EPILOGUE
Henri Antoine Philippe Alexandre Dominic Eustache Louis Amalric de Saint-Hilaire, Comte de Soissons (Henri to his friends), sat contentedly gazing across the strait at the fortified islet a kilometre or so off the coast. He loved this time of evening with the western sky fading to blue-green, and the few clouds outlined in a blaze of golden light. It fell almost horizontally on the castle, picking out its structural details in sharp relief. Despite deploring the voracity of the Venetians in plundering the eastern Mediterranean, he greatly admired their remarkable talent for combining military efficiency in their fortresses with architectural aesthetic. This was one of his favourite spots.
His companion stirred slightly. "When did you say he was coming?"
"Patience, Gaston. We aren't privileged to see into the future. We only know that barring a miracle, as a sceptic like you undoubtedly would, it can't be very long."
"It doesn't seem right, just lazing around like this."
Henri was amused. "Still not used to lotus-eating, Gaston?"
"I doubt if I ever shall be."
"Just remember, there's no need to hurry over anything. We've all the time in the world - if that's the right phrase."
That clearly left Gaston some minutes to consider what was really worrying him. "I suppose it's because I don't like leaving Marie for so long. It's been a bit of a shock to her, first coming here, and then finding she was to meet -"
"He isn't so very frightening, is he?"
"Not to us. Marie didn't have so much to do with him."
"You had a lot more than any of us. Couldn't you reassure her?"
"Somehow, words don't seem to help."
Henri nodded. "Men's words don't. You needn't worry, though. Elizabeth is quite capable of looking after her. If I know anything, they'll be completely lost in an orgy of women's talk. You're well out of it."
It was a point well made. Gaston stretched and laughed. "You're probably right. She always did enjoy a good chin-wag. I must say, it is pleasant not to have to rush over everything. The farm didn't leave much time for simply enjoying life."
"I doubt if you'd have preferred idleness."
"Probably not. But a little more leisure wouldn't have come amiss. Oh, I'm not complaining. Compared with some, we were extraordinarily lucky. Things could very easily have been a lot harder. The farm gave us a pretty reliable livelihood. And we were certainly lucky to get it. We'd never have been able to buy the place without Louis's gift."
"Not a gift, Gaston. A reward for services rendered. That ring had been in the family since Guy de Lusignan, and goodness knows how many generations before. He'd have hated to lose it. That was why I left it in your care."
"A bit of a risk, wasn't it?"
"Not half as much as any alternative. As I said, you looked a reliable type."
"How could you tell that in just a glance? I still don't know what made you say it. Though if you hadn't, I'd probably have sold the thing straight away."
"Exactly. Showing people you trust them often pays off."
Gaston pondered for a moment. "There's another thing. I was staggered when Louis traced me - scared, too. I never mentioned where I was lodging, and I was pretty sure no one ever followed me there."
"A good thing, too. Lopping so many aristocratic heads, and then Robespierre's and a score of his pals', might have made you rather less than popular in several quarters."
"Yes, that's right. But do you know how Louis managed it? I didn't think to ask him then - too relieved that he wasn't after revenge - and the time has never seemed right since."
"Pure coincidence, I believe. He ordered a desk from your father-in-law, and asked for the same design to be worked on the front. I imagine the idea was not to lose it altogether. Young Antoinette happened to be there at the time and recognised it."
"Trust her to be sticking her nose in! But very fortunate all round."
Henri chuckled. "Old Jacques was pretty fortunate in more ways than one. Having called his daughters Marie and Antoinette might have given ill-disposed people some very nasty ideas in the 1790s. Plenty of people were guillotined for less."
"That's what he thought, too, but it was a bit late to do anything about it by then, beyond using nicknames their playmates had given them."
"I shan't ask what they were. Children's nicknames tend to be unflattering. But the sun's setting. Shall we go inside? I fancy a game of chess."
They had often played since Gaston's arrival, or rather, Henri had been teaching him the game. For all either of them knew, Gaston might quite possibly have been adept in his youth, but all his earlier memories had been blacked out by a blow on the head. However it might have been, he picked up the rules and conventions quickly and by now could pose a fairly satisfying challenge. They were both deeply engrossed when Miriam came in, and she watched the progress of play for a few minutes before Henri noticed.
"Oh, I'm sorry, my dear, you should have said something."
"Not likely! I know how you hate having your concentration suddenly disturbed. No sign of him yet, I gather?"
"No, he must be hovering longer than we expected. Can I get you anything while we wait?"
"No, thanks. I'll just watch your game, if you don't mind."
"I don't in the least, but Gaston isn't used to spectators. It could be unnerving. We'll adjourn for the time being, if you don't mind. Want to make a note of your next move, Gaston?"
"No, thanks. There aren't many possibilities left anyway. It'll give me an excuse for losing again."
