of such scum as you.’
There was a change of colour in Tallien’s face as he bent over Demelza’s hand.
‘I will take my leave of you, madame. It grieves me that you should be afflicted with such a husband.’
Ross took him by the collar. A coffee cup rolled and smashed.
‘Get out,’ he said.
Tallien struck at the hand as Ross thrust him towards the door.
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�You shall hear more of this!’
‘Get out!’ said Ross. ‘Before I kill you now!’
II
Bella said: ‘Where were you yesterday?’
‘Oh . . . out with some friends.’
‘Drinking and wenching, I suppose.’
Havergal laughed. ‘My beautiful girl, it is not proper for such words to pass your lips!’
‘I have lived on a farm,’ said Bella. ‘I am not ignorant of life.’
‘And you would rate me among your farm animals? Shame on you! Do you not admit that I am a human being with all the feelings of sentiment and attraction that a young man can feel? It is not animal, I assure you.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘Avuncular.’
They both burst out laughing, as Mrs Kemp came back holding the reluctant hand of Harry, who had been toddling off.
They were in the Boulevard du Temple where Punch and Judy shows were daily performed and run by a man called M Guignol.
Mrs Kemp was a great one for taking the children for walks – or, in the case of Henry, partly rides – ‘for the good of their health’; and after a week, during which she had gradually become reassured that there was no particular hazard in the Paris streets in daylight, she had gone farther and farther, keeping chiefly to the wide, tree-lined boulevards of Madeleine, Italiens and Poissonnière. They had made a longer than usual trip this time to du Temple because she thought this would prove good entertainment for both children. By some mysterious means of his own, Lieutenant Havergal had discovered them. He could of course have been mischievously following them from a distance.
‘Why, Lieutenant Havergal!’ said Mrs Kemp, more than half disapproving. ‘How strange you should meet us here!’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Christopher, uncovering to her with elegance and a slight bow. ‘It is a popular place, and I ventured a guess that just possibly you might come this way. So this way I came, and on the way ventured to buy you a posy.’
‘For me?’ said Mrs Kemp, staring at the violets with suspicion. ‘Well, you know, I didn’t ought to accept that sort of thing. A kindly thought, no doubt, but—’
‘And kindly accepted,’ said Christopher, handing the posy to her.
‘Judy,’ said Henry. ‘Judy. Kempie, where’s Judy?’
‘In a moment. Any moment now,’ said Havergal. ‘See I have kept you a seat next to me, Henry. Up you get. There! And while we are waiting I have bought you a toffee-apple. How’s that?’
‘Kyou,’ said Henry, grasping the stick firmly and beginning to lick at the toffee.
‘And for Miss Poldark,’ said Christopher, handing her a packet, ‘a little box of sweetmeats, specially chosen for a songbird.’
‘Oh, thank you, Christopher. I do call that very genteel of you.’
Sitting in this formation with Henry between them and Mrs Kemp, they were able to mutter asides to each other which she could not hear. Havergal had soon noticed that she was a little deaf and took advantage of it. He had even worked out which was the deaf ear.
Presently a man dressed as Punch came out onto the little stage and addressed the audience in harsh nasal French. It was a monologue which went on and on.
‘Can you follow this?’ Christopher asked.
‘Not at all.’
‘He reminds me of my riding instructor back in England. You could not understand a word he said and he was talking English.’
Bella giggled.
‘Do you hunt, Bella?’
‘Very little. My parents do not hunt at all but I have an aunt – a sort of aunt – who sometimes takes me.’
‘Foxes?’
‘What else?’
‘Oh, I hunt everything. Rabbits, stoats, wild boars, geese, ducks, fieldmice, moles, voles, anything that hides in holes . . .’
‘I have never met so comical a person as you.’
‘. . . I even hunt men sometimes. And little girls . . .’
‘I’m not a little girl!’
‘As you say, I am being comical. And I would never hunt you, Bella. You are only to be wooed.’
‘With sweetmeats?’
‘Yes indeed. But notice I give the posy to Mrs Kemp. Did you not know it is really Mrs Kemp I come to see?’
She giggled again and they chewed contentedly together as the Frenchman at last finished his introduction and the performance began.
Unfortunately they had to leave – much to Henry’s disgust – well before it was over, as Mrs Kemp, not without reason, judged the show to be obscene.
III
Demelza said: ‘I am still upset for you. Even if he does not challenge you himself he can so easy get one of his officer friends to pick a quarrel with you. One hears of duels all the time.’
