Both newcomers were of medium height and of middle age. The first was dressed in a silk coat and breeches of clerical black; the white stock cut low added to the impression that he might be of the church; but no recognizable brand of Christianity was observable on his face, which was thin and of a ruddy complexion and simian in expression. He was clean-shaven, wore his own greying hair, which had a reddish tinge; his eyes were small and of a deep bloodshot brown. The second man was in a pale-blue coat and breeches with a white fur waistcoat. He had a long pendulous nose and sensuous lips. His skin was the colour of a man who has had yellow fever, and he wore an eye-patch. He seemed to be attendant upon the first, not as a servant but as a lesser light of the same order. Both were looking about the room to see who was there. A flow of French conversation washed over Demelza. She said: 'Where is your regiment stationed?'
'Outside Brussels, ma'am.'
'My son is in the army,' she said. 'Jeremy Poldark. He too is in Brussels. Perhaps you know him?'
'What regiment?'
"The 52nd Oxfordshires.'
'I shall make a point of seeking his acquaintance when I return.'
Brigadier Rougiet was introducing Ross to three other French officers, brilliant in their greens and golds, and for a while Ross was content to join in the conversation and listen. Sometimes his knowledge of French failed and the sentences slipped by before he could catch them, but he realized that all these high-ranking officers had been in Napoleon's army until last year. One had been at the occupation of Moscow and the disastrous retreat; another called Marchand had been at Bussaco under Massena. But that was all over and past. They showed no signs of bitterness or resentment at their defeat - Liverpool had said this was a rampant sentiment - but perhaps it was their natural good manners which did not allow them to betray their feelings to an Englishman. Some ten minutes later he glanced through the big open doors and saw two strange middle-aged men talking to Demelza, one in black silk, the other in blue, with an eye-patch. She was smiling at them and answering back but clearly not at all comfortable in their presence. In a gap in the conversation Ross said in an aside to Rougiet: 'Who are the two men talking to my wife?'
A sardonic expression crossed Rougiet's scarred face.
'The one in black is the Duke of Otranto; the other is M Tallien.' After a moment he added: 'Both survivals of the revolutionary days.'
'Indeed.'
'M Tallien was responsible for sending Robespierre to the guillotine. The Duke of Otranto has been all things to all men for so long that one does not know what he believes in, except himself.'
'It is hard to remember that the worst excesses of the revolution were not so long ago. What is it - twenty-three years since Robespierre's death?'
'Twenty-one.'
'But surely - a duke in a revolutionary council?'
'He was Joseph Fouche. You may know his name. For many years he was Minister of Police under Bonaparte. Indeed, was so until last year.'
'And how is it that he - that they - are welcome guests at this reception?'
Rougiet smiled. 'Perhaps not welcome but accepted. It is impossible for a simple soldier such as myself to understand all the ramifications of French politics. So perhaps even less so for you, sir, as an Englishman. Fouche was one of the signatories of the death warrant of Louis the Sixteenth, yet when his brother ascends the throne Otranto is forgiven and allowed his freedom and his influence. Influence, I suppose, is the word. He always seems to have influence, and the King has made use of him. In any devil's brew, in any cauldron of muddy political intrigue, Fouche can be relied on to swim to the top.'
Ross stared across the room. 'I wonder who introduced them to my wife.'
'I do not suppose they waited for an introduction. Tallien is a great ladies' man. Indeed, all his life he has been a great lecher. And your wife, sir, if I may say so, is a beautiful woman.'
'I have often thought so,' said Ross, nevertheless looking across at Demelza with new eyes.
'She has such freshness, such a lack of artificiality, of pretence. I mean, of course, as to her physical appearance, for I hardly know her; but I would suppose she is equally untrammelled by affectation in her personal life.'
'You are entirely correct, sir,' said Ross. Lady Poldark being much preoccupied with her two middle-aged revolutionaries, Lieutenant Havergal had been able to draw IsabellaRose aside.
'I hope, Miss Poldark, your mother will permit me to show you something of Paris while you are here.'
