Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel Page 18

  It makes sense to him that all the muses are female. Of course they are, for they are in touch with the mysterious parts of life and the world of which no man can ever know. And yet, even as he acknowledges that, he has to chide himself that except for La Beaumont not one of his correspondents across the continent is a woman. Is that not odd? Women may not follow the body politic, nor the treaties or latest war the way a man might, yet they are shrewd, perceptive and witty about every other part of life. Should there not be at least one woman in the circle to whom he writes, aside from a woman he nearly married? He would dearly love to add the renowned Émilie du Châtelet to his list, had he her address. Though what would they talk about? She is the translator of Newton after all, and Thomas knows little of mathematics or its cousin physics. He’d likely only embarrass himself in any letter he might write. Still, the woman is said to be as beautiful as she is smart. Aim high is the rule, is it not?

  As Thomas watches the heavily laden barges go by he feels a grin come to his face. The oarsmen of the small boats coming upriver have to change course when they are confronted by the barges. They must manoeuvre their narrow, pointy-ended boats to the river’s far side. We all have to bow to someone else, Thomas muses.

  “Sometimes even kings,” he whispers to the Seine. If nothing else, his time in London, walking past the Banqueting House where Charles II lost his head, taught him that. A curious and inspiring example. Though it is unimaginable that such a turn of the wheel could happen in France. Louis XV may not be as beloved as he was when he was a boy and his life was in peril, but Thomas does not hear or read anyone talking about getting rid of him or the other notables of the realm. Rather, everyone, or Thomas at least, wishes he were in their place.

  Behind Thomas there is a loud huff and puff and the sound of hurried foot-slaps. He turns to see two burly men in livery carrying a sedan chair. The curtains are drawn, but it’s obvious that whoever is inside is especially heavy. The bottom of the box is barely above the cobbles and the porters are straining with all their might to keep things upright and moving forward. Thomas offers each man an understanding face. His kindness brings two appreciative nods in return as they grunt by.

  Two women in sack back dresses descend from a coach farther up the street. Each casts a short cape round her shoulders and turns to walk his way. Thomas decides he should be in motion himself, toward them. He adopts an aristocrat’s posture with his cane leading the way, shoulders firmly back.

  As they near he can make out the patterns on their dresses. One wears a rose-coloured dress with a silver thread flower pattern as accents. The other has on a delicate mix of blue and white stripes. If Thomas is not mistaken, and he is not because he knows cloth, the blue dress is made of brocaded silk. The other woman has two remarkable pieces of lace dangling from her cuffs. Each presents a powder-whitened face with a beauty mark, topped off by a tiny white cap. Their shoes match the colour of their dresses. Above the sounds of the city Thomas can hear the fabric swish as they near.

  He makes a respectful reverence. “Mesdames.”

  The woman in blue allows fleeting eye contact and a trace of a smile. The one in rose pretends she does not see or hear Thomas at all.

  He watches the two-person parade as it moves slowly by. Though they wear short capes, the two beauties are walking as if it might be a warm summer day. They do not hurry or show any indication that it is cold. Thomas has to admire what they achieve. It is a stately appearance, no matter what.

  It seems he should correct something he was congratulating himself about a few moments ago. His interest in the two women suggests that certain urges have not vanished from his life after all. They were merely dormant is all. He does not envy the life of a monk.

  Yet while he waits for a new woman to make an entrance into his life, he has letters to read and write. It is a consolation of sorts. Still, how much better if he could have both.

  ——

  Mon cher Rousseau,

  I want to share with you a few Reflexions that come from a Book just read, for no other reason than I think they shall hold an Interest for you. It is a Book about a portion of the New World, and includes sections that touch on how Men and Women live together across the Ocean Sea.

