As she turned and rode away to rejoin the gentlemen, Steel moved across to the head huntsman. ‘Where are we? And who the devil was that?’
The man looked astonished and lowered his voice. ‘Why, this is the forest of Pontarmé, Captain. Biggest wild boar forest in the whole of northern France. And that was its owner. You really do not know who she is, sir? That was Her Grace the Marquise de Puy Fort Eguille. She is mistress of these lands and a good deal more.’
Yes, thought Steel, as the man went at last to dispatch the wounded hound, I’ll warrant she does have a good deal more to offer. He wondered again why she had shown such an interest in his regiment, but put it down to some aristocratic connection. Seldom, though, had he seen such a display of sheer, sensual blood-lust in a woman.
His horse, though panicked, had not bolted and it did not take long for Steel to get on the road. He had thought that a grateful hunting party might have provided him with a little breakfast at least, but had been disappointed and faced the prospect of little food before he reached Paris.
At Senlis he crossed another river and shortly afterwards the road again opened up before him. Getting into his stride he urged the mare along and she cantered on the earth track leaving clouds of dust in her wake. Indeed so great was the dust that by the time he reached the village of Le Bourget early in the afternoon Steel’s red coat had taken on a distinctly pinkish hue. Warily the horse climbed the slope beyond the village and Steel found himself in a small hamlet, Montmartre, where a modest church crowned the hill in the midst of a village that clung to the slopes, the pantiled houses patch-worked with vines. The sight brought on a thirst, and he was looking for an inn when he caught sight of the view away to the south.
Standing at the top of the rise and looking down into a lush valley, Steel saw the city of Paris spread before him in a jumble of spires and towers and shimmering rooftops, with smoke curling up from its countless chimneys. The snake of the river Seine curled through the centre supporting on an island the towering spires of the cathedral. He saw bridges cutting across the water, the huge mass of a palace surrounded by green gardens and the domes and bell-towers of a score of churches. It was a moment he had never pictured, that he should be looking down on the capital of France, the epicentre of the civilization against which he had spent his life at war. He did not hate the French as a race. He knew them to be capable of great things in art, music and letters. But on a field of battle there was nothing to do but hate the man who was trying to kill you. He wondered whether he might ever come to befriend a Frenchman and what his contact Charpentier might be like. But such musings distracted him from his purpose, so Steel began to make his way down into the valley. It occurred to him as he went that he was riding directly into the heart of danger. His journey might soon be at an end, but his mission had not yet begun.
The city had no walls, testimony again to the beauty of Marlborough’s plan and to Louis’s vainglorious folly at considering his capital to be naturally impregnable without such a defence. The white-coated guardsman on the north gate gave Steel a desultory nod and took his dress at face value before waving him into the city. Steel did his best to recall Hawkins’s instructions. From the gate he was to proceed east as far as the rue Réamur and then take a line southeast. He left his horse at an inn with a stables in the rue du Temple of which he had been told by Hawkins. More than likely it would not, he had been assured, be needed for his escape. His fear of being discovered quite conquered by the sort of thirst that could only be born out of battle or days in the saddle, he ordered a beer. It came, brought with a smile by a buxom serving girl. The beer was golden yellow and topped with a head of white froth, and as he wiped the foam from his stubble and swallowed deliciously, Steel supposed that he did not look out of place among the low life that appeared to constitute his fellow patrons. Nervously using his Irish persona in a crowded room in which anyone might have been a fellow ‘countryman’, he had given the landlord enough money to keep the horse for a week, although he wondered whether he would ever see it again.
Steel suspected, and Hawkins had confirmed, that it was best not to ride into a city such as this. It drew the wrong kind of attention and made you look as if you were not one of the natives, and that, Hawkins had told him, was vital. He knew that he must above all things look at ease. He knew the city would be tense after Marlborough’s victory and the army’s forays into northern France, and any foreign military gentleman in a red coat, albeit Irish, who looked lost or uneasy might arouse suspicion. The last thing that Steel wanted before he rendezvoused with his guide was an encounter with the town guard, however ineffectual they might be. He knew from past experience that such unexpected meetings generally became more troublesome than they might have seemed.