'Curse me,' said Bella, who had never been called Miss Poldark before. 'That would be enjoyable, but I do not think my mother would allow it! For is not Paris a very wicked place?'
'Wicked, yes. But also exciting and beautiful. Perhaps your mother would consent to come with us and then we could go to the Tivoli Gardens together? There is great entertainment to be had there.'
'It would be enjoyable,' said Bella again, looking at his moustache and wondering if it tickled. 'You must ask Mama, for if you asked she would be far more likely to agree than if I did.'
There was a silence between them for a moment.
'Have you seen the boudoir rose?' asked Havergal. 'See, it is just through here..." He led her off, a finger on her arm. "That is the Princess Borghese's bed. She was Napoleon's sister, you know. She used to recline on this bed all morning, entertaining visitors.'
Bella stared round the room, with its elegant draperies, and at the blue silk and satin bed. Then she glanced up at Havergal, who was regarding her with frank admiration. She looked back at him for a few seconds with equal frankness and then dimpled at him and had the grace to lower her eyes. They walked back slowly into the grand salon.
'I was damn near involved in a duel this morning,' said Havergal. 'There's always duels about in this town. But it was Charlie Cranfield - Lord Cranfield, that is - who provoked it. We'd been out together, the four of us ...' He paused. 'Perhaps this is not a suitable story for a young lady's ears.'
"You must tell me at once,' said Bella, 'or I shall explode with frustration.'
He laughed. 'Well, 'twas all a storm in a teacup, believe me. You see we had all been dining at Very's, which is a famous restaurant near the Palais Royal, and had been looking upon the wine when it was red, if you follow. In coming out there were some mendicants trying to sell us a variety of nasty trinkets, and Cranfield kicked their merchandise into the gutter. A Frenchman stopped to protest, and Cranfield pushed him into the gutter. Alas, the Frenchman was a captain in the 3rd Chasseurs, so after an angry scene cards were exchanged for a meeting this morning.'
'Oh,' said Bella.
'Well, d'ye know, my dear Miss Poldark, when I got to my lodgings last night it was very late and they were all bolted and barred, so Charlie Cranfield says come home with us, Christopher, he says. So home I go with them and bed down on a sofa in front of a crackling fire. Next thing I know it is early in the morning and a hammering on the door and who should be there but our chasseur and his two friends all anxious to proceed with the duel! Now out of the bedroom appears Charlie Cranfield himself wearing nothing but a baggy pair of trousers and a nightcap full of holes. Ye see, he is so particular to have it aired that it has got many times singed in the process. And following him comes Captain Merriman of the Leicestershires wrapped in a huge blanket and wearing his army trousers and no more; and then the other chap whose name escapes me, rubbing his eyes and whistling through the hole in his teeth that he has had bored to imitate the coachmen, and not one of the three can understand a word of what the chasseur and his seconds are saying!'
'Oh,' said Bella, clasping her hands.
'Well, you may imagine I was much in demand as an interpreter, since I was the only one in the room with any pretensions to be bi-lingual, and I am none too fluent. But I was able to convey to Charlie Cranfield that M le Chasseur wished him to choose his weapons. Now Charlie has quite forgotten all about the quarrel and what offence he gave, but he is ever ready for a bit of a fight so he says fusils. He thinks it means a duel with pistols, my dear, dear Miss Poldark, but fusil means a musket or a fowling piece, which at twenty paces would be certain Kingdom Come for the one who was slowest at pulling the trigger. Our French friends are much taken aback, but I believe are about to agree when Merriman, standing with his back to the fire, which is still glowing hot, lets go his hand upon his belt, whereupon his trousers slip down over his ankles!'
'Oh,' said Bella, giggling.
'That is exactly what happened! Everyone bursts out laughing at such a frightful sight, even the Frenchmen, and in next to no time everyone has forgiven everyone else and we all sit down with a bottle of wine that by some fortunate chance has been overlooked last night! But this is what can happen in Paris all the time! Do allow me to fetch you another ice.'
