The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  Once we are in Germany, we head for Ulm. Although relieved at my adaptation to foreign soil, something still bothers me. I hold my tongue in the coach for a while but at last can preserve my silence no longer. “How are we going to converse with the natives?”

  “Oh, they all speak French, of course,” asserts my Lord. “The educated ones, at least.”

  “But what if we should need food or lodging from those who have not benefited from such learning?”

  “Well, Monin speaks a little German.” He hammers on the roof. “Don’t you?”

  Upside down, the goblin face appears at the window. “What’s that?”

  “Speak German.”

  “Nein, my Lord.”

  “What?” Lord Douglas splutters.

  “Just my little joke.” The head withdraws.

  “He’s surprisingly well-read and travelled, you see,” explains Lord Douglas. “Man knows everything about all the towns in Europe, mark my words.”

  “Could you tell otherwise?” I say, before returning to my book while my escort is still mired in confusion.

  The carriage continues meandering through lush countryside in a region which Monin hisses at me, his features appearing upside down again at the window, is called Swabia. Whenever I look up, I am surprised by how normal and pastoral the views are, vineyards dotting the rolling farmland – there had been no warning that this Swabia was so similar to my own beloved Burgundy. Such normality reminds me that there are certain necessary functions that, in my capacity as a woman, I must be expected to fulfil. There is nothing like a brooding atmosphere, exacerbated by sudden bumps from the road, to increase one’s natural urges. The tension has been rising and I do not want to be the one to break it – but I must. I indicate to my protector that I wish the coach to stop.

  “Why on earth?”

  “Do you really have to ask, sir?” I fidget in my most ladylike fashion.

  “Well, can’t you wait for an inn?”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Found your tongue now, eh!”

  He raps on the roof and, once we have come to a halt, watches as I make my way to the shelter of a nearby clump of trees. On my return, he accepts my thanks with an abrupt nod. Each time this happens, my Lord smiles at his apparent success in drawing me from my shell.

  Nevertheless, for the most part, I remain wedded to my books and have graduated from Voltaire to Montesquieu. My protector is growing ever more frustrated, which adds to my detached, philosophical enjoyment.

  “Don’t you admire the countryside, Mademoiselle?”

  I answer him with silence.

  “We’re making good progress, I must say.”

  I continue to read, trying not to let him see my mirth.

  His chiselled, handsome face explodes. “You can’t go on holding my opinions against me.” He is so riled that all traces of what I now believe to be a bogus Scottish accent disappear.

  Keeping my thumb to my place, I glance up at him. Seeing his flushed cheeks, I experience a surge of triumph in my turn.

  “St. Petersburg is weeks if not months away.” Lord Douglas seethes with indignation but there is a note of pleading in his tone.

  I snap the book shut. “You confess you are ignorant of philosophy?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “My dear sir, it’s a fact.”

  “Hmmm, well…” He scratches at his jaw.

  “You admit you know nothing.”

  He examines me with his stone features. “Is this what it’s going to take?”

  I return his cold gaze. “Yes, my Lord.”

  There is a long pause. “Oh, very well.”

  “What?”

  “I admit it.”

  “That you know nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  The pleasure of winning the argument suffuses me to so complete an extent I feel my ears glow warm. “So you’re just a dumb soldier.”

  “No!”

  “Repeat it after me.” I am inexorable.

  My escort struggles to obey – I conjecture it would be a loss of face for him to give way to me so utterly. He hits at length upon a compromise.

  “And you’ll have dinner with me?”

  “Perhaps.” It is hardly a concession, because I am expecting us to sup together every night of the journey, but I am minded to appear conciliatory.

  “I’ll say it if you will, Mademoiselle.”

  “Very good. After you.”

  He mumbles the words, expression downcast, an idol collapsing. “I’m just a dumb soldier.”