The evening was turning chill, and Henri lit a fire. They settled themselves comfortably around it, and shortly afterwards Marie and Elizabeth joined them, Marie rather shyly taking a place on the sofa next to Gaston. "Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn't it, old girl?" he said, sneaking an arm round her.
"I'm all right now. But a bit sleepy."
Henri assured her that no one would be at all offended if she nodded off. "We're all friends here. Make yourself easy. It looks as though there's been a delay; we may have a longer wait than I thought."
The twilight had faded, and the room was filled with a warm glow. "Nothing like an open fire to cheer the place up," said Miriam.
Henri commented that there hadn't been much choice in his day, and he never did take kindly to new-fangled ideas. But perhaps he should light a lamp or two? No one wanted it. Then a more serious thought struck him. "Coming here and meeting us will be sure to seem very strange to him, and the first recognition may well be really alarming. Didn't you find it so, Marie?"
"Well, it wasn't quite what I expected."
"So you did expect something, then? Gaston didn't."
Marie laughed. "Oh, he was always a hardened old cynic. What was it you used to say? 'Expect nothing, and you won't be disappointed,' wasn't it?"
"Something like that. But what were you going to say, Henri?"
Henri explained that since their guest might well have difficulty in accepting a situation that in any case he would find scarcely credible, seeing Miriam among them in the first instance might well make explanation even harder. It would be better to get over one possible problem at a time. On the other hand, having her walk in on the gathering would be altogether too dramatic. Would she mind staying in the shadows until the first hurdle was negotiated, and then present herself as seemed best at the time? Miriam didn't mind at all; anything to make things easier. And so they waited, quietly chatting of nothing in particular, until there was a knock on the door, Henri called "Entrez!" and Eric appeared.
Henri bustled around the introductions. "Delighted you've come, Eric. You know Gaston and Marie, of course. And myself. But you've never met my wife. Elizabeth dear, this is Eric, our author."
Eric was nonplussed. "I'm sorry. I … Forgive me if this seems stupid, but I don't remember meeting any of you before."
Henri laughed. "Silly of me. I was forgetting. You never saw us in the flesh, as it were, did you? At most a verbal descript
ion, and not very much of that. But I'm afraid you've only yourself to blame there; it was you who called us into being, and all we have is what you wrote."
"What? I don't understand."
"I didn't expect you to, straight away. It's a possibility I don't suppose you've ever even considered. Your friends would probably think you mad if you did, at least if you took it seriously. But in fact we're from a story you wrote. Remember 'The Gift'? You used to say your characters sometimes seemed to take on a life of their own. That's exactly what did happen."
Eric evidently was not taking in the idea, so Henri sat him down comfortably and poured wine for all before starting the introductions afresh. "Just make yourself at home, Eric. In case you've forgotten, Gaston was the revolutionary executioner and Marie his wife. I'm Henri, Comte de Soissons, one of those who got the chop, if you'll excuse that inelegant but convenient expression. And as you've only newly arrived I shan't take you to task just yet for neglecting to provide me with a wife. I had to rustle up Elizabeth myself. But I don't think I did too badly there without your help. Louis, my nephew, hasn't shown up yet, but then he was always a bit vague. Oh, I nearly forgot: Hortense, Gaston's friend in Marseille, couldn't be here this evening but asked us to give you her very warm regards."
"What happened to her?"
"Well, if you don't know, how could anyone else?"
Eric sat down with his wine, shaking his head in bewilderment. He took a sip - "Is it to your taste, Eric? There's quite a selection if you'd prefer something else."
"It's very good, thank you, your - er … I'm sorry, what is the correct form of address?"
"Oh, never mind about that. Just call me Henri. Everyone else does. We're quite informal."
The wine was indeed good, and Eric thought it best to take his time over it while trying to digest what he had been told. One question occurred to him immediately; what about the characters in his other stories? Where were they? Henri hadn't thought of that, but explained that they knew only their own tale. If there were others, they didn't overlap, although occasionally they wondered about the possibility, when for instance a book fell off a shelf for no apparent reason, or there was an indefinable feeling of some invisible presence in the room.
There was a pause, and partly to avoid an awkward silence, but mostly from real curiosity, Gaston had a question for him. He had mulled it over for some time, wondering whether it was proper to ask, but eventually decided he might as well. "Eric, pardon my asking, but there's something I've been wondering about for years."
"Yes?"
"What was I before my loss of memory?"
"I've no idea. I never gave it much thought. And I don't suppose I could do it retrospectively, as it were."
