By My Sword Alone by David Black (ebook reader ink TXT) 📕

thin lips and their sardonic little side up-ticks, gives the impression of a nipping, sniping creature.

‘You are recently come from the low countries, I understand,’ says the man. ‘I envy you. The Dutch have such a free and enlightened society. Every time I come to Paris, which every man must love, I find I long to be back there.’

James looks down on the man, startled by his presumption. ‘Certainly, I liked it fine. The Dutch were very kind to me when I needed friends,’ says James, who feels Dillon tugging at his sleeve on his other side. He is aware that Dillon is trying to get him away from the man, which fills him with a sudden contrariness. ‘What, pray, took you to Holland?’ he asks the pinched little man, simply to prolong the conversation, a move that feels likely to cost him a torn cuff from Dillon.

‘I was once secretary to the French ambassador at the Hague,’ replies the man, ‘although I have had to return there on several occasions since officially leaving the post. The consequence of the regent’s literary criticism, I fear.’

‘You are a man of letters, sir? I, latterly, was a scholar also, of ethics and moral philosophy. Should I know your name, sir?’

‘Yes,’ says the man, with a knowing twinkle. ‘You should.’

‘Oh,’ is all James can manage. A pause. ‘Then I regret my ignorance.’

‘See if you can guess. For my first play, a great critical success, the regent imprisoned me, and when I sought to publish my recent poem, I found the door of every publisher in France closed against me. That was when I last had to return to that haven of tolerance, the Hague, to find one who would bring out my work. But pah! I suppose Le Duc and I are reconciled now, as he has permitted the Comédie-Française to re-stage that first play later in the year. At least it will mean another purse of livres to help soak up the blood of previous wounds.’

‘You are M’sieur Voltaire!’ exclaims James, realising now, and bowing, despite one arm being dragged backwards by Dillon. James is genuinely impressed to meet this great man. The reputation of his dramatic satire, Œdipe, has crossed the Channel, along with the author into brief exile. James tells him, ‘I have your poem, La Henriade, on my table. Your sallies in it against the political state of France and the twin evils of religious fanaticism and civil discord are as subtle as they are profound.’

M. Voltaire visibly preens. ‘Such discernment,’ he says. ‘Tell me of your scholarly credentials.’

‘I studied under Francis Hutcheson at the University of Glasgow,’ says James, intending to explain further.

‘M’sieur Hutcheson! I have heard of this gentleman. He maintains that man, even without prior knowledge of God, yet he has a knowledge of good and evil. So there is more to you, M’sieur Lindsay, than the emissary of your throneless king there would have us believe!’ And he nods at Dillon. ‘We were all here agog to hear of your epic tales of battle, but now I discover you have far more interesting thoughts to share. A scholar indeed. We must discuss further, but I fear the floor is being commandeered for dancing.’

And so it is. An assignation with Voltaire is promised and then James is off, freeing himself from Dillon, across the floor to where the covey of beauties have not ceased to be interested in James’ presence. ‘God bless you M’sieur Eugene,’ he is saying to himself, remembering his childhood tutor, ‘for every twirl you taught me!’

And then when he is among them, he is telling himself that such women exist is only the second-best thing to have ever happened in his life; and that the best is being able to dance with them.

Dillon, who has been left standing, fuming at James for allowing himself to be seen dallying with such controversial figure as that roué Voltaire, watches his protégé prance elegantly round the room with a succession of willing partners. It upsets Dillon because the boy is patently not job hunting – the reason he is here – but he is at least not causing trouble. Dillon idly follows the elaborate parade of dancers as they go bobbing round the room, his attention straying only to chase up crystal goblets of punch for himself, to his own steady rhythm.

It is then that he notices another pair of eyes on our young hero. The Comtesse de Boufflers. A regular of the salon circuit. The comtesse is a known collector of prize horseflesh – and other prize flesh, too. Possibilities suggest themselves to Dillon, but as they are jostling for position in his now alcohol-fuddled brain, events take on a momentum of their own.

He watches as the comtesse approaches another aristo grande dame, the Marquise de Veregennes, all rouged and caked coiffure, and a known socialite predator of infamous spleen. There are whispers.

The dance stops and partners step apart, and James, whose elegance on the floor has been admired, hands his lady her hand back with a bow. The exchanged moment is shattered by a bellow.

‘Vous! Fantassin Écossais!’

It is the Marquise de Veregennes. It is obvious she is addressing M’sieur Lindsay. ‘You! Scottish foot soldier!’ she has sneered. It is an insult, calling an officer a common soldier.

Silence.

‘I do not know you,’ she says with imperious grandeur. ‘But I hear reports that you entered this place exclaiming, “Ah-ha!” as if it were some Moorish souq. What do you mean by such remarks?’

Everybody knows – for they have seen it before – that la marquise is obviously setting herself up to humiliate the young man. They wait, breath held, to savour what mockery must follow.

James bows to her, and says in his best, courtly French, ‘Ma’am, I have been misheard and reported falsely. I did not say, “Ah-ha!”.’ A deliberate pause. ‘I said