III
Unlike in France, the day had been fine in Cornwall and visibility was at its most startling. The heavy rains which had washed the snows away had so drenched the atmosphere that no dirt or smoke or steam remained. Everything could be seen for miles. Not that this greatly affected the interior of Warleggan & Willyams Bank in Truro. Windows as usual were scrupulously clean but, as befitted a building in which security was paramount, they were small and the cross frames were reinforced with iron bars. The sun thieved its way in but received no priority treatment.
Frederick Lander, the chief clerk, came quickly to his feet when at about five in the afternoon his employer entered the little office behind the main counter. Lander was a man of forty-six, who had the misfortune to have bad teeth and disagreeable breath, but George bore with him, overcoming his distaste for the sake of the man’s acute financial brain.
‘Sir?’
George turned over the guineas in his fob and stared at the clerk, not quite sure how to announce his purpose.
‘Mr Stephen Carrington is one of our clients.’
‘Yes, sir. And doing pretty well for himself, I rather fancy.’
‘No doubt. And largely thanks to us. He came to us, as you know, about six months ago, putting his affairs in our hands. Since then he has prospered.’
Lander sucked some of the tartar off his teeth. Yes, sir.’
‘When he came,’ said George, ‘you will recall that his attempts to keep a record of the financial transactions in which he was engaged were primitive, minimal.’
‘They were, sir. I helped him to go through them, at your request. Really they were just entries in a notebook, and none too many of those. No attempt, of course, to strike any balance or keep a detailed log. Since then, with our help, all that has been changed.’
Sunlight was reflected from the top of a deed box and a ray struck George’s grey cheek. He turned away.
‘I would like you to go carefully into his books. Such as they were before he joined us, but more particularly since. I would wish you to scrutinize each entry for its accuracy and for any discrepancies which may appear.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If there are any I would like you to find them.’
‘Of course, sir.’
There was a pause.
‘Mr Carrington does not have, I would imagine, a good head for figures.’
‘Well, sir, average, I suppose. He is very – alert, as you might say; has quite an instinct for making money. But, of course, I have been helping and advising him, at your request, sir, so it may be that all his later book-keeping will be free of serious error. I thought that was your intention, sir.’
‘So it is. So it was. But are you sure that all the information with which he has furnished you is as accurate as it might be?’
‘Not that, certainly, no, sir. But I have never found him out to be untruthful deliberate. He does not have much patience, like, hasn’t really time for detail. Putting it down in black and white and red, so to say. Could do with a full-time clerk, I would advise.’
‘See that this matter is looked into, will you. I should like you to spend some time on it.’
‘Only last week,’ said Lander, ‘he accepted a contract by word of mouth and a shake of the hand. He’s willing to do the sums later. Would you like—’
‘See what you can find,’ said George impatiently. It was better after all that there should be no misunderstanding.
IV
French society – or more properly Anglo-French society – or that part of it which in some way had connections with the Court – found Ross and Demelza an attractive couple, and there was a round of events in which they became involved, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Demelza went on her own, that is, with Emily Fitzroy Somerset, to meet the fearsome and formidable Mme de Staël. The company was altogether brilliant, and included her secret husband, Albert de Rocca, and her daughter, Albertine. Demelza was terrified, but the conversation of the entire afternoon was conducted in English for her benefit, and Germaine, as her closest friends called her, seemed to take a fancy to the alert, humorous Cornishwoman.
Mme de Staël gave it as her opinion that if by any frightful mischance Napoleon ever came back to control France again it would be the end of all liberty.
The same evening Ross went with Charles Bagot to the Palais Royal. This enormous building, erected round five courtyards and formerly the home of the Dukes of Orléans, had for the last quarter century been given over to the lower pleasures of Parisian life. Although close to the Louvre, it was surrounded by a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys and was considered to be the very centre of the city’s dissipation and depravity. No decent woman would be seen there, but Bagot said a man could not possibly visit Paris, even on the soberest of missions, without spending an evening in the place.