Leaving the inn, he made his way through the north of the city on foot, sticking to the wider streets and being careful not to look passers-by in the eye. These, he thought, were very different Frenchmen from those of the villages. There was something about them, a swagger and a confidence that let you know they were inhabitants of the place that boasted to be the greatest city on earth. It occurred to Steel that there might be no better way of blending in than to adopt a similar swaggering gait, and so it was that he made his way south along the rue du Temple into the Marais. In a short time he found himself at the river, the cathedral to his right, and thought for a moment how similar it was to London and the Thames, with its water-borne traffic and endless, frantic spectacle. He crossed the bridge to the island as he had been directed and found the quai de Bourbon without difficulty and the house at number 29 with its two imposing seven-foot-high painted and carved wooden doors. The Hôtel de Boisgelou had been built some seventy years earlier in the first flush of development of Louis’s reign and had clearly seen better times before the majority of the nobility had followed the King out to Versailles. Above the doorway a plaque stood empty of the coat of arms it had optimistically been intended for. Nevertheless the overall effect was still imposing. Steel knocked at the door and waited.
The door was opened by a serving girl of about seventeen, a pretty lass, thought Steel, who, had he not been faithful to Henrietta, might have instantly engaged his affections. She blushed at the appearance of the handsome officer, his rugged, masculine beauty only accentuated by stubble and the filth of his journey, and, realizing his rank, made an attempt at a curtsey.
Steel again tried his French. ‘Captain Johnson, to see your master, Monsieur de St Colombe.’
Simpson had adopted the false name on taking up residence in Paris three years previously, and it had served him well. Steel was unsure which if any members of his household knew his true identity. The girl nodded and smiled sweetly but seemed unsure of what to do next. Before she could do anything, however, she was swept aside by a tall, thin man with a pock-marked face of sallow complexion and a sombre expression. He was dressed in a sober, dark grey coat and breeches, and the look he gave Steel could only be construed as deeply suspicious.
He spoke, in a voice as lugubrious as his appearance. ‘Oui?’
Again, Steel explained who he was. The man nodded and stood aside to admit him, before closing the door behind them. He beckoned Steel to follow, and as the maid hurried away below stairs they climbed a dark, narrow wooden staircase to the first-floor landing. The butler, for such was what Steel concluded he must be, knocked on the door facing them and was rewarded by a voice from within. Opening the door he ushered Steel in and announced him: ‘Le Capitain Johnson, monsieur.’
Inside the room, before one of two leaded windows, stood a man. The light was growing dimmer by the moment and the man lit a candle at the mantelpiece. He was smaller in stature than either Steel or the servant and he had his back to them.
When he turned Steel could see that he was smiling. ‘Captain Johnson. How delightful to see you again. Welcome to Paris.’
The man turned to the servant. ‘Merci, Gabriel. Ça c’est bon.’
The butler nodded respectfully, turned sharply, darted Steel an unctuous smile and left, closing the door behind him.
The man spoke in a hushed tone and nodded slowly. ‘My dear captain, I am at your service, but here as elsewhere in this city it is best to address me as St Colombe.’
Steel took in his surroundings. The room, like most in such private dwellings, smelled of the mutton fat used in tallow candles mixed with the scent of the dried lavender which lay around the skirting, ready to be swept daily across the boards. It was a modest house, less impressive inside than its entrance would suggest, and was furnished with just the degree of shabby opulence that one might expect from the type of educated, droll, slightly down-at-heel gentleman that Simpson pretended to be.
‘You must be tired after your journey. How long have you been in the saddle?’
‘Five days, if you count the coach before.’
Simpson looked him up and down and sniffed. ‘Long enough for anyone. Now. For appearance’s sake to further your subterfuge, we are old friends and must clearly behave as such. It will be a pleasure to become closer acquainted with you, I’m sure.’ He smiled. ‘Oh, I do not expect a performance as we might see at Drury Lane, Captain, merely a little play-acting of the commonest sort. You know the thing. Brotherly affection. You may embrace me from time to time. A peck on the cheek as we do here in France would not go amiss. Appear to enjoy my company, even if you do not. Smile when you see me. Be courteous, affable and polite.’
Steel shook his head. ‘Please, sir. I would appreciate it if you would not seek to teach me good manners. You may trust me to act accordingly.’
‘My dear captain, I merely seek to persuade you to lose the look and manner of the battlefield and the barracks as quickly, I hope, as you will soon lose their smell. Gabriel will draw you a bath. Please feel free to use as much of the pomade as you will.’