  “And I will be delighted to dine with you, Lord Douglas.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Inn

  Contrary to what I’ve been told by the Prince, who dismissed this congeries of cities and principalities as ‘a damp bunch of reeds beyond the Rhine’, the sun bears down exceeding hot in Germany. The roads are turning to dust, stifling our attempts at breathing, even in our carriage, however much we try to block out the choking particles. Late in the day, the heat abating, we come to the town of Tubingen. Monin calls it the centre of scholarship in Germany, and, no doubt its professors would say, Europe, for five centuries. We pass along the banks of the river Neckar, and I survey the fine timbered houses on the island in the middle, which calls to mind in some small way the majesty of my adopted city. Near the heart of the town, opposite the Protestant College, we halt at an unpromising inn. The gruesome sign declares it to be the Red Cat. The poor beast appears to be in hell.

  “I’m famished,” says my Lord with pointed emphasis.

  I can’t say that I am surprised. We climb down from our carriage and enter through a door that could protect a castle. Noticing the mighty keep high above us, I am convinced that it once did just that, and fall to speculation on the history of the place. Lord Douglas, brooding on our earlier agreement, has more immediate concerns.

  “Do you have dinner and rooms?” he yells at a tall, stooping figure.

  “In n-normal times, I would have to give you a n-n-negative answer, with infinite regret,” stutters the innkeeper. “Today, I can reply in the affirmative.”

  “I have no idea what you’re on about,” Lord Douglas drawls, although such bemusement has the great merit of making him drop his voice.

  “The students n-nearly all are gone.” His French is fluent, if old-fashioned.

  “Ah, very good – no asinine chit-chat, while they make a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread last four hours. A fine meal as soon as you are able, mein Herr.”

  I am sorry to say the spindly innkeeper is not the best advertisement for his food. However, he sees that our bags are soon brought up to our rooms – quite tolerable – and, after I shoo Monin from my chamber, I prepare myself for what I cannot deny will be an ordeal. I hear the bells of the Stiftskirche chiming eight o’clock from their vantage point above the town, and look up at its tower before I descend to the fray.

  Lord Douglas and I begin our supper at an oaken table weighed down with sausages and other overcooked meats, copious potatoes and all sorts of odd vegetables in what passes for cuisine in this part of the world. Suspicious, I am pecking at my food, ignoring the lascivious slobberings of my soon inebriated companion opposite. To grant him some justice, I suspect I might also enjoy slaking my thirst, were my circumstances otherwise.

  The innkeeper, Johann, seeming old before his years, and Rosa – who I take first to be his daughter but turns out to be his young wife, with a torrent of curling red hair, smooth sun-bronzed skin and a plunging cleavage – are watching us at close quarters as we eat. I notice Rosa catch Johann’s eye as he tries to haul himself away from gawping at me. He flinches with all the guilt of the seasoned voyeur.

  As is his wont, Monin is lurking in the background. For once, his gargoyle stare finds more to rivet him in Rosa than in my own more subtle charms. I have that to thank her for at least. My guardian appears to agree with his servant, since he finishes his large glass with a long, swift drau
ght, leers at Rosa and gestures to her with would-be patrician economy.

  “More beer, here.”

  The elegant Rosa – for I must admit that she moves well – brings a jug over to him with only a hint of reluctance.

  “And you, my dear. More wine? ”

  “No, thank you.” I may be a new woman but I’m wise to such tricks.

  “You can run along, girl.”

  He waits while Rosa turns around then reaches out to paw at her. She wriggles, flicks his hand away with the accustomed patience of attractive barmaids everywhere, and scowls with pretty rebuke at him. He’s already too drunk to notice. She looks in mild exasperation at her husband, who’s now retreating with a mass of papers to a far corner of the room. Johann smiles, resigned – and does nothing to help her.

  “Is your meal satisfactory?” Lord Douglas’s foreign accent is lost in a fog of slurring. I am now sure he cannot be who he claims.

  “Perfectly.” This is no hour for petty complaint.

  “Well, look as though you’re enjoying it, can’t you?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t wolf things down at your pace.”

