Authors: Claire Letemendia
“I hope everyone is.”
She screwed up her nose at him. “But you must have been in love. Who’s the one you loved most?”
“A woman who told fortunes,” he said;
and other lies
, he added mutely.
“Did she ever tell you your fortune?”
“No, and I wouldn’t have believed a word of it if she had.”
“Would I have liked her?”
He had to laugh. “You’d find her rather different from yourself.”
“Why?”
He gazed at Elizabeth, in whose face he read the confidence of youth, looks and noble birth, and who, in the whole course of her existence, had probably known not a single serious hardship. “She was a gypsy,” he said, at which Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open.
“How did you meet?”
“It’s a long story. And you,” he went on quickly, “are you in love with Ormiston?”
She smiled and nodded. “I think you will like him, Laurence.”
“What matters is that you do,” he said. She leant towards him and kissed him on the cheek, and he heard what sounded like a hiccup. Then he realised that she had started to cry. “What’s wrong, Liz?” he asked, putting his arms around her.
“The dreadful war, how it scares me! What if Ormiston is killed before we are even married? Or if I’m left a – a widow!”
“You know there’s still a chance it won’t break out. A great many people don’t want it.”
“But you don’t believe that, do you.” He said nothing, unable to contradict her. “I’m afraid for you, too.” She looked up at him, her blue
eyes solemn. “You can’t tempt fate twice. Or more than twice,” she murmured, stroking the scar on his wrist.
“Oh, that wasn’t from any war.”
“How did it happen, then?”
“I’ll tell you some other time.”
“And what’s this?” she said, fingering the leather bracelet.
He drew his hand away. “You should go to bed, my dear.”
“I shall.” She gave him another kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Laurence,” she told him, without explaining what for, and tiptoed out.
He could not work any longer. Instead he went over to the dying fire, seized the poker, and smashed every glowing ember into dust.
After deserting from the German cavalry, Laurence was hiding out, passing the short, dark days of early December playing at cards or dice in the worst taverns The Hague could provide, where he thought no officers would set foot. He was wrong, as it turned out, for one evening as he was gaming with some drunken Dutch, von Mansfeld himself strolled in, sleek and well-groomed, and evidently perturbed to see him.
“Herr Beaumont,” he said, in a low voice, after they had greeted each other, “when you went missing from my troop, I assumed you had sailed for home.”
“Are you here to arrest me?” Laurence asked, with a nervous smile.
“Not now, my friend, but come spring you must make yourself scarce or else return to duty, otherwise I won’t be able to save you from a hanging. Why waste your skill on these idiots?” von Mansfeld continued more jocularly, indicating the Dutchmen. “I can take you to a place where it will be appreciated. The best brothel in town, run, most unusually, by a young Israelite named Simeon. He’s a dealer in precious stones, and his tables are as rich as he is. All the dignitaries in town are his customers.”
“I know, I’ve heard of him. But he wouldn’t let me through the door,” Laurence said, gesturing at his own worn clothes.
The Captain laughed and stroked his moustache. “For that, you may rely upon my name.”
They were admitted, just as he had said, and Laurence felt a thrill of pleasure as he looked about the main room, elegantly appointed with tables for gaming and sideboards decked out with refreshments. Simeon’s subtle taste in décor reminded him of a similarly fine establishment that he used to frequent in London, and the women were alluring and graceful, rather than of the blowsy, full-figured type common amongst the Dutch. From the amount of money tossed about the gaming tables, he saw that he could have made a small fortune, had he not promised von Mansfeld half his winnings for the privilege of entry.
They prospered steadily until the early hours, then Simeon himself came by, ostensibly to congratulate them. He more resembled an honourable burgher in his sober, fur-trimmed garments than a brothel-keeper. “Captain,” he said, “who is your companion?”
“May I introduce you to Herr Beaumont,” von Mansfeld said, “an Englishman whom I met some time ago when he was in adverse circumstances.”
“An Englishman? He told you that and expected you to believe him?” Wearily, Laurence explained his heritage. “Is that so, sir,” Simeon remarked. “My own mother still calls herself a Spaniard though my family has been in The Hague one hundred and fifty years. Yet what does it signify? Here we have no past and live only in the moment, for God knows what the future will bring us.” He paused to study Laurence, who waited, knowing that he would be accused of cheating.