Steel sighed and gritted his teeth at the insult.
Simpson, seeing his annoyance, went on. ‘My apologies, Captain. I was merely attempting to ease you into my world. But I can see that you are already part of it. You will not be dismayed then if I tell you that this evening we are to attend a soirée – indeed, one of the events of the season, what is left of it with the King at Versailles and the Allies at our door. I am afraid that I have business to which I must attend. I shall meet you there. Gabriel has the address and will furnish you with directions. Be sure to take a carriage.’
Steel’s patience was being sorely tried. Such details seemed trivial, and he was full of questions. ‘Yes, of course. But can I not know how I meet Major Charpentier? What about the Invalides?’
‘All in good time, Captain. You are to meet the major tomorrow at the hospital. I have no precise time, but he has assured me he will be waiting for you. You won’t have trouble finding it, believe me, although it is beyond the city proper, surrounded by fields. I’ll hire a boy to show you.’ He walked to the door and, taking his leave, made one final, waspish comment. ‘And my dear chap, if it’s not too much to ask, do make sure that you’re presentable. For a start you had better not wear those boots. They’ve a tear in them. You’ll find some stockings and shoes in my closet. Do try to take some care with your appearance. You really don’t know whom we might encounter.’
The evening was growing dark now. Outside the noise from the street had diminished, and with a heavy heart Steel realized that the time had come to leave the house. He took one last look in Simpson’s looking glass. He had spent a time going through Simpson’s wardrobe before he had found it: a gold brocade coat with a matching waistcoat and rich red velvet breeches. He had been forced too to abandon his comfortable bullet-torn jackboots in favour of stockings and buckled shoes. The waistcoat he wore unbuttoned to show off a fine Holland shirt. Most uncomfortable, though, was the full-length wig, which Simpson had told him was
de rigueur
in society. It was a ‘Duvillier’, his host had told him with pride, named after the famous French
perruquier,
and not only was it long, falling about his shoulders, but tall, rising above the crown of his head by some four inches. Made from real hair, it originated from a dozen of the city’s female paupers and prostitutes for whom it had bought another day free of starvation and a night away from the attention of love-hungry clients. Steel had tucked his own hair beneath its flowing locks and set it as straight as he could, but, weighing all of fifty ounces, it sat uneasily on a head unused to wearing such aberrations. The ensemble was topped off with a low-crowned black tricorn, festooned with gold lace.
Gazing at himself in the looking glass of Simpson’s bedchamber Steel had laughed out loud. He looked, he surmised, quite the part: something of a cross between a Covent Garden Molly and a player. He was a veritable beau, a fop – the sort so well caricatured by the late Mr Farquhar in his last play. Steel had seen it with Henrietta while in London and chuckled now as he recalled the lines. His reflection now portrayed him as one of the sort who in London would have been greeted in the street with cries of ‘French dog’, which in this case, thought Steel, was very apt. He wondered why, apart from his presumed prediliction for prettily dressed young men, Simpson had instructed him to go to such trouble and who it was, besides their hostess, they might be meeting. Nervous of venturing into the street in his new persona, he felt for his sword hilt and despaired. He had tried to wear the long Italian broadsword that he carried into battle but it had looked ridiculous with his new garb, and leaving it carefully in Simpson’s garde-robe he had chosen a small day sword with a thin rapier-like blade and a steel diamond hilt adorned with a long trailing sword knot of lilac and gold. This weapon had doubtless never been drawn in anger, and Steel guessed it would break as soon as it was used. Finally he had selected a cane with an amber-crowned head and a black ribbon, and made his way gingerly down the staircase to the hall.
At the foot of the stairs he waved away an offer of help from the officious butler and took his time in opening the front doors of Simpson’s house. Then, gritting his teeth, he stepped out. He had been prepared for all manner of catcalls and insults, but none came. Instead, within a few moments of setting off he felt almost at ease and found that, although his attire still seemed bizarre and must surely mark him out, hardly anyone seemed to be staring at him. Simpson had suggested, almost insisted, that he should take a carriage. Nobility and gentry did not sully their stockings with the ordure of the streets. But Steel had decided against it. He had had enough of carriages and wanted to get the lie of the land. Besides it was only a short walk from Simpson’s house to his destination. He crossed the river for the second time that day and, as he rounded the turning from the rue de Birague and entered the place Royale, he knew that he would have no trouble finding the address that Simpson had given to him.
