“So the reason for the English lessons is to help me when I eventually meet my father?”
“Yes. It may be many years before that happens. I may be long buried. But this will guarantee that it happens. This will carry you out of this accursed land for the rest of your life.”
She lifted the letter again, carefully unfolding the crackling parchment so that he could read.
The letter was dated in December of 1754, one year after his birth.
My beloved Marie,
I have spent a substantial sum to ensure that the courier bearing this missive reaches you despite the outbreak of hostilities. This is the letter which I promised you in Paris, and it is dispatched with all my faith and devotion. I rejoice in the birth of our son, whom you have named Phillipe. I wished to send you my assurances concerning his future long before this. But, in candor, my wife encountered difficulties, and indeed nearly perished, in the delivering of our newly born son, Roger.
Phillipe glanced up, frowning. “He has another boy? Born after I was?”
“Of course. The hereditary title must be continued. Read the rest.”
Because of the aforementioned difficulties, the learned physicians inform me that my wife shall never again in her lifetime be able to accomplish woman’s natural role. This makes it all the more imperative, my dearest, that I fulfill my pledge to you. By the witnessing below, this letter becomes a legal document. My two friends have signed in confidence, thus testifying that my natural son Phillipe is hereby acknowledged by me, and, upon my death, shall receive, in accordance with the laws of this realm, an equal share in my estate, save for Kentland itself—
Again Phillipe’s dark head bobbed up. “Kentland?”
“That is also the name of the family residence. Go on, finish and I’ll tell you the rest.”
—which, by custom, must pass to my legitimate son’s eldest male issue. I declare in sight of Almighty God and the presence of my two worthy friends, who shall add their names below mine, that this is my true and irrevocable intent, the whole declaration being freely made by my own choice. Because, dearest Marie, even though I cannot honorably write the details of it here, you are fully aware of the lifelong devotion of him who shall remain
Ever yours,
Jas. Amberly
Duke of Kentland
Below the signature appeared two other, unfamiliar ones. Phillipe stared at his father’s name for a long moment. Then, exhilarated, he jumped up. In his haste he brushed the parchment against the bedpost. A corner of the brittle letter broke away, making his mother exclaim:
“Be careful with it!”
She seized the letter with urgency, yet with delicacy too, and began to re-fold it along the old creases.
“This is your passage to freedom and position, Phillipe. As you read, the woman he married could bear no more than one child—the son he named Roger. You’ve half your father’s wealth. Half!”
Carefully, she slipped the letter back into the ribboned packet, returned the packet to the casket, the casket to the Madonna’s niche. She straightened the statue so that it once more concealed the box.
“Now,” she said, “let me explain how it’s possible for that half to be yours.”
Briefly, she outlined her knowledge of English inheritance law, which she had made it her business to learn.
Lord Kentland, she told him, could not will his title to a bastard. Nor could his home, his landed properties go to any save the eldest son of his son Roger, who was thus prevented from disposing of same and squandering the proceeds while he lived. By means of intricate legal arrangements, Roger, in effect, would become the lifetime tenant of the estate, unable to sell or mortgage it except by means of a troublesome and costly procedure involving special dispensation from the English Parliament. In this way, great family land holdings were preserved.
“The remainder of your father’s wealth,” Marie continued, “principally money—of which he has a great deal—is divided in equal shares between his children. You see what that means? Thanks to his letter, you are acknowledged. There is only one other heir—and so half the money automatically falls to you. Believe me, you will be a rich man. The finest drawing rooms will be open to you. Not to mention a choice of wives! Perhaps you can marry in England. A titled lady might not have you. But a prosperous merchant’s daughter is another case entirely. Your father has written that the mercantile classes are coming into great power in their own right. What father of a girl who stood to inherit—oh, say a tannery—wouldn’t relish the addition of half a duke’s income?”
Phillipe turned cold at the last remark. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour. Or his increasing weariness. But he sounded quarrelsome when he said:
“Mama, I’ve no wish to marry some woman just because her father owns a leatherworks!”
That angered her. “An example, nothing else! Do you miss my point altogether? I have given my life—all of my life, here in this place I despise—so that you might go where you want in the world. Away from Auvergne. To walk among gentlemen of wealth, and be one yourself! I don’t care who you take up with so long as it’s a woman who is your equal. Since you will be a person of station in your own right, your marriage must advance your fortunes even further.”
He rebelled against the callous way she put forth the idea. But he kept silent this time, because her eyes were so intense. She gripped his shoulders hard.
“Remember this above everything, Phillipe. The greatest crime a human being can commit is to allow himself to be humbled into poverty, into obscurity, into—” She let go of his arm, swept the room with a gesture at once damning and sad. “This. I committed that crime so that you will never need to. Swear that you won’t, Phillipe. Swear!”
He seemed to be staring at a woman he did not know. A woman of agate eyes, a woman full of grief and hatred. He was afraid of her.
“Yes. I swear.”
At once, she softened, hugging him to her breast. “Then it’s time we slept, my little lord. It has a good sound, doesn’t it? And now you know it’s the truth.”