  His features break into a boorish smirk. “Nonsense, you just haven’t had your appetite stimulated.”

  “Really?” The brazen nerve of the fellow staggers me.

  “That’s right. You haven’t met a real man.”

  To show what real men do, the bogus Lord Douglas drains his glass of ale. He looks around for Rosa wildly. She has prudently absented herself, so he signals to Johann for more drink, before emitting a series of loud belches.

  “Quite possibly,” I feel it safest to concur.

  “Isn’t that right?” He winks at Johann who pushes his papers aside, unwinds himself to his full height and slowly crosses the room, grabbing the jug en route.

  “What?” Johann pours another slopping tankard of beer.

  “I said she hasn’t met a real man,” Lord Douglas bellows.

  The innkeeper sets down his jug. “It depends on what one n-needs call real.”

  I look at him with interest and some respect – maybe he is a devotee of Leibniz – then trade complicit glances with Rosa as she re-enters through the kitchen doorway.

  My escort waves his glass at her. “You keep her well fed and watered, I can see.”

  “N-n-now, I…” Johann titters with nerves.

  Rosa pushes him to one side with an exasperated sigh. “Excuse me, sir, it’s me that does the business. He’s too tied up with his philosophy to do any accounting.”

  Our servant seeks to seize his moment. “I could give you a hand.” His clawlike fingers start twitching in anticipation.

  My Lord frowns at him. Rosa seems to be equally appalled at his insolence and, for a moment, I swear she is considering giving him a hand of her own. Cringing at the failure of his sally, Monin shrinks back into his adopted corner of the dining room.

  “Apologies on behalf of our lackey,” I say to Rosa.

  “Not at all. It’s been a long day for you.”

  I yawn, exaggerating my torpor. “Yes, I am feeling rather tired.”

  Lord Douglas misinterprets this with characteristic brio, missing the mark by a furlong. “That’s the spirit. Get ready.” He winks at me, a loathsome prospect at any hour.

  “Don’t delude yourself.” Really, his continual presumption, enhanced by the ale, is just too tiresome.

  “You can drop the tease act, m’girl.”

  “You’re in drink. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  He considers this a moment. “Maybe you’re right. But I’ll know what I’m doing.”

  “There is not the remotest possibility I’ll be involved.”

  He rises and lurches at me, but his fumbling is so maladroit that I am able to dodge him with ease.

  “Thank you for the meal. And for the excellent service.” I smile at Rosa and the shuffling Johann. “Good night, Lord Douglas.”

  “I’ll see you later.” Such obstinate persistence in so dead a cause.

  “No doubt at breakfast. I suggest we plan for an early departure. As you said earlier, we must take advantage of the fine weather, but pause for respite in the middle of the day.”

  My companion snorts as I head for the door.

  * * *

  The bells of the Stiftskirche are sounding one o’clock, the sound reverberating on the heavy, hot night air. A bat flies through an upstairs window at the Red Cat, and darts down a long passage, pausing only to brush at a bewigged head with its clammy velvet touch, before accelerating away through a small gap at the far casement. Still in the guise of Lord Douglas, the drunken Guerchy is tiptoeing down the darkened corridor. He scratches at the itch caused by his shifting wig, brushes against the jagged edge of a dresser, sways, trips over a chamber pot and falls with a crash onto the floor. The boards creak in complaint.

  “Shit.”

  After a moment a door opens. A shaft of light streaks the corridor from the room behind. Monin’s small head pokes out into the passageway.

  “Is that you, my Lord?”

  “Of course it’s me, you bloody fool.”

  Monin scrabbles around in the vicinity of the door, and brings out a candle. “What are you doing on the floor, sir?”

  “Oh, shut up. Which one’s hers?”

  “You’re outside it.”

  “Good. Now go back to bed.”

  “Are you sure you should be attempting this in your condition?”

  “None of your impertinence. Just do as I say.”

  “As you wish, my Lord.”

