Dancing for the Marquis
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Copyright © 2019 Edith M. Ziegler
Published by Vivid Publishing
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Western Australia 6959
www.vividpublishing.com.au
ISBN: 978-1-925846-64-5 (ebook)
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder. This book is a work of fiction. Its references to historical events, real people and/or real locales are used fictitiously.
Other books by Edith M. Ziegler:
Darling Mother, Darling Son: The Letters of Leslie Walford and Dora Byrne, 1929-1972. Sydney, NewSouth Publishing and Sydney Living Museums, 2017.
Harlots, Hussies, and Poor Unfortunate Women: Crime, transportation, and the servitude of female convicts, 1718-1783. Tuscaloosa, University of Alabama Press, 2014.
Schools in the Landscape: Localism, cultural tradition, and the development of Alabama’s public education system, 1865-1915. Tuscaloosa, University of Alabama Press, 2010.
Images:
Tanya Gramatikova/Trevillion Images
State Library of NSW, Mitchell Library Q79/59
Istockphotos and Shutterstock.
For Niklas, Nina and Harry Power
who but for the marquis …
‘The very substance of the ambitious is merely
the shadow of a dream.’
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 2, scene 2
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Acknowledgements
Sources
ONE
‘That could be interesting . . . very interesting indeed.’
It was a lacklustre morning towards the end of March 1879 and Roland LeBlanc was breakfasting at home in Marseille. Consistent with his usual routine, he was also perusing Gazette du Midi, one of the city’s daily newspapers. He preferred to read without interruption; the paper’s comprehensive coverage and analysis of important national issues deserved his fullest concentration. Veronique, his wife, always complied dutifully with his wishes and would pass him a roll or pour him a cup of coffee according to a mutually understood semaphore of facial expressions. Although his comment piqued her curiosity, she waited in silence to see whether he would be more forthcoming.
The item that had caught and held Roland’s attention was a prominent advertisement placed by a conservative Catholic discussion forum. After reading it several times, he was ready to share its subject matter. Still staring at the paper, he asked rhetorically, ‘What do you think of this, Veronique? At the April meeting of the Salon des Œuvres, the guest speaker will be a person who’s promoting an entirely new French colony in Oceania. It says here that the colony is to be founded on traditional values and principles embodying the true ethos of France itself.’
Veronique put down her cup and sighed, ‘Ah . . . La Patrie’. This was not so much a response as an encapsulation of wistful longing for intrinsic values that, like Roland, she believed were being lost or corrupted by the nation’s current political régime. She was particularly hostile to the recently elected president, Jules Grévy, who was very vocal about his desire to separate church and state. To Veronique, this was a reprehensible idea, and clearly anti-Catholic.
Although neither husband nor wife had yet turned thirty, they shared a deep and emotional attachment to the past (or their own selective notion of the past) and longed for its apparent certitude – so different from polarised contemporary France. When Roland read the notice, there was really no question as to whether or not he would go to the meeting – he made up his mind on the spot. The pale spring day began to glow with bright possibilities, and so when Veronique asked, ‘Do you plan to attend the Salon des Œuvres?’ he was surprised, and answered unequivocally.
‘Of course! Nothing could stop me.’ For the next ten days he was restlessly impatient.
Émile Sumien, Gazette du Midi’s pessimistic editor-in-chief, identified closely with the concerns of his readers. He knew they appreciated having their opinions reflected and thereby validated in the conservative newspapers to which they subscribed. He regularly filled the pages of the Gazette with doom-laden jeremiads, and examples of what he claimed as incontrovertible evidence of national decline. For months he’d been warning his readers that France was facing impending disaster.
‘Wherever one looks, one sees a deterioration in our society’s values. This is clearly attributable to the widespread lapse of religious observance and to the creeping godlessness of public policy.’ Sumien had a rogue’s gallery of culprits for the policy changes, and he would frequently mention the most egregious offenders.
As well as carping about national decay, Monsieur Sumien also liked to evoke in his readers a nostalgic craving for the lost golden age of the ancien régime, a glorious Gallic and monarchical era, when vigorous hordes of young men had allegedly gone forth to carry French influence to foreign shores. His message was unambiguous; since the founding of the Third Republic, French society had grown decadent, and its young men had become either self-gratifying hedonists or effete milksops.
Whenever he read the Gazette, Roland would find himself murmuring in agreement with the editor-in-chief’s reactionary positions, his wisdom, and his vigorous defence of the Church. Veronique would hear her husband saying aloud, ‘Quite so . . . How true . . . He’s put his finger on the problem exactly . . . ’ and similar comments.
