by A L Berridge
André replaced his own. ‘If you consult your shoulder it might recollect me better from the front.’
Bouchard’s head flicked back. ‘Perhaps we should refresh our memories.’
‘Perhaps we should,’ said André.
I said ‘Florian, stop this, speak to your friends,’ but he seemed as confused as I.
Whatever was happening, Desmoulins was part of it. He said ‘And me, Monsieur? Do you include me in your … memories?’
André bowed. ‘You were no part of the original insult and I can’t blame you for supporting your friends.’
Desmoulins inclined his head and retired a few steps, but as he passed Bouchard I heard him murmur ‘All yours,’ and saw them both smile.
Bouchard turned back to André. ‘Now, Monsieur, we have something –’
Someone called ‘Chevalier!’ Two men were pushing through the crowd towards us, one dark and somehow familiar, the other an enormous sandy-haired gentleman who muscled his way past everyone to stand at André’s side. I heard him ask deferentially if he could be of assistance.
André scarcely looked at him. ‘I have private business with this gentleman, Charlot.’
‘Of course,’ said the man called Charlot. ‘But I’m sure it can be discussed amicably. No one would wish to distress Mlle du Pré.’
I stepped forward immediately. ‘Yes, please, Chevalier, I should be grateful if you would take me home.’
André hesitated, but Bouchard did not. He raised his voice that the whole parvis might hear and said ‘Hiding behind the women, Chevalier? Hardly the act of a gentleman.’
Jacques Gilbert
André whirled round so fast he nearly knocked me over. He faced Bouchard, and suddenly the elegant clothes didn’t matter, he was the same grubby little boy I remembered throwing himself fists first into a fight. ‘Do you say I am a coward?’
Bouchard exchanged a triumphant look with the slim dark man, and I realized he’d been playing for just this. ‘Obviously.’
André took a deep breath. ‘Then I say you’re a liar.’
Charlot stepped back smartly and I had to do the same. André had given the démenti, and there’s no way out after that. What I couldn’t understand was why Bouchard pushed for it.
The dark man said ‘Church land, Bouchard. Do you want to …?’ He jerked his head at the low wall dividing the parvis.
Bouchard slapped his hand on the stone and simply vaulted over it. There’d been people sitting there a moment ago, but the whole crowd had drawn back to leave an open space like they were at the theatre and this was a stage. The nobility were going to fight, and they weren’t missing it for anything.
André took off his coat and thrust it clumsily into my hands. ‘Get Anne away.’
But Anne wasn’t a piece of baggage. She reached for the coat herself, and said ‘If you must do it then I must stay, because the answer to your question is yes.’
He looked at her and something shot between them. He said ‘My God, Anne …’
‘When you’re ready,’ said Bouchard, bored. He was pacing up and down, and I saw it again, that oddly jubilant look exchanged with the dark man, like they’d actually planned it, like they wanted the boy dead.
André vaulted over the wall. ‘I’m ready.’
Charlot said quickly ‘First blood, Messieurs?’
‘Of course,’ said Bouchard, but there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes that said first blood would be all he’d ever need.
André faced him and drew, but Bouchard didn’t take conventional guard as I expected. He pulled back the scabbard with his left hand in the usual way, but then lifted his right foot, hooked out the sword, spun it in a semicircle to point backwards over his shoulder, then swung it round to face the boy.
‘Thibault-trained,’ said Charlot. ‘This should be interesting.’
It wasn’t, it was scary. I watched the first tentative exchange of blows and knew I’d never seen anything so controlled. Bouchard’s sword moved with scientific precision, perfect arcs of a circle, his body in tune with the blade like two parts of the same instrument. The man we’d fought in the alley had been swiping and inaccurate, but of course he’d been drunk. Now he was sober and it was André who looked clumsy, beating him off but no more. I turned anxiously to Charlot, but my fear shot into panic as I saw even he was alarmed.
‘Spanish!’ he called hoarsely to André. ‘It’s like Spanish!’
