The Hurlyburly's Husband (16 page)

The square emptied. The horned carriage swayed as the coachman climbed back up on his perch –‘Gee up!’ – and continued on its way. Louis-Henri raised the leather curtain whilst his son (visibly not terribly distraught over the event) declared, ‘One must always be careful to obey the King and submit to his every desire; Maman said so.’

Montespan, who could well imagine the nature of the King’s desires in regard to his wife, made a face.

In a tavern draped with spiders’ webs, the serving wench – not the docile type with her coarse patois – brought some soup and poured mutton gravy onto dry mince. There was a foul smell in the insalubrious establishment.

Louis-Antoine, Marquis d’Antin, sitting straight-backed on his bench, found something lacking in everything he saw. There was too much drinking in these inns; it was vulgar to keep one’s knife in one’s hand the way these commoners did; he disapproved of their bawdy insults.

‘One must avoid oaths! It is everyone’s opinion that table manners are what distinguishes man from beast, and the well-educated nobleman from the ill-mannered ruffian,’ the dainty child continued, his napkin over his shoulder, as was the custom at court.

He observed a labourer in clogs – his legs protected by gaiters, his breeches worn-out at the knee – slumped wearily over his soup, where bits of pork, beans and cabbage floated.

‘To put one’s elbows on the table, even just one, is inexcusable, except for people who are either old or unwell.’

Louis-Henri rolled his eyes as he poured his wine.

‘Father, one must not drink before one has eaten: ’tis the very hallmark of a drunkard. Nor must one wolf down one’s food as you are now doing, for that is how animals behave. To fill oneself to the gills then exhale in satisfaction, that is precisely how a horse behaves. Do refrain from swallowing pieces whole, for that is what storks do.’

Montespan scratched his blond
hurluberlu
wig.

‘Father, I do not like poor people.’

‘Louis-Antoine, you may speak most eloquently for your age, but I wonder if you are not also a truly revolting little individual.’

‘Father, I should prefer you to address me henceforth according to my rank: I am a marquis, after all.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Hello! Montespan! Is it you? Of course, it must be you – the horned carriage … Do you not recognise me? Charuel! We fought together at Gigeri. Have you come for a taste of the chains to which you are destined? Ha-ha-ha!’

The colourful captain, sitting at the rear of a carriage facing a convoy of captives, struck the coach with his fist to alert the person inside.

‘Major Gadagne! Look who has stopped to let us pass in this gully! ’Tis Montespan!’

‘The troublesome cuckold? Stop the convoy.’

The Duc de Gadagne stepped down from his vehicle and stretched. He was wearing a richly tasselled cravat and a short doublet open on a shirt that was full at the waist and in the sleeves. He had a sash in the shape of a flower tied round his middle, and he was wearing a fairly wide skirt, stockings held up with garters, buckled shoes, a long wig and a blue felt hat.

‘The Marquis de Montespan! So, shall we take you with us? No, you don’t fancy it?’

Louis-Henri gazed at the immense human ribbon: three hundred men condemned to the galleys, chained by the neck in twos, then joined together by a long chain passing through each pair.

‘We come from Rennes,’ said Gadagne. ‘In one month we’ll be in Marseilles. Well, you and I shall, no doubt,’ he said with a smile to Charuel, ‘but they … not all of them. One out of three will succumb between the prison and the port of embarkation.’

Louis-Henri pursed his lips at the sight of the men crushed by the weight of their chains. He thought of the frequent rain on their bodies which would only dry with time, not to mention the fleas and scabies. They were rogues, thieves, deserters, Protestants.

‘His Majesty wishes to reinstate the fleet of convict-galleys and increase the number of galley-slaves by any means possible,’ explained the commander of the gang of convicts. ‘His intention is to condemn as many prisoners as possible to the galleys.’

‘Any man who dares disobey – hand him an oar in the Mediterranean! Any woman who is wicked – deport her to the New World! The King knows how to maintain order in France,’ said Charuel appreciatively, ‘as do we with our chained men. The survivors arrive in a most deplorable state and then they row in perfectly Dantesque conditions. Would you like a chicken thigh?’

