The Launching of Roger Brook (24 page)

For a moment Roger did not reply. Nothing could have been further from his own vague imaginings about his future, and such a course could certainly not lead to securing an influential position in London.

‘Come now!’ Doctor Aristotle went on more eagerly, ‘I would not seek to persuade you against your better judgment, but surely this is the solution to both our difficulties. The moment I set eyes on you I had a feeling that you were a young man with quick wits and of good address. It is not only your capital that I crave, but also your company. When your French is improved, you can harangue the little
crowds that gather round my stand in curiosity, and you will find it most fascinating sport to talk even the most sceptical among them into buying one of our remedies for some, oft-imagined, complaint. And the women, too, why I would more than double my sales of skin creams and eye lotions were I able to point to that handsome countenance of yours as proof of their efficacy. ’Tis not winter, either, so we’ll not have to tramp through mud and rain, but ’tis a good season of the year; and by autumn we’ll have made enough to take our journeys easily, lying up for the day at a warm fireside whene’er the weather proves inclement.’

It was the last argument that decided Roger. By autumn his father would almost certainly have gone to sea again, and if he could then return home with a pocket full of
louis
honour would be satisfied. England offered no such prospect of a face-saving return, and during August and September what would really be more pleasant than a walking tour through France with its stimulating newness to him, its exciting foods and its volatile people?

‘So be it,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ll come with you, but I make one stipulation.’

‘What is it?’

‘That I keep the purse.’

The Doctor gave him a rueful look. ‘Do’st grudge me my dram of Cognac?’

‘Nay, not in reason; but for your sake as well as my own I wish to ensure that by autumn our pockets are tolerably well lined.’

‘’Tis said that old heads do not grow upon young shoulders, but methinks yours will serve well enough.’

‘Maybe I have aged somewhat swiftly overnight,’ commented Roger drily. ‘Is it agreed?’

‘Yes; and in truth I should be grateful to you, since you propose to do for me that which I doubt my having the strength of will to do for myself.’

‘When do we set out?’

‘Tomorrow morning, if you will. After
déjeuner
we will go forth into the town to purchase our requirements. This evening we will make some of them up in Maître Picard’s brewhouse, which he has on numerous previous occasions lent me for the purpose, and will no doubt again.’

It was now a little after midday and, at that moment, the serving man put his head round the door to say that
déjeuner
was ready; so Roger and Dr. Aristotle went through to the coffee room and sat down to it together.

Being accustomed to the English fashion of making a hearty breakfast then taking the main meal of the day at four o’clock, Roger was somewhat surprised to find this midday repast more substantial than that he had been given the previous evening; but he was quick to realise that as the French eat only rolls and
confiture
on rising they must sadly need something more filling before mid-afternoon; so their so-called ‘breakfast’ was really their dinner, and the evening meal considered by them to be of secondary importance.

When they had finished Dr. Aristotle took Roger out to the stable and presented him to Monsieur de Montaigne, a quiet and elderly mule, so named, the Doctor explained, on account of his wisdom and sagacity. It was Monsieur de Montaigne’s function to transport from place to place, in a pair of capacious panniers, his master’s few personal possessions and stock-in-trade, and to carry strapped lengthwise on top of them a contraption made of wood and canvas which could swiftly be erected into a street pulpit. Saddling the mule with his panniers they led him out on to the quay and bent their steps towards the centre of the city.

Roger had no intention of laying himself open to being tricked twice in one day, so when the Doctor halted in a side street before an apothecary’s, he made no move to produce his money, but the old man did not even suggest it; he simply tied his mule to a ring in the wall and beckoned Roger to follow him inside.

Half an hour went by while the apothecary weighed and measured a score of ingredients ranging from great jars of fat to little phials of crude but pungent scent. After some haggling on the Doctor’s part Roger parted with one
louis
seven
crowns
and a
franc
, then they carried their purchases outside and loaded them on to Monsieur de Montaigne.

Their next visit was to an
épicerie
where the Doctor added to their store a quantity of soap, sugar, cheap sweets and spices, including a good store of peppercorns, for an outlay of three
crowns
six
sous
. After this they went to the warehouse of a wholesale china and glass dealer from whom they purchased several score of containers for their wares; bottles of various sizes, jars, pots and little hand-painted vases, which cost a further five
crowns
.

Roger thought that their business was now completed, but he proved mistaken. Instead of turning back towards
Les Trois Fleur-de-Lys
Doctor Aristotle led the way farther into the city, and they walked on for the best part of a mile until they had passed through it and were in a leafy
Faubourg
leading up to the
Bastion de Tourneville
. Some way along it the Doctor halted opposite a squat, ivy-covered cottage with a thatched roof, and said:

‘I have to make another purchase here and I shall require a
louis
.’

‘But we have only some thirteen
crowns
left,’ expostulated Roger, ‘and if I give you eight of them, after we’ve settled up at the inn, we’ll have next to nothing left for emergencies.’

The Doctor shrugged. ‘My score is already settled; since, knowing my sad habits, Maître Picard makes me pay always in advance; and having been there but a day yours cannot be a heavy one. Give me the money, I beg. ’Tis to acquire a drug which is ever one of my most profitable lines and at nowhere else do I know a place to obtain it nearer than Rouen.’

Roger half suspected that the old man wanted to obtain the
louis
for some purpose of his own, but he had so far had no grounds for doubting his honesty and felt that as long as the mule, with its now valuable cargo, remained in his charge he had ample security; so with some reluctance he counted out the money.

The door of the cottage was opened by a repulsive old crone with a bent back, hairs upon her bony chin and a black cat perched upon her shoulder. Roger felt sure she was a witch, and hastily averted his gaze as the Doctor went inside with her.