  But first—Is it not Marvellous when in a book shop you stumble on a Book that speaks to You, the You You are on that particular day? Of course it does not happen all the Time, but that is what happened to me this week. I was in a Left Bank shop looking at this and that when the keeper said, without me having said a thing, Sir, what about the New World? What about it? I replied. He pulled out a book by a Frenchman about Accadie, written by one Nicolas Denys. This, Sir, he affirmed, is an undiscovered gem. I knew not the Author’s name nor much about that distant land. Do you know Accadie? It is, or rather was, France’s colony across the Atlantic, at more or less the same latitude as France, and it extends out into the sea towards us in Europe. A highly contested Territory with the English it was and remains. We, the French, have a great interest there and have Established a Port and Strong-hold farther north called Louis-bourg on what used to be known as Cap Breton and now is rebaptised Isle Royale. It is said to be a Place that thrives.

  And why should I recount to you this brief History lesson? Because, mon cher ami de plume, this book, written seventy years ago, is fascinating. It bears the unwieldy title of The Description and Natural History of the Coasts of North America, but it is a title that does not do it Justice. In fact, I ask you, why is it that so many Books bear the weight of dreadful titles? Do Authors and their Printers wish to scare off potential Readers? But I Digress.

  Some parts of the Book you will pass over, I know you will. About its Fisheries and Natural History. Yet, when this Denys writes of the Sauvages, the original natural People of that part, I predict you will not lift your eyes from those pages. The author says the natural people are called Micmacs and he paints quite a portrait. To whet your Appetite, I copy here a short extract in the Author’s words.

  “They love their children much and are never afraid of having too many for they are their Wealth; the boys aiding their Father, going on the Hunt & helping in support of the Family, & the girls aiding their Mother; going for wood & water & finding the animal from the Hunt.”

  Does that not sound like a simpler life than what we know? I suggest it gives us a Window into how We, in the time of our ancient Ancestors, likely once also lived. Here is another portion of the book, wherein the Author Denys writes of the ancient customs of this ancient People.

  “In Old Times a boy who wished to have a girl was Obliged to serve her Father for several Years according to an Agreement; going a-hunting to show that he was a good hunter, capable of supporting properly a wife & children … For her part, the girl corded his snowshoes, made his clothes, his moccasins & his stockings, as evidence that she was Clever in work … The term being Expired, it was time to speak of the Marriage … If one of the two wish’d not the Marriage, there was nothing further done; for they were never Compelled into it. But if all were in Agreement, a day was chosen for a Banquet.”

  Does that not suggest to you as it does to me, that we, the people of today, surround with altogether too much Pretence and Complication the fact of Marriage between Men and Women? Alas, we have lost the Simplicity of long-ago ways.

  I would like nothing more than to observe the Micmacs with my own eyes, and speak with them, except that it requires a crossing of the dreadful Atlantic. That is something I do not envision. Happily, we have in Denys an Author who saves us the trip.

  I must close, my dear Rousseau, but I believe you would not regret seeking out this Book. It gives us a striking contrast to the World we see before our eyes in our various European lands.

  Thomas P.

  ——

  Yearning is useless, is it not? That is Thomas’s thought each time he sees Madame de la Rose come or go from the building where they each live.
Thus far they have not exchanged a word, nothing more than a doffed hat on his part and a hint of a nod from her. Though he does think that a few moments ago, as they chanced to pass on the stairs, she gave him a passing look of mild curiosity. But then the sun was in its final hour of the day and it was painting the stairwell with a rosy glow. So her glance of interest might have been nothing more than an illusion he imagined.

  Yet as he hangs his tricorne on its hook in his rooms, he thinks not. He wants to believe that there was an inviting warmth in her eyes today. In fact, he is inclined to think it was something of a dare.

  All he knows about Madame de la Rose is what he learned from the concierge the first week he moved into the building and what he sees with his own eyes from time to time. He and the concierge were chatting just outside the main door, which faces the nearby church of Saint-Julien le Pauvre, when she emerged carrying her parasol. Without showing the slightest interest in looking either left or right, away she stepped as if she were in a salon, admirers on all sides.