The ground floor had neatly arcaded shops and booths, and an uncountable number of restaurants and cafés and drinking dens; below were the vast wine cellars, gaming houses, billiard and hazard tables, dance halls and beer parlours; on the first floor, vastly larger gambling rooms, and bawdy houses so public as to be exhibitions in themselves. The top floor was chiefly for prostitutes, but in fact they were everywhere. Noise and quarrels and semi-nudity and sweating clowns and drunken soldiers and beggars and pickpockets abounded. Not surprisingly, the present Duke of Orléans had not attempted to reclaim it as his own.
The only incident of note on this particular evening was when a drunken Grenadier fell over Ross’s foot and accused him of having stretched out his leg deliberately. It seemed inevitable that cards would be exchanged and seconds appointed, but Ross, contrary to the habits of a lifetime, apologized profusely and insisted on buying the Frenchman an expensive drink, whereupon the incident ended peacefully. They left the Frenchman laughing but talking loudly of le sale Anglais.
When they were out of earshot Charles Bagot said with an inflexion of criticism in his voice: ‘You were well quit of that. These out-of-work officers have little better to do than pick quarrels and shoot each other.’
‘It’s a new policy I have,’ said Ross.
On the Sunday they were invited to sup with a Countess de Jordan at her apartment in the rue de Clichy. Ross had referred the invitation to Jodie de la Blache – as he was coming to refer many things – and she said: ‘I know this one by repute but I have never met her. There are a number such in Paris. She has no title: it is just assumed to give her the importance. As you will have seen, titles are held in esteem in Paris today and one can hardly afford to be without one.’
‘Yet you abandoned yours.’
Jodie fingered the ring de Sombreuil had left her. ‘It was an Austrian title. And the de la Blaches do not need one in Paris.’
Ross inclined his head. ‘Is there anything against one going to take supper with the lady – apart from the fact that she is presumably a parvenue?’
‘She is not so much a parvenue as an adventuress, employed by other adventurers to entice the unwary. After supper you will be invited to gamble, and the tables are always crooked.’
Ross looked at Demelza. ‘We have accepted, but can make an excuse . . .’ To Jodie he said: ‘There will be army officers there?’
‘Oh, of a certainty.’
‘So it’s likely that much will be said about Bonaparte . . . I am trying to gain all the information I can . . . Would it be better if I went without Demelza?’
‘No,’ said Demelza.
So they went together.
V
Their hostess was elegant in a slim-fitting gown with black sequins and ostrich feathers. She was gracious to all, and her guests, though not of the group with which the Poldarks had previously mingled, were titled and rich and from both the army and the navy.
Another fine house, this, with two rooms adjoining, one for supper, one for gaming. Silver candelabra lighted each end of the dining-table, which was laid with a damask cloth, Limoges china, antique silver. A sirloin of beef
was flanked by game, poultry, ham, tongue, lobster, salads; preserves and confections, creams, jellies, fruits. The rooms were made to look larger by the use of carefully sited mirrors and mirror branches candle-lit; the chimney pieces were hung in crimson and gold velvet; chandeliers suspended from the ceiling seemed to glisten as much from the cut glass as from the lights they carried.
Before supper and through supper, as Ross had hoped, the topic was Bonaparte. He could now no longer be ignored, but as the foggy weather had persisted accurate information was impossible to come by. It was said that he had reached Grenoble, marching two hundred miles in a week, and not a shot had been fired. At the gates of Grenoble, confronted by troops under hostile officers, who were ordering them to fire, he had walked forward calling, ‘Soldiers of the Fifth, do you recognize me?’ and when it was clear that they did he had opened his greatcoat and walked towards them smiling and inviting them to shoot their Emperor. They had unanimously thrown down their arms and joined him.