André nodded, and up came his elbow as he raised his rapier to eye height, but there was still something wrong with him, something stilted I couldn’t understand. He put in a strong attack at the face, but Bouchard’s blade swept his aside, followed the circle through and slashed into André’s right sleeve. The crowd shouted, but André flapped his arm to show his body wasn’t touched and Bouchard looked actually relieved. He wasn’t after a prick in the arm, he was looking to kill.
André stepped back, raised his hand for a pause, and furiously pushed back his sleeves. The madness of it was suddenly overwhelming. It was so polite and civilized, the people watching, Bouchard giving time for the boy to adjust his dress, it was bollocks, all of it, André was going to be killed right in front of me over nothing at all. He shot a quick glance at Anne before resuming guard, and that was part of it, like he was worrying about his audience instead of his bloody life.
Bouchard approached again, and I knew he meant to finish it. He’d probed the boy’s weaknesses and knew exactly how to hit him, I saw it in the calculation on his face. An elegant sweep to confuse, then a stamp and lunge, André would have been skewered clean through if he hadn’t swivelled so fast he nearly fell over. He stumbled against the crowd as he righted himself, but then he shoved his hair out of his face in the same old way and suddenly my mind cleared. All these years he’d been fighting his own style, learning in battle, doing what felt right, but now he’d been filled with all these diagrams and techniques and that’s what was screwing him. He’d forgotten about just beating the man in front of him, he was trying to do it right.
I jumped on the parapet and shouted ‘Fight him, André!’ Everyone was staring, but I’d got to get through. ‘Sod the rest of it, just bloody fight him!’
He heard me, and for half a second our eyes met. Then he hefted his sword more comfortably and turned again to meet Bouchard.
Bouchard smiled complacently, tilted his body sideways and presented the horizontal blade, but André just smashed it down, ducked in close and lunged at the bastard’s foot. Bouchard skipped back nimbly, but it was his turn to be off balance, he riposted at air as André twisted sideways, flicked up his blade to envelop Bouchard’s, winding the steel together before sliding up sharp underneath at the bastard’s belly. Bouchard dodged it, but he had to bend in two to do it, he was staggering backwards out of his own circle, his sword flailing at nothing. André assessed the danger of the whirling blade, and plunged his own clean past it, straight into Bouchard’s left arm. Then he stepped back.
The crowd howled with excitement. Charlot shouted ‘First blood!’ and we could all see the red on Bouchard’s fingers as he clutched his arm. I suddenly realized I was standing on a wall, and jumped down on legs that went wobbly when they hit the ground.
But there was another sound under the crowd roaring, someone shouting ‘Stop!’ I saw movement thrusting like a red arrow in the press of people, two men with crimson tabards elbowing their way roughly towards us.
‘Put up!’ said the dark man, leaning urgently over the wall. ‘Cardinal’s Guard, put up!’
Bouchard hurled his coat over his injury and they both quickly sheathed their swords. I looked nervously at Charlot, but his expression was back to its usual calm.
‘Duelling, Messieurs?’ said one of the Guards, arriving in the space on the other side of the wall. ‘In the precincts of Notre-Dame?’
Charlot laughed. ‘Indeed not. M. Bouchard requested an impromptu fencing lesson, and with the help of the Chevalier de Roland I have obliged him.’
The crowd picked it up at once, I heard the name ‘de Roland’ whizzing all round. The first Guard gave André a respectful nod, but the younger one was looking at the blood on Bouchard’s hand.
‘Someone’s hurt,’ he said. ‘That’s public disorder.’
‘I should have used rebated swords,’ said Charlot sadly. ‘I fear we overestimated M. Bouchard’s skill.’
The crowd gave a great shout of laughter and the older Guard suppressed a smile. He knew the truth as well as we did, but there were no seconds, no one seriously hurt, and Charlot had given a perfectly good excuse. He said just ‘Is this true, M. Bouchard?’
Bouchard’s face was scarlet with fury but he’d got no choice. He muttered ‘Yes,’ and looked away.
The Guard grinned, put a hand on his keen companion’s shoulder and steered him firmly away, the crowd parting for them with laughter and exaggerated bows. Bouchard let it all wash over him for a moment, then lifted his head and looked at the boy.