Roland was very pious and devout, and considered most political questions through the prism of his religious beliefs. Being tall, thin and rather angular, he called to mind the sort of reclusive ascetic that might inhabit a monastery on some remote holy mountain. In his daily activities, he was usually an efficient and pragmatic sort of person, but he could also be credulous and susceptible to prophecies and portents that gave him a focus for yearnings he was scarcely aware of possessing. He interpreted these portents as demands that should neither be ignored nor resisted. He was convinced that the Marian apparitions at Lourdes, at Pontain and at Pellevoisin – all within his own lifetime – had been divine warnings that France had recklessly ignored. Echoing Émile Sumien, Roland would say earnestly to those closest to him, ‘France will never be at peace with itself until it adopts a conservative moral order. Its citizens must commit to reinvigorating the Catholic faith at home and spreading it abroad.’ And his like-minded listeners would nod their heads in agreement. He never met anyone who mig
ht interrogate or question his perspectives.
On the evening of the meeting, Roland washed, trimmed his beard, brushed his dark hair, changed into a fresh white shirt, and slipped into his best black broadcloth frock-coat. He briefly checked his austere appearance in a mirror, then hurried downstairs to the street, where he hailed a cab to take him across town.
Roland’s destination was a building in Belsunce that was owned by the Jesuits. It was here, in a large room on the second floor, that the Salon des Œuvres held its meetings. Access to the building was from la rue Mission de France, a short narrow street that was not much more than a laneway. When Roland arrived, he joined a throng of men milling about impatiently in the restricted area. At eight o’clock a priest threw open a pair of narrow doors, and the waiting men pressed through and rushed up the stairs. The available seats were taken quickly, but more and more people kept arriving and, although they knew they would have to stand for the whole evening, this did not deter them. As the room filled it became very noisy with men talking loudly and excitedly. Roland acknowledged several people whom he knew, but he took the opportunity to admire the room’s famous murals by Dominique Magaud. Each of these portrayed some aspect of Catholicism’s contributions to civilization. One – rather aptly in view of the night’s proceedings – showed Christopher Columbus landing at San Salvador and thanking God for allowing him to be the carrier of His holy religion to the New World.
Presently the hubbub subsided; the proceedings were about to start. All heads turned as Léon Roubaud, who was the president of the Salon des Œuvres, a notary, and one of Marseille’s best known citizens, walked to the front of the room. He was followed by a tall, rather portly and altogether striking figure with a high forehead, aquiline nose and thick black hair. This was the guest speaker. After a few introductory remarks, Mâitre Roubaud introduced him as Charles Marie-Bonaventure du Breil, the Marquis de Rays.
Charles du Breil stepped up to the daïs, placed his notes on the lectern, and after glancing at these briefly, stood back, paused, gazed out at the eager faces, and broke the silence with the ringing and rallying tones of an orator.
‘Dearest children of Old France.’
These opening words elicited spontaneous and sustained applause. The marquis had achieved exactly the effect he’d intended. Roland was conscious that his pulse was racing. He could feel the skin under his sleeves prickling into gooseflesh and he was flushed with expectation. For the next three-quarters of an hour he sat enthralled, as the marquis electrified the room with his vision for a New France, a colony in Oceania. This imprecise geographic locality was apparently a vast swathe of the western Pacific whose countless realms and islands had not yet been formally claimed by any European power. These, the audience was expected to infer, were like loose change waiting to be scooped up and pocketed by someone like the marquis. He then stated imperiously,
‘The initial colonial settlement will be in New Ireland at a place shown on existing maps as Port Praslin, but which I have renamed Port Breton.’
He waited while those in the room, who had no knowledge of the region and had never heard of New Ireland, digested this information, and continued, ‘I have created my colony for religious and patriotic motives.’ As if to explain these motives, he changed the tenor of his voice, tossed his head and asked in a gathering crescendo, ‘Why is Europe beset by divisions? Why are there always clouds on the horizon? Why are there perpetual conflicts in the depths of our being? Are these feelings not foreign to our innermost understanding of being Catholic and French? Alas, poor Fatherland, what has become of thy glory? Eldest daughter of the Church, wherefore is thy crown?’
These rhetorical questions needed no answers. There was further applause, and members of the audience smiled at each other open-mouthed, as if to say, ‘Where has this man been? Why haven’t we heard from him before?’ ‘We’re in the presence of a visionary.’
The person sitting beside Roland nudged his elbow. ‘Isn’t he marvellous?’
Roland, who generally bristled if touched by a stranger, nodded and smiled cordially in full agreement.
Many of those in the audience believed the greatness and power of a nation could be measured by its colonial possessions, but Charles du Breil was proposing a private endeavour conducted without reference to any sovereign government. His receptive listeners did not question this. They could only see a man who spoke with authority and élan, and was thoroughly convincing when he argued that France needed to be restored to its true Christian and Royalist character.