“How goes your business these days, Simeon?” von Mansfeld inquired.
“Not as I would like. The overseer of my tables was an oaf and my ladies could not abide his clumsy advances. I dismissed the fellow, but
since then I have been plagued by cardsharps, who can play their tricks and rob me with impunity,” he concluded, his eyes still fixed on Laurence.
“Herr Beaumont is not one of them or I would not have brought him here.”
“Then what accounts for his extraordinary success?”
“A perfect memory. He could recite to you the sequence of every card we played tonight, and the odds against it.”
“Is that true, sir?” Simeon asked Laurence.
“Yes,” Laurence said. “Though I can always be surprised by luck.”
“Is he honest with you, von Mansfeld?”
“Thus far, Simeon.”
Simeon regarded Laurence more thoughtfully. “I suppose you are familiar with all the tricks of the trade, and what you don’t know you learn quickly?”
“I try.”
“What were your takings tonight between the two of you?” Von Mansfeld chuckled and told him. “Herr Beaumont, if you did not come so highly recommended, I would order my guards to rifle your pockets,” said Simeon, laughing too.
They sat together and discussed politics for a while, and von Mansfeld happened to mention that Laurence was seeking a respite from army service. Laurence worried that his friend might have revealed too much, for Simeon was listening intently, and questioned afterwards, “Will you return to England, Herr Beaumont? There are disturbances brewing, and those of you who have fighting experience will be much in demand.”
“No,” said Laurence. “I had thought to go to France.”
“Why? France is no better than here.” Simeon hesitated. “I am about to do something I trust I shall not regret. Herr Beaumont, you are safe enough from service for a couple of months while the armies are resting, and this is my busiest time. Would you care to stay
and supervise my tables? We can negotiate a fee. If you play me foul, I shall have you turned in to your regiment. If you are honest with me, I shall protect you and treat you as a friend.”
Laurence considered only briefly; he was in need of both a refuge and a ready source of income. “I accept.”
“
Herr Beaumont
. I don’t like the ring of it. From now on we shall call you
Monsieur Beaumont
,” Simeon said, using the French pronunciation. “It will lend you a more distinguished air.”
“You can call me whatever you like.”
“You’ll have no regrets,” von Mansfeld assured Simeon.
Almost a month passed, during which Laurence had no regrets himself.
One late night around Christmastide after all the customers had departed, Simeon announced to his women, “My darlings, as you are aware, I am having an outstandingly lucrative season, largely thanks to our Monsieur Beaumont. Yet since we live in a republic, I must put all matters that concern our house to a vote. Let us decide: should we keep him?”
“Well,” said Marie, “he’s nice to look at, and he has lovely manners.”
“And he has all his own teeth,” said Pascale.
“He’s teaching me English,” added Cecilia.
Marie smiled at her archly. “Oh yes, he’s awfully clever with his tongue.”
“And he never farts in bed,” Marguerite said. “He doesn’t even snore.”
The other women were giggling, to Laurence’s dismay, for the expression on Simeon’s face now suggested to him that he had overstepped his privileges at the house.
“Are you so dedicated to your work that you would toil after hours?” Simeon asked them, in his driest tone. “And Monsieur, I thought I hired you to look after my tables. I got rid of your predecessor for just such a breach of discipline as you appear to have committed.”
“It’s not his fault, Simeon,” Cecilia declared. “It’s ours.”
“Pray explain.”
“Well, we were discussing the nature of men recently, and we had all arrived at the conclusion that the uglier a man is, the greater the effort he generally makes to please a woman, and that, as a consequence, handsome men must be the worst lovers. Then Marie said, could we think of any exception to the rule. We were at a loss until Monsieur Beaumont came in, so we put the proposition to him. And he gave us a most satisfactory answer.”
“Why did you not request my permission before conducting your little experiment?”
“As you once told us yourself, you do not own our bodies after hours,” said Pascale, with a haughty toss of her head.
“Well, Monsieur Beaumont,” Simeon said, “von Mansfeld sold you short, in failing to mention you were a courtesan as well as a cardsharp. I believe I must review the terms of our initial agreement.”