My breath caught in my throat. I’d seen anger, I’d seen André look at Spaniards in the Saillie, but there’d always been a sort of skin over it to keep it human and understandable. What I saw in Bouchard’s face wasn’t just naked, it was red raw, a kind of scorching hatred blazing out through the skin, and all of it, every bit of it directed at André.
Bernadette Fournier
There had never before been a meeting on a Sunday.
First came Bouchard, demanding messages be sent at once for M. Fontrailles. Then came Desmoulins with a thickset man I had heard called d’Arsy, then the red-faced Dubosc, then the plump one whose name I did not know, and last came the shy young man with the wispy beard. He seemed in a condition of pitiable fear, but Bouchard was kinder to him than usual, sitting him by the fire and calling him his friend. Finally M. Fontrailles arrived in very ill humour, at which the door of the private room was shut and I saw no more.
No, I did not listen, I have told you I had no interest in such things. Nor was it possible, for the plump gentleman had brought with him his valet, an animal called Pirauld, and stationed him outside the door. I did not like that man, Monsieur, I did not like his yellow teeth or the way he looked at me, I would not even pass along the corridor while he was there. So I occupied myself in scrubbing the floor of the public room, and the meeting was no more to me than a rise and fall of voices as a background to my labour.
Yet even as I reached the brush to the bucket I heard a name I knew, and my hand was arrested over the water. ‘De Roland’ someone said, and as I listened I heard it again. Nothing else could I make out, only those words of which I already knew the pattern, but I guessed the gentlemen had finally learned what I already knew. How they reacted I could only guess from M. Fontrailles’ parting words, which were most forcefully spoken from the passage. He said ‘Understand this, Bouchard, understand, all of you. Under no circumstances will I condone murder,’ and then I heard his footsteps passing angrily down to the kitchen. The others were quiet a moment, and then I heard another voice, so low I could not be sure whose it was. It said ‘On the other hand …’
Four such little words, Monsieur, you will laugh that they should frighten me. I hoped to hear another voice say ‘Don’t be a fool,’ but the only sound was a shuffle of feet and a closing door, and I knew they were resuming their meeting after all.
I, Monsieur? What should I do? For a girl of my kind to speak against her employers is to be whipped and imprisoned and perhaps worse. So no, I will not tell you a story of my heroism, I shall tell only the truth. I finished scrubbing the floor, I replaced the bucket and brush in the kitchen, and then, Monsieur, I went to bed.
Four
Anne du Pré
Extract from her diary, dated 1 October
Florian stayed out very late last night and returned shaking and sick. I wished to send for a physician, but he insisted that he was fine and I simply did not understand.
He spent hours closeted with Father this morning, but at noon the Comtesse de Vallon was announced and I could scarcely contain my excitement. Jeanette changed my dress and tidied my hair while we waited for my summons, but an hour passed, I heard the Comtesse leave, and still no word came from Father. Jeanette said ‘Perhaps he keeps it as a surprise, Mademoiselle. You know he wants this marriage as much as you do.’
Then tonight came this terrible dinner. The first course passed in silence but for Father’s rhythmic sucking of soup, and it was not till Clement served the goose that I dared ask about the visit. Then he said ‘We can do better than that marriage now, Mademoiselle. I had thought of M. Bouchard.’
I could not think straight for fear. ‘But I want to marry André.’
He continued chewing. ‘What’s that got to do with it? Name one person of quality in Paris who can pick and choose who they’ll marry. Mlle de Scudéry tells me even the Duc d’Enghien is to marry a niece of the Cardinal’s and is most unhappy about it.’
She did not tell him, she said it at the Samedi Salon and Father was in the crowd like everybody else. I said ‘I know, Monsieur, but Mama always said –’
He coloured violently and looked quickly at Clement. ‘Mademoiselle, you will not speak of your late mother in this childish way. Our circumstances have changed since then.’
Sometimes I think we were happier in those days before Father made so much money and bought the title. I said ‘I’m sorry.’
He stroked his beard. ‘I can make allowances for the unfortunate experiences of your childhood, Mademoiselle, but your brother has recovered from them and does us all credit. It is time you did the same.’
Florian glowed with pleasure and said not one word to support me.
