Free Merivel A Man of His Time by Rose Tremain Page B

Bathhouse behind the Swiss Guards’
Pavillon
, into whose steaming waters we plunged our filthy and stinking bodies, and lathered and rinsed them with childlike joy.
    I tried to persuade Hollers that this sudden cleanliness would signal a change in our fortunes, but the Dutchman’s anguish diminished only as long as our bath lasted and, as we came out into the cold air, he hunched himself over in an attitude of despair.
    I, by contrast, chose this as my moment to dress myself in the finest Suit I had brought with me (of a flatteringly soft Taupe colour, ornamented with expensive silver Frogging) and try my luck walking up and down in the
Galerie des Glaces
. I gave my wig a sincere and tender brushing (as though it might have been a pet Spaniel returned from a truffling expedition in Bidnold park), pressed a little discreet Rouge into my cheeks, took my Cane and set forth.
    In the
Galerie des Glaces
the sun was shining through every one of the seventeen windows and bouncing off the hundred mirrors, so that one had the impression of being imprisoned inside a colossal Diamond, whose brightness made my eyes drip. I attempted to walk with elegance, mimicking the long stride of King Charles (albeit with somewhat shorter legs and a fatter stomach) but only getting for myself successive mirthful glances from the other Courtiers promenading there.
    Holding my stomach in, and alert at every moment for any Commotion that might herald the appearance of King Louis, I sauntered on, but in due course found my way definitively barred by a gaggle of Fops, who surrounded me and, in complex harmony with each other, began laughing at me.
    One of the Gallants made that flicking gesture at my shoulder that I had experienced before, while another made so bold as to stoop down and take hold of my knee.
    ‘Messieurs,’ said I. ‘Why are you detaining me in this ungracious way? Pray tell me what is wrong.’
    ‘Ah,’ said one, ‘you mean you do not know?’
    ‘No. I’m afraid I do not know.’
    ‘He does not know!’ shrieked the man who had hold of my leg. ‘He must be from another land! Perhaps he is from the Moon!’
    More laughter echoed round the Diamond and bounced off its thousand facets.
    I held up my hands in a gesture of Surrender. ‘Pray do enlighten me,’ I said. ‘What faux pas have I committed?’
    The Fops then herded me unceremoniously towards one of the Mirrors, where they positioned themselves around me. ‘We do beg you to look at yourself,’ they chorused. ‘And then look at us. Do you not see the
grave
enormity of which you are guilty?’
    I looked at myself, as instructed. Despite my recent ablutions, I could at once see that I did not appear as a man in the very picture of health. My skin was sallow, my eyes somewhat red and my wig lacklustre, in spite of my grooming efforts. But it immediately became apparent that it was not my visage with which these Gentlemen were concerned, but rather with my Shoulders and my Knees.
    With much renewal of their mirth they declared that my Shoulders were
bare
. (The French word they used was
nues
, meaning naked.) And it was only then that I noticed, on their own gorgeous apparel, great clusters of ribbons, sewn into the shoulder seam and falling in elegant cascades to their elbows. My coat had no ribbons at all. Though I had commanded it to be made by a High-Class Tailor in St James’s Street in London, before my departure from England, this excellent man had had no thought of putting ribbons where the French Fops decreed that ribbons should be. Indeed, the word ‘ribbon’ had not entered into my discourse with the Tailor at any moment.
    As to my knees: I was now made aware that round the leg of every Courtier within my sight in the
Galerie des Glaces
, between the cutting off of the Breek and the appearance of the silk stocking, was entwined a kind of satin Ruff, apparently known as a
canon
. And my poor legs were again
nues
, with no
canons
anywhere, and with my knees