Gadagne and Charuel sat on a rock and made the most of this fortuitous encounter with the marquis to have a bite to eat.

‘We also have some smoked sausages,
andouilles
or blackbird terrine if you prefer.’

The duc covered his shoulder with a napkin (a gesture much appreciated by Louis-Antoine, who had climbed down from the horned carriage). The child also admired the luxurious clothing worn by the commander of the chained men, who, with his captain, was eagerly describing life on the galleys to the marquis.

‘You’ll be sorry you turned down our cold meat when the day comes that you, too, will only be allowed one meal a day – crackers and a bowl of soup with a few beans – and a ration of plonk diluted with sea water. You’ll shit in a wooden bucket and sleep head to toe on benches with the other churls, madmen and murderers.’

Louis-Henri nodded, whilst looking at the men condemned to such a fate.

‘May I speak to them?’

‘Pray do, Marquis, make their acquaintance! Who knows, you may soon journey by their side, for you are a gentleman all Paris suspects of having written a most insolent thing on the brow of the King’s bastard son … Might you truly have dared such a thing? Whatever the case may be, the infant is dead.’

Montespan got to his feet and, with Louis-Antoine at his side, he walked past the column of men. He asked a few of them why they were there. One of them said he had been sentenced to the galleys for life for stealing honey bees. A boy wept – ten years of slavery for stealing a few leeks from his neighbour’s garden.

The Marquis d’Antin said thoughtfully, ‘I will always submit to the King’s bidding.’

The Gascon looked at his son.

The Garonne wound lazily through the hills, whilst on the horizon, growing ever higher, the blue chain of the Pyrenees loomed mighty and solemn. The landscape became rougher, more rugged. After six more changes of horses, the carriage rolled across the first snow, for, once past the banks of the river Baïse, the weather was freezing from November onwards. These were the lands of the marquisate of Montespan. In the distance a massive chateau seemed to crush the tiny village of Bonnefont huddled at its feet. The villagers could not believe their eyes when they saw what was coming towards them.

‘Is that our master? Aye, ’tis our Monsieur le marquis.’

In the vehicle, Louis-Henri rubbed and examined his hands, still astonished not to find even the tiniest venereal pustule, and thought of the incurable pain of his existence. The angelus was chiming at the parish church. Yokels were following the carriage, surrounding it and preceding it. Some had already gone to pound on the door of the chateau to give the alert.

It was Cartet – the erstwhile sergeant from Puigcerdá – who pushed open the gates with his strong arms. He still sported his dagger-hilt moustache, and his jaw did not drop at the sight of the carriage, which surprised Montespan, for as he alighted he saw that all the villagers were standing stock still to gaze at the stag’s antlers dominating the black coach. With nudges and muttered patois they urged each other to ogle the marquis’s new coat of arms on the doors. Louis-Henri, in his solemn mourning clothes, declared, ‘I am a cuckold! Moreover,’ he added, turning to Cartet, ‘we shall have to raise the entrance by a
toise
so that when I enter the courtyard my horns shall have room to pass.’

The former sergeant, now the steward, was appreciative.

‘There is a touch of the roughneck soldier in ye, Monsieur le marquis…’

Chrestienne de Zamet made her entrance into the courtyard.

‘My son, such a wig! What a strange blond hairstyle – is it the new Paris fashion?’

‘Alas, Mother, it is.’

Then it was Marie-Christine’s turn to appear, this 15 November 1668. Her father knelt down and took her in his arms.

‘Happy birthday, my sweet,’ he said, although it was not her birthday. ‘You are five years old today, we must celebrate. I’ve brought you a present.’

‘Maman?’

‘… a present I bought in Toulouse. Look, your little brother is giving it to you.’

The rather ugly little girl took the doll that Louis-Antoine handed to her, and she seemed disappointed.