Motherly again, she comforted him as she led him toward the door.
“I suppose I should have told you years ago, but I saw no reason. As I said, you may well wait a very long time until James Amberly dies. But you won’t wait in vain. That’s why you mustn’t squander your future by entangling yourself with a penniless peasant girl. Perhaps I acted in haste, sending Charlotte away. But it’s done and I feel better for it. Go to sleep now. Only don’t forget the oath you swore.”
As if he ever could!
He lay in the garret with gray light already beginning to break outside, his dazzled mind playing with details of the story as if they were wondrous toys. In imagination he saw himself dressed in a gold-frogged waistcoat, a splendid, beautiful lady on his arm. They were passing through a crowded street, receiving the cheers of a crowd. He recognized a face—Auguste—and spat on his boots. Auguste did not dare to react.
He finally drifted to sleep thinking of what his mother had described as the greatest crime a human being can commit. For him, Marie Charboneau had committed that crime.
For her, he never would.
iv
“So,” remarked Girard, picking his teeth, “now you know. The scholar is not a noble humanitarian but has remained here these four years because he’s been paid. Actually it hasn’t been a bad bargain. I am basically out of step with the world. I study the wrong things—and frequently believe them! If I loafed around Paris, for example, I’d probably wind up drinking too much, proclaim my libertarian views—and get clapped in prison for it. Or worse. I’ve told you how Master Jean Jacques has been hounded from country to country—and he has an international reputation! Important friends, like Diderot. Imagine how a common fellow like me would be treated!”
Girard and his pupil sat at the top of the rock escarpment overlooking the inn and the winding road. Several days had passed since the revelations in Marie’s room. She had obviously co
mmunicated the fact of the talk to Girard. He had behaved in a somewhat more relaxed way ever since.
It was a stunningly bright morning, all the mist burned from the tumbled hills. But Phillipe still felt winter’s bite in the stiff wind. The backs of his hands were numb from gripping the little book they’d been studying, the play about the misadventures of a Scottish king called Macbeth. At his feet, shielded from the wind by his boots, were Girard’s three precious volumes. Phillipe had carefully smuggled them from the garret up to the site of instruction, in the hope that Girard would be willing to amplify some of the puzzling ideas the books contained.
But for the past hour, the tutor had insisted on fulfilling his regular obligation to Marie. Phillipe had read aloud from the play, while Girard corrected his pronunciation of the familiar words.
“Don’t ask me about the unfamiliar ones—sweet William’s Elizabethan cant. How should I know what that means? The play’s an antique. And fashions change, in everything from metaphors to monarchies.”
“Yes, but it’s still English.”
“And truthfully, you don’t speak it badly after four years of practice—though I admit that for the first two, I just about gave up. Today, however, if you crossed the Channel, they’d recognize you for a foreigner. But you could communicate well.”
At the lesson’s conclusion, Phillipe asked, “Have you ever been to England, Girard?”
“Yes. I prefer not to discuss the circumstances.”
Phillipe pointed at the topmost volume stacked behind his heels. “Is that where you found this book by Monsieur Locke?”
“No, I purchased that in Paris. But visiting Monsieur Locke’s homeland was, at least in part, almost like a holy pilgrimage.” The bright blue eyes gleamed with mirth. “Provided an unholy chap like myself is permitted such an experience. You mentioned a day or two ago that you had some questions about Locke—?”
Phillipe sighed. “I’ve forgotten half of them already. His English is hard for me to follow. Too deep. I read some passages two and three times before I got the notion that he didn’t believe kings ruled by God’s will.”
“And so they don’t. Among men who gave death blows to the theory of a king’s divine right to hold a throne, Locke was one of the foremost. If you’ll study him a little more closely, you’ll discover he actually put forth one of the ideas for which Monsieur Rousseau is receiving much credit.”
“You mean that business about some kind of contract?”
Girard nodded, turning the tip of his boot toward the stack where gold letters stamped on the binding of a slim volume spelled out Le Contract social.
“Locke actually espoused the contract theory as part of his justification of constitutional monarchy. Stated that a king’s role was one of steward, not tyrant—and that the ultimate test of a government was whether the subjects were happy and prosperous. If so, the ruler should be obeyed. If not, he should be booted out.”
“So the best kind of king is one of those”—Phillipe fumbled for the term—“enlightened what?”
“Despots. Enlightened despots. Yes, that’s a popular theory. But even those who give it credence do so with reservations. Here, pass me L’Encyclopedie.”
Phillipe did, and Girard leafed through until he found the passage he wanted. He showed Phillipe the page.
“Have you read this?”
“No.”
“Well, Monsieur Diderot is no flame-eyed revolutionary. Yet he recognizes the dangers inherent in having a hereditary king—even a good one. Pay attention—”
Girard cleared his throat, began quoting from the page:
“ ‘It has sometimes been said that the happiest government was that of the just and enlightened despot. It is a very reckless assertion. It could easily happen that the will of this absolute master was in contradiction with the will of his subjects. Then, despite all his justice and all his enlightenment, he would be wrong to deprive them of their rights even in their own interests.’ ”
Phillipe shook his head. “But if there are to be no kings at all, who does have the authority in this world?”
