Free Ramage's Devil by Dudley Pope

your superior. Many
gendarmes
cannot read—they know certain signatures and have them written on pieces of paper for comparison. But don’t be impatient if a
gendarme
holds a paper upside-down and “reads” it for five minutes—as if it has enormous importance. They are
gendarmes
because they have influence with someone in authority. Neither the Committees of Public Safety nor the
préfets
want illiterates, but often giving a job to such a man is repaying a political debt from the time of the Revolution.”
    Gilbert paused and then apologized. “I am afraid I am talking too much …”
    â€œNo, no,” Ramage said quickly. “And you must get into the habit of giving orders to ‘Charles’ and ‘Janine.’ Lose your temper with me occasionally—I am a slow-thinking fellow. Poor Charles Ribère, he can read slowly and write after a fashion, but … even his wife loses her patience with him!”
    A smiling Gilbert nodded. He found it impossible to toss aside the natural politeness by which he had led his life. Since he had been back in France, some Frenchmen had called it servility: why are you so servile, they had sneered: man is born free and equal. Yes, all that was true, but man also had to eat, which meant he had to work (or be a thief, or go into politics). Working for the Count was very equable: he lived in comfortable quarters, ate the same food as the Count and his guests, but in his own quarters without the need (as the Count often had) to let the food get cold as he listened to vapid gossip. But for these revolutionary fools he could have expected a comfortable old age with a good pension from the Count, and probably a cottage on the estate, here or in England.
    â€œServility”—yes, that was what these Republican fools called it. Elsewhere, particularly in England, it was called good manners. Please, thank you, good morning, good evening—according to the Republicans these were “servile phrases.” A true Republican never said please or thank you. But he had never listened to the Count, either: the Count
always
said please and thank you and the suitable greeting every time he spoke to one of his staff. In fact, a blind man would only know who was servant and who was master because the Count had an educated voice: his grammar, too, betrayed his background of Latin and Greek, and English and Italian. Gilbert had once heard him joking in Latin with a bishop who laughed so much he became nearly hysterical. No Committee of Public Safety would ever understand that normal good manners were like grease on axles—they helped things move more smoothly.
    â€œI think Edouard will have the gig ready for us by now,” Gilbert said, making a conscious effort to avoid any “sir” or “milord.” “We are going to buy fruit—our apples have been stolen—and vegetables: the potatoes have rotted in the barn. And indeed they have. We need a bag of flour, a bag of rice if we can buy some, and any vegetables that catch your fancy. I am tired of cabbage and parsnip, which is all we seem to grow here. A lot of salt in the air from the sea makes the land barren, so Louis says, but I think it is laziness in the air from the Count’s good nature.”
    Gilbert gestured towards two wicker baskets as they reached the back door. “We take these to carry our purchases—you put them on your laps. I have all the documents here and will drive the gig, because your hands are occupied.” He winked and then looked startled at his temerity in winking at a milord and a milady. Ramage winked back and Sarah grinned: the grin, Ramage thought in a sudden surge of affection, of a lively and flirtatious serving wench being impertinent. Impudent. Adorable. And what a honeymoon—here they were setting off (in a gig!) at the beginning of an adventure which could end up with them all being strapped down on the guillotine.