The thought that his partner was about to purchase some rare and expensive decoction from this sinister old woman gave Roger furiously to think. What kind of drug could the Doctor possibly require that was not obtainable at an apothecary’s? Could it be that he was not merely an old quack whose worst fault lay in selling remedies, many of which he knew to be worthless?

In the time of Louis XIV all Europe had been horrified by the disclosures at the trials of the infamous La Voisin and the Marquise de Brinvilliers. A vast conspiracy had been uncovered in which hundreds of people had been
involved, including the King’s favourite, Madame de Montespan. Her young rival, Mademoiselle de Fontanges, had died in agonised convulsions after drinking a cup of fruit juice on her return from hunting with the King. The inquiry, on which her family had insisted, had revealed the existence of a great organisation fostering the practice of Satanism and willing to ensure the death of unwanted husbands, parents and rivals for a price, in many cases as low as ten
louis
. Although the King had refused to allow a case to be brought against his old favourite, on account of the children he had had by her, it had led to her downfall, and a number of her associates had been broken on the wheel. Hundreds of mysterious deaths had been traced to their evil machinations and, as a result, France had not even yet lived down the reputation of being a land where poisoning was rife. Could it be that Doctor Aristotle Fénelon made the more remunerative part of his precarious living as a poisoner?

When the Doctor came out of the cottage he showed Roger a fair-sized bottle three parts full of liquid.

‘What is that?’ asked Roger, striving to conceal his perturbation.

‘’Tis Ergot of Rye,’ replied the Doctor shortly, ‘an invaluable specific for the ills to which many young women become subject,’ but he refused to amplify this statement, so Roger was left only partially satisfied as to the purpose for which this expensive acquisition was intended.

As they walked back towards the centre of the town Georgina’s prediction recurred to him. She had said that he would be in grave danger from water; and he had been. She had said that he would meet with a man that boded no good for him and had something the matter with his left eye; and, wondering that he had not thought of it before, Roger now recalled the scar running up to the eye corner on De Roubec’s left cheek. She had said that he would go into some form of partnership with an old man who would prove a good friend to him, yet that no permanent good would come to him from it.

But it was too late now to speculate on whether or no the Doctor was the old man she had seen in the glass. Roger realised that his last chance of getting back to England had vanished with the completion of their purchases that afternoon and only a few
francs
now stood between him and
starvation. The die was cast and, for better or for worse, he must take the road with old Aristotle Fénelon the following morning.

They got back to
Les Trois Fleur-de-Lys
with some hours of the long afternoon still to spare, so they at once set about turning the brew-house into a dispensary. While Roger stabled Monsieur de Montaigne and unloaded his panniers the Doctor brought down from his room two battered old portmanteaux, containing his medical instruments, a few crude laboratory appliances and the oddments of stock that he had over from his last journey. A fire was soon lighted under the big copper and a supply of fresh water drawn from the well in the yard; then Dr. Aristotle entered upon the performance of his dubious mysteries.

Roger, his coat off and his shirt sleeves rolled up, watched him fascinated, and lent his aid by washing and drying the pots and bottles, then filling them with the Doctor’s sinister concoctions. Many of their purchases needed no further treatment than watering down and the principal business resolved itself into two main operations each followed by a number of subsidiary ones. The first was the blending of a foundation grease to which was added a variety of scents, some fragrant and some abominably foul, to give it the semblance of a number of quite different ointments; the second was the blending of a clear fluid containing 90 per cent water, to varying proportions of which colouring matter or pungent flavourings were added for a similar purpose.

They broke off for supper then returned to finish their labours by candlelight, spending an additional hour rolling pills made of soap and a dash of cascara, then they packed their wares into the panniers and retired to bed.

In the morning Roger woke with the awful thought that
during the night the Doctor might have absconded with the lotions and unguents which now represented his small capital, leaving him near destitute. Hurriedly pulling on his clothes he dashed downstairs and out to the stable. To his immense relief he found his fears to be groundless; Monsieur de Montaigne was quietly munching away at the hay in his manger and the panniers lay nearby packed and strapped as they had been left the night before.

Half an hour later, still feeling a little guilty about his unjust suspicions, he met his partner in the coffee room and they sat down to their
petit déjeuner
. Over the meal they discussed the itinerary for their journey and the Doctor having come down from Picardy via Dieppe, visiting all the villages along the coast on his way, it was decided to continue on into southern Normandy; but as they could not afford to take passage in a ferry across the wide estuary of the Seine they would follow its northern bank east as far as Rouen and then strike south from there.

Roger’s bill for the eventful thirty-eight hours he had spent at
Les Trois Fleur-de-Lys
came to eight
francs
fourteen
sous
, so after a
pourboire
to the serving-man and the chambermaid he was reduced to a single
crown
and a little small change; but he was not unduly perturbed by the depletion of his resources as the day was fine and it held for him ample promise of new scenes and interests.

Having hoisted the panniers on to Monsieur de Montaigne’s back and strapped on top of them the Doctor’s collapsible street pulpit they left the inn soon after eight o’clock and took the road to Harfleur.

It was on the way there that the Doctor spoke tactfully to Roger about his sword. The old man told him that in France it was forbidden to carry arms unless of noble birth; the only exception to the rule being that barbers were allowed to do so, as a special concession on account of their peculiarly intimate relations with the nobility and their clients’ dependence upon them. In the towns, of course, many soldiers of fortune, and scallywags such as the Chevalier, wore swords in support of their pretensions to an aristocratic lineage that they did not in fact possess, and they were so numerous as rarely to be called to account for this misdemeanour, but in the country it was different.

As the Doctor pointed out, should some nobleman drive up to an inn and halt there for the horses of his coach to be
watered he might see Roger wearing a sword while assisting to peddle their medicines. This would appear so incongruous to him that he would most probably set his lackeys on to give Roger a whipping.