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Authors: Roberta Gellis
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Conyers.
Having taken up residence in a modest but decent inn frequented by middle- to lower-class artisans, Roger broached his purpose to the group assembled in the main room the evening after his arrival. He liked Saulieu, he stated, and he saw there was no gunsmith in town. Was there a place where he could set up a temporary shop to buy, sell and mend until the town’s needs were satisfied?
He was not really surprised at the surreptitious glances the other men in the room cast at each other. He had guessed that the town administration must be in a turmoil and tyrannical to boot if a member of the National Assembly had been arrested.
The silence in response to Roger’s question was growing noticeable, and he had begun to raise his expressive eyes in simulated surprise when the innkeeper cleared his throat uneasily and agreed that Saulieu was a good place to live. It was so near the mountains, he said, and yet sheltered so that the climate was excellent. There was good fishing and good hunting, now that the forest laws were repealed.
“Ah well,” Roger laughed, “if you go on, you will make me wish to settle here, but I do not seem to be able to stay long in one place, even when there is sufficient business. However, one thing at a time. I must find a place to work if I am to stay at all, for a man like me has little in reserve, only enough for a few days’ food and lodging until I can begin to ply my trade.”
There were uneasy glances again, but one of the men by the bar said, “You should see Maître Foucalt, numéro trois, rue Gambetta. He will know better than we.”
Again eyes met briefly or were lowered. Roger noticed here and there a brief angry frown, but he remained deliberately blind, as if he were too intent on his own business to care about anything else. “And is it necessary for me to get permission from the Hôtel de Ville to set up shop?” he asked, seeming to pursue his purpose single-mindedly.
“Maître Foucalt will know best about that. We are all residents here and would not be affected by such a rule,” was the reply given by one of those who had initially frowned at the naming of Maître Foucalt.
Roger let the subject drop, asking next about whether there would be a good market for guns in the town and listening to the responses with half an ear. He had no way of knowing whether he had been directed to a spy of the town rulers or to a man opposed to them, but he was not much concerned about that. He knew himself to be an acute judge of men and did not doubt that his story would deceive a spy while he would be able toobtain some notion of what to do next.
Accordingly, bright and early he took himself to the address and requested a few moments of Maître Foucalt’s time. He was received promptly, almost with relief, as if a once-busy man now had not quite enough to do. After Roger had stated his problem, there were a few moments of cautious fencing. Then, suddenly, Maître Foucalt asked whether Roger was an Englishman. Roger was a little surprised. In this relatively small town buried in a mountainous region, it was unlikely that the people would have much contact with English travelers. However, Roger allowed that he had been born in England and asked blandly how Maître Foucalt had guessed his origin. The elderly man looked at him for a few seconds in silence.
“It is the way you say certain words,” he replied slowly at last, his eyes fixed intently on Roger’s face. Then his lips tightened, as If he had decided to take a chance on something. “It is the way Monsieur de Conyers spoke.”
The mention of de Conyers’ name was obviously an invitation. If Roger was what he claimed to be, he would show no more interest than a polite remark on the fact that there was another Englishman in the district. On the other hand if he had come to look for de Conyers—and that would not be so farfetched an idea to someone who knew Henry, knew he was the son of a nobleman, and knew that
Having taken up residence in a modest but decent inn frequented by middle- to lower-class artisans, Roger broached his purpose to the group assembled in the main room the evening after his arrival. He liked Saulieu, he stated, and he saw there was no gunsmith in town. Was there a place where he could set up a temporary shop to buy, sell and mend until the town’s needs were satisfied?
He was not really surprised at the surreptitious glances the other men in the room cast at each other. He had guessed that the town administration must be in a turmoil and tyrannical to boot if a member of the National Assembly had been arrested.
The silence in response to Roger’s question was growing noticeable, and he had begun to raise his expressive eyes in simulated surprise when the innkeeper cleared his throat uneasily and agreed that Saulieu was a good place to live. It was so near the mountains, he said, and yet sheltered so that the climate was excellent. There was good fishing and good hunting, now that the forest laws were repealed.
“Ah well,” Roger laughed, “if you go on, you will make me wish to settle here, but I do not seem to be able to stay long in one place, even when there is sufficient business. However, one thing at a time. I must find a place to work if I am to stay at all, for a man like me has little in reserve, only enough for a few days’ food and lodging until I can begin to ply my trade.”
There were uneasy glances again, but one of the men by the bar said, “You should see Maître Foucalt, numéro trois, rue Gambetta. He will know better than we.”
Again eyes met briefly or were lowered. Roger noticed here and there a brief angry frown, but he remained deliberately blind, as if he were too intent on his own business to care about anything else. “And is it necessary for me to get permission from the Hôtel de Ville to set up shop?” he asked, seeming to pursue his purpose single-mindedly.
“Maître Foucalt will know best about that. We are all residents here and would not be affected by such a rule,” was the reply given by one of those who had initially frowned at the naming of Maître Foucalt.
Roger let the subject drop, asking next about whether there would be a good market for guns in the town and listening to the responses with half an ear. He had no way of knowing whether he had been directed to a spy of the town rulers or to a man opposed to them, but he was not much concerned about that. He knew himself to be an acute judge of men and did not doubt that his story would deceive a spy while he would be able toobtain some notion of what to do next.
Accordingly, bright and early he took himself to the address and requested a few moments of Maître Foucalt’s time. He was received promptly, almost with relief, as if a once-busy man now had not quite enough to do. After Roger had stated his problem, there were a few moments of cautious fencing. Then, suddenly, Maître Foucalt asked whether Roger was an Englishman. Roger was a little surprised. In this relatively small town buried in a mountainous region, it was unlikely that the people would have much contact with English travelers. However, Roger allowed that he had been born in England and asked blandly how Maître Foucalt had guessed his origin. The elderly man looked at him for a few seconds in silence.
“It is the way you say certain words,” he replied slowly at last, his eyes fixed intently on Roger’s face. Then his lips tightened, as If he had decided to take a chance on something. “It is the way Monsieur de Conyers spoke.”
The mention of de Conyers’ name was obviously an invitation. If Roger was what he claimed to be, he would show no more interest than a polite remark on the fact that there was another Englishman in the district. On the other hand if he had come to look for de Conyers—and that would not be so farfetched an idea to someone who knew Henry, knew he was the son of a nobleman, and knew that
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