The great square shone as bright as day with the light of four score flaming torches placed at intervals around its façades. Steel stood for a moment beneath the arcade on the south side of the square and took in the scene. Around the four faces gilded and painted carriages were depositing their contents: richly dressed members of the
noblesse de robe,
the cream of Parisian society. In the grand hotels which made up Paris’s most exclusive address, candlelight flickered in the windows, but one house was bathed in unparalleled light. The Hotel Camus, built originally by the secretary to Louis XIII and officially number 24 of the houses in the square, had since 1623 been occupied by successive Marshals of France. So much Steel had been told by Simpson with a wry smile before he had left. The tall building stood at the northeast corner of the square on the rue Pas de la Mule and it was to there that the crowds were now making their way across the cobbles. More burning torches had been placed directly outside the doors, and a score of liveried and bewigged servants were helping guests from their carriages.
There was a certain irony that this house should be his destination, thought Steel, for in accordance with its military tradition number 24 was currently the house of the Maréchal Duc de Boufflers. Tonight, though, Boufflers would not be their host; Steel knew that he was far from home – in Lille, to be precise, besieged by the Allied army under the man whom others knew as the Duke of Marlborough but who would for Boufflers always be plain John Churchill, his old friend and comrade-in-arms from the days when the two men had been at Maestricht fighting in another siege against the Dutch in the pay of the Sun King. Bizarre, thought Steel, how wars made strange bedfellows. No, he would not encounter the Marshal in this place tonight. But God only knew what else lay in store for him.
Bouffler’s residence had been hired for the evening to another aristocrat, a duchess of the royal line whose own house, a château, lay outside the city. Simpson, who apparently enjoyed her confidences as he did so many of the ladies of the court, had naturally been invited, and it seemed only right that he should bring along his Irish friend, returned from the wars. It occurred to Steel that he did not look quite the picture of a brave Irish mercenary, but he was sure that Simpson must have advised him correctly in his dress. Certainly, as he joined the throng of people outside the Boufflers house he did not feel out of place; indeed, his dress was positively understated compared with many of the creations on view among the men. One of them now came towards him. He recognized Simpson, powdered and bejewelled like the rest of them, clad in an exquisitely cut coat of palest blue silk. Simpson neared him, and before Steel could stop him had placed his right hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.
Steel drew back. Simpson smiled and shook his head. ‘Why, Captain Johnson. D’ye not kiss, dear boy? It is all we men do here in Paris, whatever our persuasion. Be assured.’
Sure enough, thought Steel, around him he could see men greeting each other in such a fashion. The ladies too, of course.
Simpson went on: ‘How well you improve with a bath and a change of clothes! You did take a bath?’
‘Naturally. Do you not recall our conversation?’
‘Every word, dear boy. But still, I sense that from head to toe you are still at heart a campaigning soldier. Your ballroom is the battlefield. You thrive in the mud and mire. D’you suppose that I was once thus? I imagine that I must have been. I can only conclude that I have grown soft living among civilians. Sometimes I truly wonder whether my alter ego has taken over. I am sure that I would not know what to do now at the head of a company of redcoats.’
Steel smiled. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll find out.’
‘I pray not, Captain. I am more than happy doing what I do here.’
Steel, wondering exactly what that was, stared at him. ‘Why have you had me dress like this? In these absurd clothes. To what purpose?’
Simpson stood back and smiled. ‘Yes. I say, dear boy, I have done well, haven’t I? You do look quite the beau. A beau, you know, is a Narcissus of sorts who has fallen in love with his own shadow. Look around and you will see enough of them this evening. Look at them. They hate all who do not flatter them. They scorn to condescend so low as to speak of any person beneath the dignity of a nobleman. Dukes are their cronies, from whom they derive all the secrets of the court. That, my dear captain, is why I frequent their company. And I’m very much afraid that over the years a little of it has rubbed off. I’m almost one of them. You chose well. The gold suits you. But perhaps that hat is a little
de trop
.’ He giggled, annoyingly.
‘You disapprove of all this?’
‘Oh no. Oh no, dear boy. You will most certainly “do”.’