  “The tawny is from Martinique,” whispered the concierge after she had passed. There was a disapproving curl to his lips.

  “She is beautiful,” Thomas recalls he said. And thought to himself, I would not use tawny but rather light chocolate to describe the delightful colour of her skin.

  “You think so?” the keeper of the building asked, making a sour face.

  “I do. Poised. Well-dressed. And just look at her. She is the definition of elegance.” He was especially struck by the slender choker, a pale blue ribbon of silk she was wearing around her neck.

  The concierge shook his head. “Well, she’s not for the likes of you. She goes only with the highest ones. I don’t know why she continues to live here, but she does. A mystery it is.”

  Since that day, Madame de la Rose has possessed an allure for Thomas, but with nothing to show for it. Until today. Now he has had a long look from her dark eyes to build on. It’s a start.

  ——

  At his usual table, its surface lit both by the nearby window and the flickering glow of a tallow candle that he has received permission from Gaspard to spark on this dark day, Thomas has to decide which particular project to turn to next. There is no shortage of documents he has been given to copy, and it does not help to be told that each is needed right away. This trade, nay this profession, can be done only one by one. Faithful matches are not willed, but produced by careful work.

  He stifles a yawn as he sorts through the side-table assortment of originals Gaspard has given him. It really is a world of paper, is it not? Arrêts, brevets, commissions, confirmations of various kinds. Congés, contracts, declarations, dispatches, dispensations of all types. Edicts from the King on high. Letters as varied as the number of cheeses in the land. One to send someone to prison and one to set someone free. Letters to validate credentials or rehabilitate a marriage. Even letters to establish an admiralty court in a distant colony and another to give sole jurisdiction in that same place to a particular provincial branch of the Franciscans. Copies of all must be made and put away. And then there are the ordinances, issued by the different authorities. They are like the stars at night, so numerous. And what would life be like without passports, ratifications, remission notes, renewals of authority and after you’re gone, testaments and wills?

  It’s enough to make Thomas wonder how the so-called uncivilized societies exist, those of the Indians he has read about in the Americas. The Micmacs of Accadie, for instance. No kings, no laws, no faith. The clerics and the high-born of Europe would have you believe that the newly discovered world is a chaotic hell on earth. Thomas knows from reading Nicolas Denys that is not the case.

  He glances over at the framed map of France on the wall to his left. Then again, despite his ruminations about the desirability of a less ordered life, Thomas has to admit he does like certain things about the world in which he lives. He likes to see the red lines on the map coming from all directions and converging on Paris in the northeast. He recalls the first time he saw the map. With a single illustration it revealed a vital part of his life. For, as the legend explains, the red lines indicate the major routes of the kingdom that the coaches follow to carry the mail. Thomas has subsequently learned that in exceptional cases, couriers on horseback are hired by representatives of the King to get documents from A to B quicker than usual.

  “Wishing is not sufficient, surely you know that.”

  Thomas turns from the map. Gaspard has come up alongside Thomas’s table. He is shaking his head disapprovingly.

  “Excuse me,” Thomas says, rising slowly from his chair. “I do not understand.”

  “Wishing does not get anything done. Is that not clear enough?”

  Thomas tilts his head quizzically.

  To which Gaspard glances at the pile of documents Thomas has on his tabletop. “There,” he says, “is where your eyes need to be. Nothing goes out on the roads of the map until copies are made.”

  “Ah,” Thomas says, keeping a straight face, “so that’s how it works.”

  Gaspard gives him a scathing look.

  Thomas reaches over to the side table for a document, any document at all. As he holds it up for Gaspard’s approval he sees that his hand has selected a marriage rehabilitation.

  “No, that’s not it. We start at the top. Which means anything dealing with the King or a royal court. Honestly.”

  Thomas holds his tongue but manages to give Gaspillage a nod. It is the best he can do.