Some said Bonaparte now had four thousand troops at his disposal, others eight thousand. But in any case, this was all several days ago. What of Lyon, the capital city of the Rhône, only eighty miles north of Grenoble, where the Royalists were in force under the command of the Comte d’Artois, the King’s brother? It was said that Napoleon had met with resistance on the way and had turned back towards the south.
There was also talk of a revolt that had broken out in Lille and, led by General Desnouettes, was now heading for the capital . . .
But overall the mood was jolly, not unaided by the dry, cool, tingling champagne served before, during and after the meal. Soon after supper people drifted towards the gaming room where a long oval hazard table occupied the centre of the room, with rouge-et-noir on one side of it and roulette on the other. A very pretty French girl approached Ross, and he allowed himself to be steered in the direction of the tables. (It had been planned before between himself and Demelza that he should allow himself to be treated as a dupe; but she could have wished that the girl might have been less obviously ravishing.)
Early on they had seen the Duke of Otranto was present – though this time not accompanied by Tallien. So far they had avoided him, but going into the gaming room they came face to face.
‘Sir Ross,’ said the Duke, in his even, clerical voice. ‘So you are still in Paris?’
‘Did you suppose I should be elsewhere?’ It was only the second time they had ever spoken. Ross looked restlessly over this priesdy regicide, this one-time leader of the Jacobins, who by sheer manipulative skill had ridden all the storms of revolution, dictatorship and restoration and still remained a power in the French establishment.
‘My inquiry was a solicitous one,’ Fouché said, bowing to Demelza. ‘Reports have it that many English are making preparations to leave Paris, or have already left. I understand that the Duchess of Wellington plans to leave tomorrow.’
‘Are you suggesting that it is dangerous for the English to remain in Paris?’
‘I am suggesting nothing, sir. I am simply observing – observing not so much a migration as an emigration. I suppose it is always possible that if Napoleon should reconquer France – which Heaven forbid! – the British might suffer at his hands in the way they did before. That must be the opinion of your Minister Plenipotentiary, who, when consulted, is advising your countrymen to leave.’
‘And what if the other revolt should succeed?’
‘The other?’ Fouché’s eyes, which Demelza thought were like a fox’s, clouded. ‘Oh, that uprising led by General Desnouettes? If the King of Rome is put on the throne, there will clearly have to be a regency, of which I shall hope to be a member; and I can assure you in that case that the English will have nothing to fear!’
‘Nor the French?’ Ross asked. ‘The loyalist French?’
‘Oh,’ Fouché shrugged; ‘I have lived in every climate; why should not they?’
‘Perhaps they do not all have your ability to trim your sails to differing winds.’ After Fouché had looked his dislike at the remark, Ross added: ‘Many were not given the opportunity.’
‘I don’t think I follow you.’
‘Courtesy forbids me to remind you of the massacres in Brittany, the countless women and children murdered on the guillotine.’
Fouché smiled. ‘It is a strange kind of courtesy, sir, which seeks to offend while pretending the opposite. This is an English custom, no doubt?’
‘It is an English custom’, said Ross, ‘to dislike regicides.’ And passed on.
‘Ross,’ whispered Demelza, ‘you should not have said that! You promised! He is still a dangerous man.’
‘Who should be in prison,’ said Ross, wiping his hands, which had become damp with anger. ‘And surely will be if the Bourbons stand firm and his insurrection fails.’
‘And if it succeeds?’ Demelza said; but the ravishing French girl was plucking at his sleeve.
They gambled for a while, but Ross was too old a hand to allow himself to be drawn in deep. He had two soldiers as his neighbours, and between hands they exchanged news and speculations which he was careful to take note of.
For a while Demelza stood watching, then she moved to a table where coffee was served. She enjoyed champagne – unlike most wines it uplifted instead of making you heavy in the head – but after a time it dried the mouth and one became thirstier than before. (As thirsty as a goose with one eye shut, as Prudie would say.) So she took coffee. One thing the French could do was make coffee. They seldom drank it in Cornwall; henceforward it would be much more used at Nampara.