Elizabeth couldn't see that there was any rule against it, and not being directly beholden to Eric like the others, allowed herself the indulgence of half-seriously rebuking his previous laziness in leaving Gaston with only half a life. "Well then, let's see. Hmm. You were born into a merchant family in Toulouse in 1758, the second of two sons, but they all moved to Grasse in '65 and took an interest in the perfume trade. You grew up into a bit of a rake, but in time you settled down and joined the firm. You had taken samples to dealers in Avignon and Marseille and meant to return by sea when you were set upon by footpads in the docks. Hortense's militiaman friend disturbed them before they could find your hidden cash reserve, and the rest you know. How about that?"
Gaston laughed. "That'll do fine for the time being, thank you. I may come back for more detail later."
Eric's glass was empty, and he declined a refill. "Actually, I'm feeling rather tired."
Henri was apologetic. "Of course, how thoughtless of me. You've had a long and difficult journey. Cancer, wasn't it? A very exhausting way to die. I really can't thank you enough for providing me with such a painless exit in the story. Couldn't have asked for better. But now you must rest. Miriam will show you to your room."
"Miriam? You mean she's here?"
"Of course. She's been waiting for you. For quite a long time."
The possibility of meeting her was something that had not occurred to Eric, and he was silent as Miriam quietly took his arm and guided him to the room they were to share. Then he tried to tell her how he had cursed himself for treating her so badly, but she calmly hushed him. "No need for that. We understand here. Everything's forgiven."
"But I'm such a selfish bastard."
"No you aren't."
"Underneath, I am. The real me, I mean, not the pretence I've put up over so many years."
"Look, everyone has selfish instincts. They don't matter. Which is the real you? The selfish bastard, or the kind, considerate man you turned yourself into?"
"The selfish bastard, I'd have thought."
"Oh. Well, look at it this way: which is the real Chippendale table, the finished product, or the raw timber he started with?"
"Hmm. But what if it's only veneer, not solid wood?"
"Then for all practical purposes, it's at least as useful."
True or not, it was some comfort. He might as well try to live up to it - if "live" was the right word. "Marie seemed very quiet. Is there a problem there?"
"Not that I know. She only arrived today, rather shaken. A nasty death, I gather, but Elizabeth's been looking after her."
"Quite a coincidence, she and I both dying the same day."
"Not really. They were linked in some way. She couldn't outlive you. Although the times here and on Earth don't always directly correspond - I don't understand how it works in any particular instance."
Eric remembered having written that Gaston didn't believe in an afterlife and would think it an unwarrantable imposition to have one thrust upon him. How had he taken it? "Rather startled at first, but he soon settled down. Henri really helped there. They get on like a house on fire."
"A strange friendship, that."
"Not altogether. Henri's no snob. He says he used to have more sensible talks with his coachman than with most of his own class."
"No, I meant in Gaston's having executed him."
"Oh, that didn't bother him. He told you he was glad of a quick death, and as far as I can see he really meant it. In any case, Gaston was only doing his job. It wasn't his decision."
That reminded Eric of the men who did make such decisions. It suddenly struck him that although Robespierre had been mentioned in his story, there had been no sign of him that evening. Was he another temporary absentee? "Robespierre? Oh no, he won't be coming. He couldn't."
"Why not? And how can you be so sure?"
"Because he was a real person - a matter of history. Whatever happened to him is nothing to do with you. He'll be in heaven or hell, and as you used to say, you can't be in two places at once."
Eric thought over this for a while, and was still puzzled. "Where are we, then?"
"I don't know what you'd call it; some sort of shadow land, I suppose. Hades, or Sheol. This particular bit of it seems to be based on Henri's picture of Nauplion in the Peloponnese. His family had a villa there, before it fell to the Ottomans."
"What I really meant was why aren't we in heaven or hell, too?"
Miriam snuggled up to him. "Haven't you cottoned on yet?"
"To what?"
"Henri more or less told you, Elizabeth is an invention of his own. He and the others are ghosts of characters in one of your stories. So … "
"So what?"
"Oh dear. You never used to be so dense. Don't you see? We're the ghosts of people in a story someone else has written."
"Good lord! That surely can't be true."
"Why not?"
"Well - for a start, Henri and his friends are well aware of being characters in fiction. I'm not."
"They probably weren't before they died."
"But we're dead, too."
"You didn't think of it. Henri made a point of finding out."
Eric was silent for a while, considering
the situation, until another thought struck him. "Er - supposing all this is so, that Elizabeth is Henri's creation, and he and the rest are mine, and we're someone else's …"
"Yes?"
"How far does this chain go back?"
"Who knows? So far our author hasn't turned up here, so he may be real. Or maybe not. We just can't tell yet. Perhaps we never shall. Now for goodness' sake, shut up and let's get to sleep."
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About the author.
Peter Wilson is a retired industrial chemist living in Seascale, on the Cumbrian coast near the north-west corner of England.
A short biography and more of his writing (plays, film scripts and some non-fiction) may be found with contact details at his web site
https://www.peterwilson-seascale.me.uk
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