“It’s not necessary,” Laurence said, abashed. “I’ll leave tonight.”
“I won’t allow it, Monsieur – you are far too useful an employee. What I mean,” Simeon continued, in the same admonitory tone, “is that from henceforth you must exercise whatever weapons you have in your arsenal to please my beloved ladies, on the condition that you don’t spoil them for their trade. And for as long as you wish to be with us, we shall indeed keep you.” The women burst out cheering and clapping. “I take it that you are willing to abide by my new regulations,” Simeon inquired, “or have you lost that clever tongue of yours?”
“I am,” Laurence said, heaving a sigh of relief, for this respite at the house had worked upon him like a soothing opiate, dulling his livid memories of warfare and giving him hope that there were still some vestiges of courtesy left in the world, and in himself.
“Then the matter is settled. Let us drink to it.”
They were about to raise their glasses when from the courtyard there came a series of high-pitched shrieks answered by hoarse shouts, and a male voice swearing volubly in French.
“Monsieur, should we investigate?” Simeon suggested. “Excuse us, ladies.”
He and Laurence hurried to the front entrance, which had already been barred for the night, and opened the door to a gust of snow. His grooms were standing about in a circle watching as a gentleman in a fur cape delivered a thrashing to some child in rags.
Laurence grabbed the man’s arm in mid-blow. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, and to the grooms, “Why didn’t you stop him?”
“The gypsy picked my pocket!” yelled the man in French.
“Them gypsies are all bloody thieves,” one of the grooms put in.
“And who the hell are you?” the man said to Laurence, his breath smoking in the chill air. “Some kin of the Jew’s?”
“He is my associate,” said Simeon. “And I’ll thank you to treat him with respect.”
“Tell him to get his hands off me! I want my money back. I came here to play.”
“We are closed, sir, and you would be wise to go home.”
“Do you know who I am? Seigneur Louis de Saint-Etienne!”
Simeon gestured for Laurence to release the Frenchman. “Your reputation precedes you, sir.”
“As well it should. And now I’m going to strip that little felon bare.”
Laurence glanced at the child cowering in the snow, whimpering, and then at Saint-Etienne, tall and arrogant in his rich furs. “How much money did he steal?” he asked the Frenchman, who named an impressive sum. “All right, then. I’ll give you the same amount, if you’ll wager it all against the house.”
Saint-Etienne looked amazed, and very pleased. “It’s a bargain!”
“What on earth are you playing at,” Simeon hissed to Laurence. “Let him wager his own coin.”
Laurence pretended not to hear. “And the child’s coming in with us,” he insisted, helping the boy up, over Simeon’s objections.
Inside, he asked a maidservant to take charge of the boy, while Saint-Etienne commanded that a table be cleared for the proceedings.
As they sat down, he ordered Laurence, “Roll up your sleeves. I won’t have any fancy moves tried on me.”
“Then you must do the same,” Laurence said, “once you’ve surrendered your sword.”
“No weapons are allowed here, sir – a policy of the house to which all customers are subject,” Simeon explained.
Saint-Etienne had to accede. With a pile of gold before him, he became calmer, and the opening hands were his. And as his pile grew, Laurence’s shrank.
“Monsieur Beaumont, I don’t like this,” Simeon murmured, in between rounds.
“Don’t worry,” Laurence murmured back. “Keep him well served.”
Marie brought forth some strong burnt wine in a crystal bottle, and they continued. At length Saint-Etienne pushed most of his winnings to the centre of the table. “Match that if you can!” he said.
Laurence had to request a loan from Simeon. Then they laid down their cards.
“By Christ,” exclaimed Saint-Etienne.
“Every dog will have his day,” Laurence said, sweeping up his gains. “Another hand?”
“Not with these poxy cards.” Saint-Etienne withdrew a deck of his own from the fur cape and tossed it on the table.
“Forgive us, but rules are rules,” Simeon intervened. “House cards only, sir.”
Laurence took the deck, shuffling it to see how the cards were
marked. “Now, Simeon,” he said, “for such a distinguished guest, we can make an exception. Your deal,” he told Saint-Etienne.
His confidence fully restored, the Frenchman wagered nearly all of his remaining money. But after the next hand, he groaned in disbelief.