  Is this why he came back to France, to toil under a dullard’s thumb? To advance the interests of all those above him, right up to the so-called beloved king, who is neither so young nor so beloved anymore?

  As Thomas’s hands start to organize his tabletop to carry out the copying he has been told to do, there arises a single question in his mind. It is not for how many more hours on this day must he do this line of work. It is for how many more years must he keep on after that?

  ——

  Madame de la Rose goes over to the console table and reaches down into the blue and white Chinese porcelain bowl she keeps there. Her fingers come up with a red ribbon, which she lets fall back in. Another dip brings a cluster of three – yellow, pink and grey. Back they go. It is the third exploration with her fingers that brings her what she wants. It is for the man she passed on the stairs the other day, the one who lives on the floor below and who has been giving her studied looks as she comes and goes ever since he moved in a few months ago. He has the look of someone she might like to converse with. Désirée will tie a ribbon of pale blue on the handle to his door. That ought to puzzle him when he returns from wherever it is he works all day long. Though she won’t be there to see his reaction, she imagines he will be intrigued.

  Then, if she pleases, she will tie another colour of ribbon on his handle another day. It will be what a scientist she once talked to in a salon would apparently call an experiment. In this case, the test is to see how long it takes before the man on the floor below connects the ribbons to her. If and when the fellow figures out what is going on, Madame de la Rose just might invite him to her rooms, where they could have a conversation they would likely both enjoy.

  ——

  Thomas checks left then right, then cranes to look down the stairs he just climbed and up the ones that lead to the floor above. There is nothing and no one. There is only the blue ribbon, wound tightly on the handle to his door.

  Someone is having fun. Thomas tugs the bow, and stuffs the ribbon into the pocket of his justaucorps. But who and why?

  ——

  It has been a fortnight now, with ribbons coiled on the handle of his door every second or third day. It is always a new colour, and there is always the tiny bow. Clearly, it’s a woman behind the game. To what end? Thomas thinks he knows the answer to that. But to select the wrong woman to playfully confront would be a serious mistake and likely end
the game the real mystery woman is seeking to play. Thomas does not want that. And each day that there is no ribbon, only the cold look and touch of tarnished iron, he wonders if he has misplayed the game somehow.

  ——

  More than twenty years have passed since Madame de la Rose was brought from Martinique to France. She was but seventeen and answered then only to Désirée. Though she was transported from Fort-Royal as someone’s property, along with six others, all men and boys, she understood enough French to grasp that the arrival in France brought a change, in theory at least.

  “There are no slaves in France,” the official said in a clear, loud voice. That same official made her master – until then her owner – repeat the affirmation out loud. Which he did, though not half as loud.

  Désirée could not detect any difference in her treatment once she and her master arrived in Paris – Monsieur de la Rose had never been a beast to her – but she never forgot the declaration that had been sworn. It altered how she viewed herself and what she did for Monsieur. Henceforth, the washing, cleaning and pleasuring was easier to take. She was no longer his slave but in her mind a conjointe.

  So much has transpired since then, beginning with the death of Monsieur a dozen years ago. Désirée assumed his family name right away, even if the Church had not blessed them. Monsieur de la Rose had left her the entirety of his estate, and she figured she might as well be his widow in name as well as in deed. The estate did not include any fleet of merchant ships nor any châteaux, but there was the Paris apartment and his investments. Désirée has not wanted for food nor clothes nor heat since he passed.

  Life as a widow has been better than good. Désirée has a servant, Aimée from Guadeloupe, whom she pays well and to whom she dispenses advice on how to survive in the world. Madame is able to purchase clothes and accessories when the need arises, and she attends as much entertainment and as many salons as she wants. She has a wide circle of acquaintances she knows well enough to grant or ask favours from time to time. Now and then, when she’s in the mood, Desirée takes a lover, but never for long. She does not want to complicate her delightfully simple life.