Chapter 12
Morning, and a chorus of clocks. At least two churches had chimed the hour, echoed by a muffled ring from the landing of Thomas’s room at H?tel Saint-Germain.
He looked across at the other bed, where Edward Gardiner still slept, then rose and opened a window, welcoming the influx of cooler air.
Below in the boulevard, servants and labourers were on the move, some in carts bearing produce from the markets.
Across the street a barber was setting out a stall of grey wigs, his hands white with floury powder.
No carriages yet: as in London, the gentry would devote hours to breakfast and toilette before venturing outside.
A tap on the door, and a maid carried a jug of warm water to the dressing table.
‘Bonjour Monsieur.’ A bob. ‘Café et viennoiseries pour deux?’
Thomas nodded. ‘Merci.’
He washed, leaving Gardiner to sleep, and pulled on a new shirt, breeches, and stockings.
A manservant brought a tray with a silver coffee pot, hot milk, a basket of pastries, and crusty white bread with butter and jam.
Their freshness and sophistication were a delight to the senses, and he ate slowly, sipping the aromatic coffee and recalling the highs and lows of their journey so far.
Their party was smaller than expected, requiring only a coach and four purchased at Ostend.
Apart from Thomas, Henry Leighton had found only one companion, Ned Turton, reputed to have passed three years up at Oxford without once opening a book.
As bear-leader (or guide) he had enrolled his old tutor Thaddeus Monk—now retired from the dreaming spires and happy to earn a few guineas revisiting old haunts.
Include Edward Gardiner, plus two manservants to share the driving, and that was all.
They were amiable enough, although during long spells confined to a carriage, subtle divisions appeared.
Gardiner, understandably, said little; and Turton, although very much a gentleman, was by no stretch of the imagination an intellectual.
While Thomas, Leighton and Monk discussed the French writers of the Enlightenment—Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot—Gardiner listened, eager to learn, while Turton drank, or admired the ladies from his window seat, or suggested a game of cards.
On reaching Paris the evening before, Ned Turton had headed across the Seine to the night life of the Palais-Royal, with its theatres, salons, and streetwalkers.
Monk had preferred to retire, while Leighton visited a friend, son of the Baron de Montmorency, whose family had a villa nearby.
They had agreed to reconvene at midday at the hotel: until then, Thomas was free to explore.
London, Ostend, Paris—already Thomas felt the world opening out, and there was more to come, in a route that would pass through Zurich, Innsbruck, then over the Dolomites to Venice.
To escape provincial Meryton (not to mention Fanny) had been a relief, albeit mixed with guilt.
But as time passed he stopped worrying. His father could cope.
Fanny had all she needed. Meanwhile, he was doing her family a favour by helping Edward launch a new career, even sharing hotel rooms to economise.
Turton and Leighton arrived at the salon with contrasting reports.
Ned, bleary-eyed, had just risen after enjoying the delights of the Palais-Royal until four o’clock in the morning.
Paris, in his eyes, was a marvel: the best food and wine, the most elegant ladies, a haut ton eager to have fun.
But as Henry Leighton pointed out, Ned would hear a different story if he troubled to read the newspapers and pamphlets now proliferating.
Years of food shortages and rising taxes had led to a widespread antipathy towards the aristocracy, and in particular King Louis XVI, who had been forced to summon the Estates-General (a national assembly) to discuss ways of reforming the government.
Meanwhile, the de Montmorencys were keen to extend their hospitality to Leighton’s friends, and in the early afternoon Thomas, Gardiner and the others were received at the villa for a lunch that extended over two hours.
In the elegant dining room, with three chandeliers overhanging a long table, they met the baron and baroness, sons Léon and Claude, and their unmarried daughter Sylvie, a dark elfin beauty who instantly caught Ned Turton’s eye.
Conversation was cultivated and humorous—theatre, music, travel—but after the ladies left, the tone became serious as the baron discoursed in a mixture of French and English on the quandary facing the government.
The parliament had three parts called estates, each sending representatives from all over France: the clergy, the nobility, and the commoners.
The latter represented 95% of the population, but had been outvoted two to one by the other estates, allowing the church and aristocracy to maintain their privileges—and in particular, to avoid paying any taxes.
This system was not to the liking of the third estate, which included artisans, lawyers, and journalists as well as labourers: they demanded a combined assembly in which the commoners would hold a majority.
As an alternative, the clergy and nobility were offering to pay at least a little tax.
But it was too late, and the city was a political powder keg.
As they strolled in the ornamental gardens surrounding the villa, Leighton took Thomas aside.
‘I just had a pow-wow with Claude and his father. We have a decision to make.’
‘Should we include the others?’
‘You first.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The baron has a minor role in the government and is privy to discussions at the top level. He is really worried. The king, and most of the aristocracy, are obdurate. They assume what is happening is just another tantrum by the mob, and that after a few concessions and a good harvest all will calm down and continue as normal. They dismiss the unofficial news sheets as the ravings of uneducated ne’er-do-wells. ’
Thomas nodded: he had noticed crowds at newspaper stalls, and sampled the pamphlets. ‘Surely the army will remain loyal?’
‘They’ll be outnumbered. The rebels are organised and will find ways of obtaining arms. And then …’ Leighton sighed. ‘There will be a reckoning. The mob will turn on the aristocracy and take revenge.’
‘The baron fears for his safety? And that of his family?’
Leighton nodded. ‘Between you and me, the baron and his friends are already making plans to flee. Moving money abroad. Buying inconspicuous clothes. Travel documents under different names.’
‘So they want …’ Thomas gasped as he realised why the baron might have confided this secret. ‘They want to travel with ourselves? Incognito?’
‘The men feel they must remain and try to avert disaster: after all, they have their country estates to protect. But the baron fears most of all for his daughter. His request is that we take Sylvie to Venice, then Florence, where she can stay with relatives of the baroness.’
‘And the baroness?’
‘Will stay. For the time being.’
Thomas pondered. ‘The young lady would need a maid or companion.’
‘Baron de Montmorency will provide an extra carriage and driver—nothing too grand—plus a maid, and a generous payment to cover our costs.’
‘The carriage would be welcome. I don’t really see much to discuss. There can surely be no risk?’
‘None worth considering. We’d be in more danger from footpads.’ Leighton edged closer. ‘The only problem I can see is closer to home. Turton.’
‘Which is why you wished to speak with me first?’
Leighton nodded. ‘I’ve nothing against Ned. Excellent fellow. But where women are concerned …’ He made a helpless gesture. ‘Would you trust him with your daughter?’
‘Being only five months old she would probably be safe. But I take your point.’
‘Thaddeus has my full confidence. You too. I owe a lot to Claude’s family and want to help. But if we go ahead—can you help me watch over Sylvie, and keep an eye on our amorous friend?’
‘Perhaps she’s not to his taste.’
‘Little chance of that.’ Leighton sighed.