Jean-Lambert Tallien said: 'Madame, I was in your country in 1801, as a prisonnier, but a much-honoured one. I was returning from Egypt, where I had been editor of the newspaper officiel, and my vessel was captured by a British cruiser and I was taken to England.'
'I'm glad you were well treated, sir,' said Demelza.
'But indeed. I was, of course, a noncombatant, you understand. But as a former President of the Convention I was entertained most generously by Mr Charles James Fox and members of his famous circle.'
In spite of his eye-patch he was not without attraction. Yet it was a disagreeable attraction. His one eye was dark brown and bright and twinkling. His long red nose was sensitive and fastidious. He had a full sensuous bottom lip with a deep cleft in it. Although probably about fifty years of age, he was still on the hunt. He smelt of lavender.
'I gather that you are visiting Paris with your husband, madame. He is here tonight?'
'Yes, in the other room. Captain - I mean Sir Ross Poldark.'
'Lady Poldark. It could be a French name, eh? Are you part French?'
'No, Cornish.'
'Ah, Cornouailles. There I have never been to visit. It is like our Brittany, eh? I know Brittany ver' well. And how long do you stay in Paris?'
'Some weeks.'
'It is all vacances? Holiday?'
'Er - yes. I have never been before. My husband came in 1803.'
'Then I trust we shall meet again, madame. Many times. Paris is very big, but Paris is very small. You understand?'
'I am afraid not.'
'It has a larger populace of - of les vins ordinaires. A small populace of those who are important in the life of the state. So this smaller group meets again and again - meeting, dissolving, re-meeting in other surroundings, the melange not always the same but similar.'
During this exchange the Duke of Otranto had been eyeing her and then glancing round the assembled company with the same chilly, assessing gaze as he would no doubt have looked out upon a hard-working guillotine. Demelza thought that her hesitation when asked if they were here on holiday had been carefully noted and filed away in a cold, calculating mind. She had no idea who the Duke of Otranto was or where his interests lay; all she knew was that she didn't like him or trust him. Indeed, if circumstances ever ran against her, she would be scared of him.
Ross, intent on rescuing her from the attentions of her two strange men, was stopped half-way across the room by John McKenzie, the under-secretary, and told that Colonel de la Blache wished to meet him. A dapper youngish man was standing beside McKenzie and he came forward and grasped Ross's hand.
'My dear friend,' he said, 'if it is not too much to call you that on first acquaintance; but I believe you met my sister Jodie in Cornwall many years ago.'
'Oh,' said Ross. 'Yes, I did. She was engaged to marry Charles de Sombreuil, and we met at a house called Trelissick overlooking the River Fal. That was many years ago. Twenty, I think? I believe it was the summer of '95.'
'Alas, poor Charles. I was only eleven at the time ... A noble and kindly man. He was the last de Sombreuil. The restored estates have now gone to a cousin of another name. Did I not hear you were involved in the tragic landing at Quiberon?'
'Yes. I was with him until nearly the end.'
'Mile de la Blache heard that you were here and would very much like to meet you both again. Perhaps we can arrange something?'
'Willingly. Your sister never married, then?'
Yes, she married an Austrian but is now a widow. When the King returned she reverted to her original name. She is now head of the family. Both our parents, of course, went to the guillotine. But she will tell you all about it when you meet. Is your wife here?'
Yes. Come with me. I will take you to meet her.'
Late in February Clowance went to spend the night with the Enyses. Easter was early this year so they would soon be making preparations to join their friends in Paris. After the storms of December the winter had been mild and wet in Cornwall, the endless days of drifting rain interspersed with springlike hours of sudden sunshine. But in late February a cold spell set in and as she rode up to Killewarren flakes of snow were drifting in the wind. The shabby old house, which in twenty years had received only marginal improvements - since both Enyses preferred it as it was looked speckled and damp in the shifting morning light. To her surprise Music Thomas was there to take her horse and lead it away, and when Dwight opened the door he explained that Myners had sprained his ankle and Bone was a-bed with influenza so they had borrowed Thomas from Place House. Since Valentine Warleggan and Selina were in Cambridge, it seemed he could easily be spared; in fact Saul Grieves, who was in charge of the house while they were away, had given Dwight to understand he would not be upset if Music never came back. They went upstairs into the drawing-room and Caroline embraced her and gave her a glass of canary to whet her appetite for dinner. After they had talked in a jolly way for a few minutes Dwight handed her a cutting from The Times, wondering if she had seen it. Clowance squealed with utter surprise.