‘It’s not Maman …’

Crouching down, the father removed his
hurluberlu
periwig and put it on the human figurine, which now disappeared almost entirely beneath the wig. This brought a smile to Marie-Christine’s lips. She hugged the doll to her little chest and slipped her index finger into one of the ringlets, turning it round and round, whilst an adolescent girl came up shyly. Montespan looked up.

‘Dorothée?!’

Behind her, Madame Larivière was drying her hands on her apron. Chrestienne de Zamet told her son, ‘They arrived last week and that is how we learnt of your misfortune, my poor boy. We didn’t have a cook, so I hired her. I suspected that you—’

‘You did well, Mother. Good day, Madame Larivière,’ he said, standing up.

The olive-skinned cook apologised.

‘When I left Paris, I didn’t know where to go with my daughter …’

‘Dorothée is your daughter? Well, well, I’m often the last to be informed,’ smiled the cuckold.

‘You must be weary from the journey, and famished. I shall make the supper and lay the table. Come, Dorothée.’

‘Let her stay,’ interrupted Cartet. ‘Look how happy they are playing with the doll. I will help you.’

The cook with her spindly legs and the rustic steward headed off together in the direction of the kitchen, whilst Chrestienne de Zamet whispered in her son’s ear, while indicating with her hand, ‘I think that the pair of them …’

‘Cartet with Madame Larivière? Really? Better and better.’

Louis-Antoine stood in his luxuriant silks in the courtyard where grass grew amidst the loose stones, and he looked at the building – a dovecote and a square tower covered in ivy, surrounded by a stinking moat. He enquired innocently, ‘Is this the steward’s house, or the chateau?’

Behind him was a terrace overlooking a garden lying fallow, surrounded by two small groves leading to the river. With its blunt square shape, the chateau, in its rustic solidity and simplicity, was a model residence for a poor marquis. In the kitchen, Cartet lifted a heavy steaming cooking pot with one hand and held it out before him. Madame Larivière felt his biceps and shoulder admiringly.

‘How muscular you are, Cartet! It’s such an effort for me to hook it up on the trammel.’

‘You need only ask. Ah, Captain … um … Monsieur le marquis, dinner is ready. I hunted some hare in your woods and Madame Larivière has made a divine stew the likes of which we did not see in Puigcerdá! We should have taken her with us.’

The olive-skinned cook flushed with embarrassment whilst Chrestienne de Zamet smiled at them knowingly and suggested, ‘Let us eat together to celebrate being reunited, and for Marie-Christine’s birthday!’

‘Father, are we going to share the meal with the servants?’ enquired a stunned Louis-Antoine.

The table would have been filled with happiness but for the absence of … The little Marquis d’Antin certainly entertained them with his comments. To the former sergeant he said, ‘Dipping one’s finger in the gravy is typical of village folk; lifting one’s dirty greasy fingers to one’s lips to lick them, or drying them on one’s clothing is not appropriate. It would be more seemly to use the tablecloth or the napkin.’

The steward – who had the face of an assassin – looked at him, taken aback, then sliced into the hare as if it were an Angelet, whilst Dorothée held out her plate.

‘If someone is cutting the meat, it is not seemly to extend either hand or plate before one has offered it to you,’ scolded Louis-Antoine.

Marie-Christine did not want to eat. She held her spoon incorrectly, asked for too much to drink, and gesticulated, all of which displeased her brother.

Once the table was cleared, Chrestienne de Zamet, leaning against the dresser, lifted a candied cherry to her lips. Her grandson struck.

‘Eating cherries on one’s feet is eating like a lackey!’

‘He speaks well for his age, does he not?’ remarked the gentle grandmother.

‘Aye,’ sighed the father.

‘And his skin is so remarkably like … so clear!’

The little boy, flattered, compared his hand to his sister’s.

‘My skin is whiter than yours.’

‘It’s only because your mother buried your umbilical cord beneath a rose bush!’ blurted the father, who was beginning to find him difficult to tolerate.

‘And what did Maman do for me?’ asked Marie-Christine, with the
hurluberlu
doll in her arms.

‘For you? Ah, yes, after cutting the cord, she lifted it up to your head to ensure long life …’