  Monin’s door swings shut and the light is gone. Guerchy fumbles around in the darkness, scraping his knuckles and fingernails against the door frame. At last he finds the handle. It won’t turn.

  “Psst.”

  There’s no sound from within.

  “Mademoiselle.”

  Still no answer.

  He raises his voice. “Time to get up.” He knocks, unleashing a loud volley of sound. There’s no rustling or stirring inside.

  “You wanted an early start, remember.”

  Nothing. Guerchy listens to the silence with mounting frustration.

  “This could take all night,” he mutters.

  He takes a pistol from his nightgown, points it at the lock, and blasts away. There’s a terrific explosion, a flash of orange light, and a thunderous echo. Guerchy is knocked off his feet. He stumbles as he tries to get up, arms flailing at the smoke.

  * * *

  “Who’s there?” I come to the door with a candle, awakened by the sound of a shattering blast. Unlocking it, the acrid smell of gunpowder all but overwhelms me. Stinging smoke assails my eyes. Before I can make out what is happening, someone grabs at my nightgown. There’s a cry of triumph. I am pulled down to the floor but, as I fall, my candle becomes detached from its holder and in doing so sets light to my attacker’s shirt. The rush of flame reveals to me that it is my supposed chaperon, the gallant Lord Douglas. He howls in fear and, within an instant, pain; he beats at his own body as he tries in desperation to put out the fire.

  As I crawl away, Monin dashes from his room, like a demented wood creature scuttling through a burning forest, and reaches out to manhandle me. Just as I fear an equivalent fate, the servant’s inbred instincts save me. Monin hesitates, seeing his master flapping at the flames, and releases me from his grip. He hurries to his lord’s aid.

  A bowl of fluid is all of a sudden flung over the would-be aggressor, causing a mighty hiss. I look up to see Rosa standing above my Lord, and Johann staggering in the shadows behind her with a heavy (and, I trust, unloaded) musket from wars long past. Now the stench of urine mingles with the harsh perfume of cordite. The flames on my assailant’s shirt fizzle, flicker and die.

  Rosa steps back, puts down the chamber pot and, steadying herself against her tottering husband, lights a large taper. “What’s been going on here?”

  My Lord Douglas glares up at her through the smoke with all the fur
y of the thwarted criminal. “This stinks to heaven!” He’s wiping himself down with frantic fingers.

  “You were lucky I had anything to hand. Ablaze, you were. My husband will clean you up.”

  Monin now makes his play. “I think I should look after the lady.”

  Rosa swings the candle towards him and examines him in the glow. “No need. I’ve already rescued her. She’s safe.”

  “She looks quite out of sorts. All these explosions, I don’t know. She should come with me.” Monin’s stunted finger stretches for me once more.

  “Thank you.” I wriggle away. “But, we’re fine…” I am able to escape from Monin’s despairing hands.

  My saviour angel turns upon her spouse. “Johann, take his Lordship to the horse trough. And you’d better bring him some fresh night clothes.”

  She leads me away. My Lord, Monin and Johann look at each other in helpless discord. I am delivered from a most ungentle fate. However, sanctuary assumes many forms.

  Rosa takes me into her room, locks the door and ushers me over to a massive four-poster bed. She sits me straightaway upon the eiderdown, which I must confess is far more comfortable than my own, and proceeds to soothe me, her hand cool against my brow.

  “You’re feverish – you’ve had a big shock.”

  I can only nod in agreement.

  “Come and lie down here.” She pats a pillow.

  “You’re very kind.”

  She laughs in brief accord. “Don’t think I don’t know what they were up to. Men! Your French types are as gross as Germans, seems to me. On the prowl, every one of them. Now, one thing that I’ve found is that it takes a girl to really understand a girl.”

  I’m not convinced I like the way that this is going. “I wouldn’t know, I’m sure,” I mumble.

  Rosa slips off her long wrap, revealing her nightgown of fine white lace, tosses her long auburn hair and joins me down upon the bed linen.