‘But you haven’t answered my question. Why?’
Simpson’s face grew suddenly serious. ‘I have my methods, Captain, and my reasons. All I ask of you is that you trust me, and follow my words to the letter. This is my country. You are a stranger here. Now come.’
They walked from the main hall up a sweeping double staircase carved in pale stone and onto a landing off which rooms led to the left and right in a long enfilade lined with gilded mirrors and paintings.
Simpson took his arm. ‘Come, Captain Johnson. We’ll fortify ourselves before we make our entrance. Some wine and something to eat.’
They entered the room to the right, and Steel gasped. It was testimony to the time over the last decade he had spent in the field that he was unable to remember the last time he had seen such a display of wealth and entertainment. Beneath walls lined with gilded mirrors and paintings, table upon table lay heaped with all manner of food: a ragout of turkey, a fried head of lamb, roasted capons and partridge, salads, pork tongues, a duck with oysters, mussels, pies, artichokes, fresh peas – the variety was endless. Steel thought for a moment of his men and what they wouldn’t have given for such a spread as this, and became aware of a woman standing beside them.
‘Chéri. My dear St Colombe, you must advise me on the colour of this silk. Do you think I have made a dreadful mistake? Is it too insipid for words? Come and tell Madame de Soubise. She’s being quite contrary. She will insist that it should be crimson.’ She looked at Steel with vacuous eyes. ‘Oh, excuse me, sir. I must borrow your friend for a moment. He is the epitome of style, the only fount of advice to
tout Paris
.’
Simpson raised his eyebrows and looked at Steel as if to ask what he could do. ‘Duty calls. Two moments, Captain Johnson. Stay exactly where you are and talk to no one, unless you must.’
Steel watched him go and turned back to the room, before looking back towards the wall against which he had been standing which was hung with an exquisite oil painting of nymphs and shepherds at play around a statue of a calf. Steel was staring at it, luxuriating in the depth of the colour, when there was a cough from behind him.
‘I do not think that I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.’
It was a man’s voice, and Steel turned to see a slim face set atop a well-built frame almost his equal in height. Its features, though, were obscured behind a papier-mâché mask cast in the character of a devil with a hooked nose and a bursting sun above and below the eyes.
The man spoke again. ‘I am sorry, sir. As I said, I do not believe that we have been introduced.’
Steel nodded his head. ‘Captain Johnson, sir. Of Clare’s regiment of dragoons in the service of France.’
The man looked surprised and stood back to take in Steel’s dress. ‘You are a soldier?’
‘I am.’
The man gazed at him long and hard. ‘You will excuse me for saying so, but you do not look very much like a soldier, sir. Your dress, for example –’
Steel cut him short. ‘What I choose to wear while on leave is my own business, sir. And that of no one else.’
‘Indeed. But you will admit that it is hardly a soldier’s dress.’
Steel spoke without thinking and instantly regretted it. ‘Do you attempt to insult me, sir?’
‘Not in the least. I am the last person to pick a quarrel. I merely observe.’
‘Then do not observe me, sir. Or you will pay the same price as those officers who took little care to observe the reality of their situation in the late battle.’
The man froze. ‘You were at Oudenarde?’
‘I had that honour, sir.’ Hardly had the words left him than, with an awful frisson, Steel realized that his too-clever comment on observing must have made him sound like one who had been on the winning side. He attempted to compensate. ‘What I meant to say was that Marshal Vendôme did his best in an insufferable situation.’
The man smiled through his mask and Steel wondered whether he had bought the story. ‘Indeed. If only he could have done more, he might have saved so many of France’s sons.’
‘You are against this war, monsieur?’
The man shook his head. ‘I would not say that. I am against all things which cause unnecessary suffering. But be assured, monsieur, that I am in favour of all things which are right and just, and if the King declares that this is a just war then I must agree.
N’est-ce pas?
’
‘Quite so.’
The man continued. ‘The battle was no more than a setback, am I right? The
Paris Gazette
says that it was most indecisive, that not all of our forces were engaged. I think that the British attempt to make more of this than it merits. Sadly, however, for such a small affair, it has split the high command, to our peril. If Marlborough and his allies only knew into what disarray this business has plunged Louis and his generals they would march directly on Paris, that’s for sure. And that would be an end to it.’