'Heavens above! My dear, dear life and body! Mama told me he had been offered it before Christmas but she said he had definitely and absolutely refused.'
'So he did. I cannot imagine what can have persuaded him to think better of it - some sort of extra pressure must have been applied. He would never take it willingly.'
'And why ever not?' demanded Caroline. 'He has done so much in one way and another for the Government, for the country, over the last ten years - entirely without reward. He's been a Member of Parliament for much longer than that. Sometimes he has neglected his own affairs - think of the tin scandal; that was when you were very young, darling - but there have been other, lesser things. So it's only right - very meet, right and proper that he should get some recognition now!'
'It's very meet and right,' Dwight agreed. 'I'm delighted that he's accepted, but still astounded.'
'A baronetcy,' said Clowance, staring at the cutting.
"That means, doesn't it, that it will go on? Golly! So one day there will be a Sir Jeremy. Crikey - what fun! And Mama! That I cannot believe. Lady Poldark! I do not suppose it will make one whit of difference to her. Oh, I am so delighted!'
"You must not ever tease her about it,' said Caroline.
'When she comes home among her own people it will be troublesome for a few months, but then everyone will accept it and forget it has ever been any different.'
'I have been expecting a letter,' said Clowance, 'but I suppose they will have been travelling all the time. I wonder if they are in Paris by now.'
At dinner Clowance chatted brightly about herself and about Stephen and the way he was prospering in his coastal trade, and the new house he was proposing to build and the furniture they intended to buy when they could afford it, and their occasional evening at Cardew and Stephen's ambition to find himself a good hunter to partner Nero instead of hiring a hack or depending on Lady Harriet for a loan; and what a pity Caroline rode with the Forbra for it would be lovely if they were able all to go together. Last week, Clowance said, an American privateer had come in to Falmouth for a refit and repairs; the rules of the sea were strange that he was given this facility even though he might afterward prey on our ships in the open Channel. And another frigate had just come in with news of the casualties of the last battle of the American war - at New Orleans - and those who had seen the lists had said they were frightful. What news of Jeremy? Caroline asked.
'I had a letter only last week. Being in the army for him has been not at all unagreeable. He seems to spend little or no time soldiering and most of his time taking Cuby to balls and soirees and tea parties. They do seem so happy, so very, very happy.'
Caroline thought Clowance was talking too much and too brightly; it was not in her nature to chatter. What impression was she making an effort to give? What was she trying not to say? Was she already missing her parents? Or was it because she was not having a baby? Or was her marriage to Stephen less of a success than she had romantically pictured it would be? Caroline put these questions to Dwight when they retired that night. Dwight said: 'The trouble with Clowance is that she doesn't know how to dissemble, so when she tries she makes a hash of it .:. But we are only guessing. Perhaps she is well enough and married life is just effecting a change.'
Next morning in a fine spell Clowance went over to see Jud and Prudie, but about midday the snowflakes fell thicker, black spots drifting down from the pewter sky, and she decided to leave for home. Having failed to persuade her to spend another night with them, Caroline said: "You shall not go alone. In any case it is not safe to be a solitary lady with so much distress about.'
"You can hardly lecture me,' Clowance said, 'since you ride so much alone yourself. I'm well able to look after myself.'
'On the contrary, I scarcely ever ride alone since the end of the war. With so many discharged and destitute soldiers about it is no longer safe.'
'Music will go with you,' said Dwight. Clowance laughed. 'Would I not be safer on my own?'
