Read Online Merivel A Man of His Time by Rose Tremain - Free Book Online
Authors: Rose Tremain
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said, ‘I understand. But if one of you might direct me … I was advised to ask for the
Surintendents du Grand Commun
…’
Taking hold of my arm with his damp, meaty hand, this chef manoeuvred me towards the door through which I had arrived and pointed to a staircase at the far end of the passageway. ‘
Surintendents
up above,’ he said. ‘Not in the kitchens.’
For the next hour I walked the corridors of the
Grand Commun
, where the stone of the ground floor was replaced, on the First
étage
, by polished wood and great tapestries hung between the windows and marble busts, and statues were everywhere to be seen in a state of such magnificent whiteness, it was as though they had been brought this very day from the studio of the sculptor.
But it was difficult to look closely at anything, because every great space was choked with people: men and women wearing what I took to be the latest fashions from Paris and vitiating the air with their strong perfumes and their wig powder, and those strange chemicals the women use to paint black moles on their faces.
I walked among them with a smile on my lips, just as though I were an old habitué of the building, when in truth I had no idea where I was going, or whom, precisely, I was seeking, nor in what direction my orphaned Valises any longer resided.
I noted, after a while, that some of the Courtiers looked at me strangely and one man, wearing a coat of coral-coloured satin, flicked at my shoulder lightly with his thumb and forefinger, and laughed, before scampering away. And then the others in his company turned and regarded me, and joined in the laughter. I looked down at myself, to see whether mud or straw still clung to my coat, but it appeared clean enough, so I walked on, unknowing. And this is a thing I do detest, that others laugh at me for no reason that I can understand. I am happy to be the butt of a jest, as I frequently was at Whitehall, but to enjoy myself I must know what the jest is about.
Hunger persecuted me. I was almost ready to go down again to the kitchen and beg a bowl of soup from the chefs, when I was at last shown into the company of one of the
Surintendents
of the building by a kindly crone, walking in a slow and stately step, under a peculiar coiffure of black lace.
I felt, by this time, exhausted and teetering on the edge of some kind of madness. I clutched at this
Surintendent
with a desperate grip. For it seemed to me that the exquisite Order of the façades at Versailles was matched, once one entered the buildings, by a corresponding Chaos. I could make no sense of anything, so I held tightly to this man, like a desperado about to carry him off, guessing that only someone calling himself a
Surintendent
might possess the means to lighten for me my heavy burden of confusion.
‘Monsieur!’ I cried, reaching yet again for my Letter, and holding it out to him, ‘I am counting upon you to help me.’
‘Who are you?’ said the man, extricating himself deftly from my hold upon his arm.
I told him my name as calmly as I could, styling myself
Chevalier
Robert Merivel in the case that ‘Sir’ had no meaning for him, and drew his attention to the Great Seal on the Letter, which, to my vast consternation, he immediately broke.
‘
Ah, non!
’ I cried out. ‘
Non, Monsieur!
That Letter is intended for the King alone!’
The
Surintendent
paid no heed whatever to my distress, but only brought the Letter close to his face in order to read it. The Letter is brief, but his reading of it seemed to take him many long minutes. The he looked up and regarded me with a disbelieving air. ‘A Doctor?’ he said. ‘You are a Doctor?’
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘and it has been my good fortune to be of service to my most Beloved Majesty, King Charles. Thus, he recommends me for some service here …’
‘You do not appear like a Doctor.’
‘Nevertheless, that is what I am. I have held this profession for many years. I trained in Anatomy at Cambridge
Surintendents du Grand Commun
…’
Taking hold of my arm with his damp, meaty hand, this chef manoeuvred me towards the door through which I had arrived and pointed to a staircase at the far end of the passageway. ‘
Surintendents
up above,’ he said. ‘Not in the kitchens.’
For the next hour I walked the corridors of the
Grand Commun
, where the stone of the ground floor was replaced, on the First
étage
, by polished wood and great tapestries hung between the windows and marble busts, and statues were everywhere to be seen in a state of such magnificent whiteness, it was as though they had been brought this very day from the studio of the sculptor.
But it was difficult to look closely at anything, because every great space was choked with people: men and women wearing what I took to be the latest fashions from Paris and vitiating the air with their strong perfumes and their wig powder, and those strange chemicals the women use to paint black moles on their faces.
I walked among them with a smile on my lips, just as though I were an old habitué of the building, when in truth I had no idea where I was going, or whom, precisely, I was seeking, nor in what direction my orphaned Valises any longer resided.
I noted, after a while, that some of the Courtiers looked at me strangely and one man, wearing a coat of coral-coloured satin, flicked at my shoulder lightly with his thumb and forefinger, and laughed, before scampering away. And then the others in his company turned and regarded me, and joined in the laughter. I looked down at myself, to see whether mud or straw still clung to my coat, but it appeared clean enough, so I walked on, unknowing. And this is a thing I do detest, that others laugh at me for no reason that I can understand. I am happy to be the butt of a jest, as I frequently was at Whitehall, but to enjoy myself I must know what the jest is about.
Hunger persecuted me. I was almost ready to go down again to the kitchen and beg a bowl of soup from the chefs, when I was at last shown into the company of one of the
Surintendents
of the building by a kindly crone, walking in a slow and stately step, under a peculiar coiffure of black lace.
I felt, by this time, exhausted and teetering on the edge of some kind of madness. I clutched at this
Surintendent
with a desperate grip. For it seemed to me that the exquisite Order of the façades at Versailles was matched, once one entered the buildings, by a corresponding Chaos. I could make no sense of anything, so I held tightly to this man, like a desperado about to carry him off, guessing that only someone calling himself a
Surintendent
might possess the means to lighten for me my heavy burden of confusion.
‘Monsieur!’ I cried, reaching yet again for my Letter, and holding it out to him, ‘I am counting upon you to help me.’
‘Who are you?’ said the man, extricating himself deftly from my hold upon his arm.
I told him my name as calmly as I could, styling myself
Chevalier
Robert Merivel in the case that ‘Sir’ had no meaning for him, and drew his attention to the Great Seal on the Letter, which, to my vast consternation, he immediately broke.
‘
Ah, non!
’ I cried out. ‘
Non, Monsieur!
That Letter is intended for the King alone!’
The
Surintendent
paid no heed whatever to my distress, but only brought the Letter close to his face in order to read it. The Letter is brief, but his reading of it seemed to take him many long minutes. The he looked up and regarded me with a disbelieving air. ‘A Doctor?’ he said. ‘You are a Doctor?’
‘Yes,’ said I, ‘and it has been my good fortune to be of service to my most Beloved Majesty, King Charles. Thus, he recommends me for some service here …’
‘You do not appear like a Doctor.’
‘Nevertheless, that is what I am. I have held this profession for many years. I trained in Anatomy at Cambridge
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