When he avowed, ‘New France will offer a fresh start, a providential renewal guided by the Creed and the Cross,’ they were more than willing to trust him wholeheartedly.
The regal, moustachioed aristocrat upon whom all eyes were fixed was attired in the crisply pressed uniform of a major general. Across his chest was a wide, striped moiré silk sash to which was pinned a jewelled star – an order of some sort – and Roland assumed the marquis must have fought in the late war with Prussia. On this evening he might have been the Last Knight of Europe, a chivalric hero urging his followers to a patriotic crusade, or a righteous warrior announcing a path to the Promised Land.
Had Roland been endowed with even a modicum of scepticism, he might have recognised a costumed performance of theatrical artifice and histrionic flair. He did not discern that the strength of the speech lay in the marquis’ innate understanding that he was reflecting and amplifying the anxieties of his audience and offering a persuasive solution for their relief. He was engaging emotion rather than logic, and each person in the room heard an individual message.
The marquis moved on to practical matters. ‘My colony has extensive capital requirements, and you can obtain a stake in its development by purchasing vouchers representing land. The price per hectare is now five francs but will rise to ten francs in May.’ He inserted this persuasive note to encourage urgency, but did not explain why or on what basis the price per hectare was calculated. Instead he insisted, ‘There are fortunes to be made by discerning investors in this unique undertaking.’
While members of the audience silently reckoned up their options for future wealth or engaged in pipedreams about tropical islands, the marquis went on speaking.
‘The special character of the Work will make it necessary for me to retain sole control. I cannot afford to see it ruined by the pestilential procedures of a normal industrial or commercial organization.’ This statement went unheard or unheeded by those in the room.
Charles du Breil ended his powerful address with a challenging flourish. ‘To the Work, gentlemen! Let it begin, and may God be with us!’
His soaring confidence was richly inspirational to those who had long been seeking answers as to why France had lost its way and was in decline. They rose for an ovation. Everyone stamped their feet or thumped the wooden floor with walking sticks. They roared with approval and clapped and cheered. The sound was deafening, the approval sustained, and even the prosaic questions that followed much later – on topography, vegetation, soils, crops, and so on – could not diminish its lingering effect. Roland made a mental note to pick up one of the information leaflets that had been stacked on tables prior to the talk.
Being a natural actor, instinctively conscious of his timing, Charles du Breil did not think it was the right moment to disclose that he had neither been to New Ireland nor to any of the island groups of the Pacific collectively referred to as Oceania. Yet on this night of triumph amongst eager supporters, he did not consider he was lying, but that he was speaking the truth – or something that was true enough, because it ought to be true. His colonial obsession had allowed him to create a reality of his own in which facts were improvised to serve his objectives. His audience was the mirror he needed to reflect and thus confirm his fictional contentions. He expected its members to identify with his exalted self-image and with his overstated plans. He challenged them to have faith that his stories were real, and for the most part that’s exactly what they di
d.
The Port Breton envisaged by the marquis had grown lushly in his mind from a seed planted several years before when he’d read the journals of several French navigators. None of these had spent more than a few days at the proposed site and none had deemed it suitable for an agricultural colony. It was, however, not entirely without attraction.
Louis-Antoine Bougainville, the famed French explorer who had visited (and named) Port Praslin in 1768, had described a spectacle not far from the shore. This was a gorgeous cascade framed by majestic trees and lush foliage that spilled its waters from a great height in a silvery torrent. So enchanted was Bougainville that he had written in his journal, ‘The greatest painter would struggle in vain to produce in the palaces of kings what Nature has cast here in this uninhabited spot . . .’
The allure of this romantic and potent image had filled and fired Charles du Breil’s dreaming. Fate, he was convinced, was inexorably guiding him to Port Praslin as the site for his settlement. Perhaps he had seen it with his own eyes.
By the time Roland got home it was late, and Veronique had gone to bed though she was still awake. She could see her husband was in a preoccupied state of excitement and in no mood to retire, so she propped herself up on her smooth white linen pillows and asked him for a full report on the evening.
‘I really wish you could have been there and heard the marquis speak – especially about the magnificent concept he has for his colony and its future.’
‘What sort of a man is he?’ Veronique was genuinely curious.
Roland didn’t answer immediately, as if he were searching for words of sufficient adequacy. Eventually he stammered, ‘persuasive
. . . majestic . . . there’s no other way of saying it. He has a commanding presence and he exudes a real aura of authority. His voice is deep and resonant . . . quite magnetic . . . but it was his ideas that held everyone in thrall.’
As he spoke, Roland walked distractedly around the room clasping and unclasping his hands. He then exclaimed, ‘He has a boldness and confidence that could well make him the saviour of France.’ On this portentous evening Roland had seen an agent of deliverance, a messiah; he was completely awestruck.