'Oh, he rides very well. And he is much underrated. Having once been dubbed the village butt, people laugh at his attempts to escape from that derogatory pigeonhole.'
'Dwight has been trying to help him for long enough,'
said Caroline, wrinkling her nose.
'Because he came to me for help in the first place! In some respects he is very slow - almost half-witted, I agree but in others he is quite quick and able and willing to learn. And he has learned. I have a mind to offer him permanent work here - we could do with another man. But I know he would be likely to refuse.'
'Why?'
'Because he has this hopeless passion for Katie Carter, who is now head housemaid at Place House.'
'Katie Carter? Ben's sister? I didn't know. I thought I knew everything that went on in Grambler and Sawle!'
Clowance spoke with slight embarrassment, because of Ben's hopeless passion for her. It was Ben who, by his fight with Stephen, had been instrumental in delaying their wedding by more than a year. 'And why is it hopeless?'
'Katie tends to the general view, that he is a simpleton. Also, there is a rumour that she is taking up with Saul Grieves. After all, it is a more natural union.'
'Dwight doesn't care for Saul Grieves,' said Caroline, picking Horace the Third up from the rug and rubbing his little pug nose.
'Oh, it's no more than a feeling,' said Dwight, as always anxious to be fair. 'I've never attended him. But he has two faces, one, ingratiating, which he turns on to the gentry, another, intimidating, which he turns on those he considers less important than himself.'
'And Valentine and Selina are likely to be absent for some time?'
"They should be back for the Easter holidays.'
II
Clowance and her tall gangling smiling escort left at 12.30. Music rode one of Dwight's older horses, and had difficulty at first in keeping up with Nero who was full of spirit after a night in strange stables. But after Nero had exhausted his first energies Music caught up. Then he remained, respectfully, a horse's length behind, following at a steady pace, adjusting himself to Clowance's. The snow was lying, which was unusual for Cornwall. Often a fall of snow was followed by brilliant sunshine which melted it away. Today there was a thick misty pall of cloud, low lying, steamy, cold. After leaving the wooded area around Killewarren they climbed to the moorland where the bleakness of the day was accentuated by the bleakness of the scene. The few mining cottages crouched more closely among the ruined mine houses and the working mines. Piles of dead stuff stood like hills everywhere. A mule train threaded its way among the excavations and the pits and the rubble. Children, grey-faced and ragged, were still at work stirring the water round and round with their bare feet. Clowance shivered and urged Nero into a trot. Once they were past the worst she slowed again, and when Music slowed she stopped and beckoned him to catch up.
'Have you ever been this way before, Music?'
'Nay, ma'am, I not been gwan this way afore. 'Tes all stra-ange, you.'
Clowance noticed that his voice had deepened from the reedy alto she remembered. He'd filled out too, was not so gangling and stooping as she remembered; and on a horse his peculiar prancing walk did not show.
'I hope you will be able to find your way back.'
Music turned and looked behind him as if to reassure himself. 'Oh, ais. I d'reckon I can always find me way
'ome.'
'Well, I'm quite safe now. It is only a few miles further, down among these woods. The snow is getting worse. You can safely leave me here.'
His face showed doubt, almost dismay, as it always did when confused by new directions. Then it cleared. 'Oh, no, ma'am. Surgeon telled me. I always d'do what Surgeon tell me. I see ee right 'ome to yer door. That's what Surgeon d'say.'
'Do you like working for Dr Enys?'
'Oh, ais, ma'am. He done a lot for me. See ee right
'ome to yer door. That's what he d'say.'
They proceeded downhill. Now they were out of the mining district it was very quiet, the world an empty bowl of silence; there was just the click and creak of harness, the scrape of a hoof on a stone, breath rising like steam from horses and riders, distantly now and then the desolate squawk of a bird. Music still tried to keep a respectful distance behind, but Clowance kept waiting for him and some talk resulted. She could see what Dwight meant. Somewhere at the back of the stupidity there was a reasoning brain. He was reluctantly telling her a little about his work at Place House when he broke off and half checked his horse.