Ross shrugged. ‘It could happen. I will be scrupulously polite to everyone.’
‘I shall believe that when I see it!’
They were lying in bed together. She had herself been offended at Ross’s brusqueness.
Demelza said: ‘It is the 1st of March, isn’t it. In three weeks Dwight and Caroline will be here. I wish they would hurry.’
‘You think they might look after us?’
‘Not so. But they are such old friends. You can talk to them in a way, in such a way.’
‘By the time they come a lot may be clearer.’
‘A lot of what?’
He did not reply, wondering why he had not told Demelza the rest.
After a while she said: ‘Mrs Kemp tells me Lieutenant Havergal was with them again this afternoon. He is such a nice young man and such jolly company . . .’
‘I’ll have to warn him off.’
Demelza turned on to her side where she could see Ross’s profile in the candlelight.
‘I think he is just – lightly taken with her, as she is lightly taken with him. It cannot be serious. She’s only thirteen.’
‘Juliet was fourteen.’
‘Who’s Juliet?’
‘Romeo and Juliet.’
‘Oh.’
‘Some girls grow up very young. Shakespeare knew well enough.’
She put her hand over his. ‘Give it until the end of this week. I think his leave is nearly up.’
The candle was guttering but he delayed to put it out.
‘Demelza, you may as well hear. I have not been quite frank with you, and God knows why, for there is nothing I need keep from you. About Tallien . . . I know too much of Tallien. Otherwise of course I should not have said what I did say.’
‘What?’
‘On our second visit to the de la Blaches, I told Jodie the purpose of my visit to France. There seemed no reason why I should not. It was quite clear from what she had been saying that, although her mission in Paris as an agent of the Bourbons has ceased, since there is no more need of her; yet she has continued to remain in touch with the many sources that she had dealings with until Napoleon fell. I felt that she might help me, and she has done. Last night in Compiègne I supped with a M Vendôme, who had many interesting things to tell me about the disposition of the army. Among other things that the Duke of Otranto – Fouché – and his creature Tallien are conspiring to start an insurrection to depose Louis and to put Bonaparte’s son, the King of Rome, on the throne (under a Regency, since the boy is only four). Jodie said she had heard that the revolt was planned to start under a general of the 6th Army Corps, from Lille in about two weeks’ time, and this Vendôme confirms.’
‘So Fouché and Tallien are traitors. Can they not be arrested?’
‘So far it is all confidences behind the hand. No solid proof. At the moment Fouché is apparently advising the King!’
‘My mind spins. What shall you do?’
‘Nothing except report it to Liverpool. But in truth it is not that I wanted especially to explain to you – to explain my particular animosity for Tallien. Of course I resent his insolence, his arrogant attempt to seduce you under my nose. But it is something more. Something much more. Jodie has told me . . . You remember
of course the landings in Brittany in 1795, in which I took part, when Jodie’s fiancé Charles de Sombreuil and many others lost their lives . . . It was an ill-wished adventure from the start, and it was crushed by General Hoche – as brilliant a soldier as Napoleon. At the last, only de Sombreuil remained with about eleven hundred men, in a strong defensive position until they ran out of ammunition. Then he entered into a parley with General Hoche, who agreed that they could surrender with honour and that their lives could be spared. But a man came down from the Convention in Paris and ordered that this promise should be betrayed – so, after they had surrendered, eight hundred men – most of them gentry and aristocrats – were shot to death in a field outside Autry. The others, the leaders, were taken out on to the promenade of the Garenne at Vannes – including Charles de Sombreuil – and executed. Personally supervising the execution to make sure that none should escape was the representative of the Convention from Paris. His name was Jean-Lambert Tallien.’
IV
In the afternoon of that day, on the south coast of France, in the gulf of St Juan near Fréjus, a flotilla of seven small vessels began to land men on the sandy beach in the bright spring sunshine. They consisted of six hundred and fifty officers and men of the Old Guard. With them were a hundred and eight Polish lancers, unmounted but carrying their saddles, about three hundred motley volunteers, and wives and children of members of the former Imperial General Staff; something over eleven hundred in all, with arms and some scanty baggage.
Leading them was a stocky figure, grown portly, wearing a grey overcoat – for the air was chill – and the familiar battered tricorn hat decorated, since midday, with the famous red, white and blue cockade. There was no one to oppose the landing, scarcely anyone to witness it. As he stepped ashore a thin but hearty cheer from his supporters was almost lost in the wide, open air. Then some of the vessels fired off their guns in salute.
The Twisted Sword Page 10