Quickly Girard flipped pages. “This is Diderot too. ‘There is no true sovereign, there can be no true legislator, but the people.’ ”
“You mean kings rule by their consent.”
“By our consent. Who are the people if not you and me and even poor, love-crazed Mademoiselle Charl—come, don’t pull such a face! Is it really such an astonishing idea?”
“Yes. I can see it leading to all sorts of trouble. Fighting—”
“And why not?” Girard exclaimed. “Once, man swallowed every opinion or order that was handed him—” The scholar spat. “So much for the age of faith. Then, slowly, and with greater acceleration in the last hundred years, man began to perceive the power of his own reason. His power to ask why. To find logical answers in every area of human endeavor. Once unleashed, such a force can’t be halted. I venture to say that by the time your titled father passes to whatever waits on the other side of the grave—oblivion, is my opinion—the world may be radically changed, thanks in part to these fellows—our mad Jean Jacques most of all.”
Pointing to the gold-stamped book, Phillipe said, “But honestly, a lot of that seems just gibberish.”
“That must be overlooked! Rousseau has fired the world’s imagination. Who can say why some writers can, and others can’t? But he has! I understand he’s very popular on the other side of the Atlantic, for instance. I agree a lot of his notions are drivel. Or rehashes of what others have said before. Yet from time to time, he puts down with masterful precision some of the most astute statements on the subject of government and men’s freedoms I have ever encountered.”
Phillipe squinted into the bright wind, his thoughts, and hence his words, coming slowly:
“It seems to me he doesn’t like any kind of government.”
“Quite true. He considers them all evil and unnatural. He recognizes, however, that unlimited freedom, no matter how desirable, simply won’t work. So, he compromises.”
“The contract idea again?”
“Yes, but carried even further. Here, the book—”
The man’s obvious delight made Phillipe smile; Girard was like an infant with a shiny new play-bauble as he hurried through Le Contract social, hunting the section he wanted. Turning pages, he explained:
“Master Jean Jacques actually distilled much of the political thinking of the past hundred years. He states that not only does no man in a government hold power by personal right, but that he has no authority independent of those he governs. Ah, yes—”
He read:
“ ‘I have demonstrated that the depositories of the executive power are not the masters of the people, but its officers. That the people may establish or remove them as it pleases. That for these officers there is no question of contracting, but only of obeying. That in undertaking the functions which the state imposes on them, they only fulfill their duty as citizens, with no right of any kind to dispute the terms—’ ”
Phillipe whistled. “No wonder he’s notorious.”
With a shrug, Girard closed the book. “I repeat, much of the man’s work strikes me as idiotic. His novels especially. Silly romantic fancies! But on politics—ah, on politics—!” He kissed the tips of his fingers.
“I’m still surprised he hasn’t been arrested,” Phillipe said.
“Well, for one thing, the time’s right for his ideas. More and more people are coming to realize that we are all born in a natural state of freedom—and that power is therefore not something which descends in selective rays of light from heaven, to touch only a few of the especially appointed. Such as our good King Louis XV up in Paris—” Girard grimaced. “Or the Hanoverian farmer who holds the throne of England. They don’t care for the notion that power and authority are the results of contracts between the people and the rulers—or that the people may break those contracts at any time.”
Mock-serious, he tucked the Rousseau work
into his capacious side pocket. “Oh, it’s dangerous stuff.”
“I wonder.”
“What?”
“Maybe it’s just a lot of words. Soap bubbles—”
Girard started to sputter. Phillipe continued quickly:
“I mean—one of the things I really wanted to ask you was—has any of this actually changed anything?”
“Changed anything!” Girard rolled his eyes. “My dear pupil! It’s stirring new winds all over the world. Have you ever heard travelers at the inn mention the former British Prime Minister? Monsieur Pitt?”
“Yes. With curses, mostly.”
“Of course! The Great Commoner, as his people affectionately called him, directed England’s effort in the late, unlamented Seven Years’ War—and stole most of France’s territory in the New World in the bargain. A few years ago, the ministers of King George attempted to levy various niggling taxes—in such forms as an official stamp on all legal documents, for example. These taxes were to be levied only in Britain’s colonies in America. And Pitt himself—already an earl—actually stood up in Parliament and challenged the king’s right to enact such a tax! He proclaimed injustice being done to England’s sons across the water. And he helped get the stamp tax repealed! How’s that for being a steward of the people? At the same time, there was an Irishman in Parliament—a Colonel Barre, if I recall. He likewise praised the colonists for refusing to pay the taxes because they had no representation in London. He termed the contentious Americans ‘sons of liberty.’ Don’t tell your mother, but I like that touch. Phillipe, do you realize that a hundred years ago, both of those spokesmen for ordinary people might well have had their heads on the block?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Smiling briefly, the tutor went on. “It amounts to this. Because of books like the ones you’ve been struggling to understand, there’s a test of wills coming in the world. The people against the rulers. It’s reached England already. It will reach France one day.”