'What be that?'
'What? I didn't hear anything.'
'Hark! Wait now! Hark!'
They both stopped. The sighing wind blew the snow dove-soft against her face.
'Hark!' he said again. 'There!'
She heard it now. It was a wail, a howl, over to their left, a distance over to their left. It was still rough ground here but improving: gorse and hawthorn and bramble, but coppices of elm and mixed wood not far away.
'It sounds like a dog.'
'Ais. Or a caow. Go see, shall I?'
'I'll come with you.'
They broke away from the track they were on and made a diagonal approach to the woods.
'Wait,' she said. 'It's someone's property. This fencing is new. Where would we be? The back of Lord Devoran's? No, he'd be farther down the valley. It might be the Hills'
place. Can you see any house, Music?'
'Nay, ma'am.'
A small gate with a loop of wire over the post to fasten it. The howl came again, much nearer this time. She slid down off Nero and opened the gate.
'We'll leave the horses here,' she said. 'It's too rough for them.'
'Leave me go see, ma'am. Tedn't right for ee neither. Leave me go see.'
She took no notice of this, and pursued the overgrown path, which was scarcely two feet wide, leading from the gate. The snow was sticky, heavy on the branches, cascaded over them when they disturbed it. Her fur hat was soon white, the hem of her skirt embroidered with it. Although still early afternoon the woods winnowed the light, and shadows frowned from the overhanging snow. Music stumbled twice. But she noticed he no longer walked on his toes. The sound had stopped. They waited and nothing happened, except that a stoat fled across their path and a pheasant stirred in a nearby tree. The path had run into a clearing about ten yards in diameter, but here it seemed to end.
'What now?' she said to Music. Reckon 'twas this way. Reckon 'twas this way somewhere. He've gone quiet. Maybe we'd best be going back.'
'Wait a bit.'
Silence. The quietness of the snow ate into their ears.
'Who-eee,' called Clowance. 'Is anyone there?' It did the trick. The howl came almost immediately from a few dozen yards to their left. Music pushed through the undergrowth, getting snow-smothered. Clowance followed and presently stopped. It was a dog, caught in some sort of a trap. A very big dog, the size of a young calf but much thinner. Lean flanked, grey-flanked, great head, sharp-eared, red tongue lolling. Clowance had seen it often before - at the Warleggan fireside - frequently to George's distaste but tolerated for Harriet's pleasure. The dog had been caught in an iron trap; one leg was held by a spring device with short iron teeth.
'My dear life,' said Music. "Tes a mantrap, you. God save us all!'
There were two of these boarhounds. Castor and Pollux. Which was this? The creature had obviously been in the trap for some hours and had torn its leg trying to pull free. But there was no chance of pulling free for the trap was attached to a steel chain which itself was fixed to a concrete stone sunk in the ground. The dog was panting but had its eyes closed.
'Castor,' said Clowance. One eye opened; a gleam of quick intelligence. It seemed she had guessed right first time.
'Castor. You poor, poor dog. Oh, my dear, it makes me sick to see you. Music!'
'Ais, 'm?'
'Can you spring the trap?'
'Oh, ais. 'Tes like most traps only biggerer. Ye d'pull them two levers back.'
'But are you strong enough? The springs must be so strong to prevent a man opening them.'
'Oh, ais. But he couldn't get at 'em, see? 'Tis strength and knack. Strength and knack ... 'Twill 'urt the 'ound some awful. 'E's like to leap and bite.'
'I don't think so. He knows me, don't you, Castor? Don't you, boy? He'll know we're trying to help him, and he's quite weak, I think. He's lost a lot of blood. I think we must try. I will put my arm around his shoulders when you begin. You can open it quick?'
'Oh, ais, I can open of 'n quick.'
George Warleggan was in a bad temper. Although normally tight-lipped and taciturn, it was seldom that he allowed himself the luxury of anger. He seldom had to. The mere sight of his annoyance was enough to send most people scurrying. (But not his wife.) But today his mood was of the blackest.