I was so upset I challenged him when Father had retired. I said ‘Why won’t you stand up for me, Florian? André saved you too, don’t you think you owe him something?’
He jutted his chin. ‘There’s no need to go on about it. How do you think it makes me feel to have been rescued by a mere boy?’
I must remember it is not his fault he is as he is, it is because of what the Spaniards did. I said ‘Then for my sake. Don’t you want me to be happy?’
He hesitated, and lowered his voice. ‘That’s why it’s better if you don’t marry him.’
I said ‘How could it possibly make me unhappy to marry André?’ but he only whispered ‘You’ll understand one day,’ then patted my arm and hurried out.
Jacques Gilbert
We didn’t realize anything was wrong. The Comtesse said the Baron was just stalling in the hope of a lower dowry, but he’d never resist a chance to join the real nobility. André was furious about the delay, but he couldn’t go breaking into the Baron’s house and snatching Anne out of it, we were in civilization now and had to do things properly like everyone else.
I didn’t even guess there was danger till de Chouy came. He was our first visitor, of course, Guillot found him waiting outside the porte-cochère when he opened it next morning. He’d brought his best friends with him too, the dazzlingly fashionable Raoul de Verville and the aristocratic half-Spaniard Gaspard Lelièvre, who seemed to spend most of the visit with his eyes closed. De Chouy whispered that he never normally got up before noon and we ought to feel awfully honoured he’d done so today.
‘It’s this Bouchard business, you know, Dédé,’ he said as we sat over chocolate. ‘You’re absolutely the talk of the salons. I simply had to bring the chaps to meet you.’
‘But why?’ said André. ‘Is Bouchard important?’
De Verville answered. He scared me at first, he was dressed in purple silk and smelt of flowers, but he was as friendly as de Chouy and had a smile like a little boy’s.
‘Oh, my dear!’ he said. ‘Don’t you know he claims to be the illegitimate son of the Duc de Montmorency? It’s quite ridiculous, everyone knows the late duc was far too boring for such a thing, but Bouchard’s rich and a bastard, he was baptized with a Montmorency name, and of course there’s that squint. There are respectable people who perfectly swear he
’s genuine.’
I thought it was an odd thing to pretend, I mean Montmorency got his head chopped off for treason, but André said that was only politics, Richelieu needed a scapegoat for the last rebellion and the duc paid for the lot of them.
‘It’s a respected name, Jacquot,’ said de Chouy. ‘All the malcontents flock to it. It’s awfully sad really, when he’s just a bastard pretending to be someone he isn’t.’
The sweetness of the chocolate came back sickly into my mouth and I had to choke it back down. André reached over for a macaroon, and his hand brushed casually against mine.
‘That’s not his fault though, is it?’ he said. ‘What he was born.’
‘Of course not,’ said de Chouy, shocked. ‘Nobody minds those things these days, Dédé, bastards are romantic. It’s only that he’s frightfully touchy. He killed a man last year for hinting his hair was the wrong colour for a Montmorency.’
André considered. ‘Maybe it’s a pity I called him a bastard to his face.’
De Verville went into peals of laughter, but Lelièvre opened his eyes fully for the first time. They were very clear and very grey, and there wasn’t a hint of sleep in them at all.
‘Then you will need to be careful, my friend,’ he said. ‘You must watch where you go and with whom. That man is capable of murder.’
There was a little silence, then de Verville laughed uneasily. ‘Don’t mind Gaspard, this is his first season in the city. You’ve never even met Bouchard, have you, Gaspardine?’
‘I’ve seen him at the theatre,’ said Lelièvre, unmoved. ‘The man is an oaf with a thick neck, and he has nasty friends.’
The others laughed, but I remembered that look on Bouchard’s face and wondered if Lelièvre might be right.
The Comtesse seemed to share the feeling. She knew there was no point hiding us any more, but when we tried to go out that evening we found Charlot and three big footmen waiting to go with us. André scowled at the sight of them, but they just swept off their hats and smiled back and we knew we’d got no choice. Charlot said ‘It’s only till things have died down, Chevalier, Madame will be reassured in a week or two,’ but the boy just said darkly ‘She’d better be,’ and set off so fast the footmen had to run to catch up.