She thought of Henry, who was ailing. So far the change of food and surroundings had affected him not at all, but today he had been fractious and queasy. Demelza had brought a variety of Dwight’s powders and syrups for just such an eventuality, and she hoped they would put him right again. Thank Heaven for Mrs Kemp, who had been an absolute rock all through the visit, disapproving of everything French but adapting herself to whatever she found she could not change. She provided a sturdy English-Cornish basis on which you could rely or refer back to.
She had been helpful too dealing with Isabella-Rose’s recent moods. Isabella-Rose, you might conclude, had also been ailing. For two days after Lieutenant Havergal left she had hardly eaten a thing, picking at her food, complaining of headaches, ready to burst into tears at the least excuse. Ross did not have the greatest patience with moody children, so it was lucky he had been away with Henri de la Blache at the Paris barracks for most of the time.
It was young love, of course. Demelza knew the signs all too well. It was sad that it had come to Bella so early, because at that age there was no hope of a favourable outcome. Yet maybe it was salutary. The first time was the most awful for any girl – or any young man; after that it was never perhaps quite so terrible, and Isabella-Rose would get over it, and the inoculation would have worked.
In fact she was already getting over it; Demelza had heard her humming today; surprising how one missed it when it was not there, like a flower garden from which the bumble bee has fled.
They had seen King Louis this morning when they had attended mass in the chapel of the Tuileries. Distinguished visitors were permitted to sit in the Salle des Maréchaux and see him walk into the chapel. He had lumbered in, one foot swathed in bandages, helped by a page; but he had looked cheerful and well and happy, and he had bowed to the English and other guests as he passed. How could he be suddenly unseated by a defeated and discredited usurper?
And what of Dwight and Caroline? If they heard of Bonaparte’s escape, would it prevent them from leaving England? Had not Bonaparte been particularly gracious to English scientists like Sir Humphry Davy, inviting him to come over and meet the French scientists, right in the middle of the bitterest part of the war? So even if the unthinkable happened . . .
Demelza got into conversation with two handsome young Frenchmen whose names she never knew. She was learning a little French and could make herself understood by the two servants
who looked after them in the flat, but when it came to a social occasion such as this her new tongue completely deserted her and she had to help them struggling with broken English.
However, they made do very well, and somehow it turned into a laughing interchange about the Palais Royal, which both of them assured her was not nearly so shocking as it was rumoured to be, and they would together be altogether enchanted to show her round any evening after five.
There was a stirring by the double doors which led from the large lobby to the gaming salon. A man unsuitably dressed for such a smart occasion had just come in, his face sombre, his leather jacket and riding breeches and boots spattered with dust and mud.
A flood of French which she could not follow, and then the taller of her two young escorts bent to explain to her.
‘Lyon has fallen.’
Chapter Twelve
I
Fitzroy Somerset said: ‘Yes, the Duchess is leaving this morning. A precautionary move – no more – but if there is fighting, as there surely will be if Bonaparte continues to advance, Paris is no place for the wife of the Duke of Wellington. She would be too important a capture if anything went wrong. As for the ordinary individual holidaying in Paris, it is a personal choice. Ney and an army of twenty thousand are blocking Napoleon’s advance. There is another whole army corps at Sens.’
Ross said: ‘It seems that the garrison at Lyon and all the troops in the vicinity surrendered without firing a shot.’
‘They didn’t surrender, they just changed sides. What are your plans, Poldark?’
‘To stay, of course. I believe I have been able to send home a few despatches which may have been useful. And now there is this emergency, it seems there is at last a good reason for my being here.’
‘And your family?’
‘Will stay with me for the present.’
Fitzroy Somerset plucked at his lip. ‘I am undecided about Emily. You know she is with child?’
‘No, I didn’t. My congratulations.’
‘Thank you. But in those circumstances I may decide to send her home. If one errs, it should be on the side of safety.’