Dancing for the Marquis Read online

  ‘Were there many there?’

  ‘The room was packed out – and with people just like us.’ To Roland it was self-evident that ‘people just like us’ should be running France. Roland was excessively trusting of people he thus identified, and when dealing with them for any purpose, was inclined to suspend his customary caution.

  The LeBlancs were members of Marseille’s relatively small bourgeoisie. Gérard LeBlanc, Roland’s widowed father, was the proprietor of a large and successful printery, L’imprimerie de LeBlanc et fil. Roland was ‘le fil,’ and it was not long since his father had placed him in charge of all the clerks and cashiers who kept the ledgers, estimated revenue, issued invoices and recorded the payments received. Some of these men had been employed for many years and knew a great deal about the business – far more than Roland did. Nevertheless, he felt obligated to prove his father’s trust, and he didn’t hesitate to exert his authority when he deemed this necessary.

  From time to time the elder LeBlanc would say to his son, ‘One day this printery will be entirely yours and its success or failure will depend on you. Now you may be very good with figures but you must prepare for ownership by becoming familiar with all aspects of the firm’s operation.’ He would then recite a litany of prudential necessities – the need to accrue funds to replace aging presses and other plant, to maintain a reserve for unforeseen expenditures, to stay abreast of competitor initiatives, and to keep a weather eye on changes in the business environment. His father would always finish his advice by warning, ‘A family company will only ever be successful if those running it are qualified and experienced. You must be ready at all times because nobody can predict the future.’ To Gérard LeBlanc these homilies were a parental obligation, but he had great respect for his son, his conscientious diligence, his thoroughness, and the quality of his work.

  Every time his father held forth, Roland would be politely attentive, though he judged he had long since absorbed his father’s teaching. For several years, he had set aside some of his earnings and his portion of the annual profit so that, if required, he would be able to make his own investment in the printery at the appropriate time.

  Canny about their business, a necessity in the fast-changing economic climate, the LeBlancs were otherwise unworldly and incurious. Father and son were sober, honest, and industrious, and each lived in a manner that was comfortable – neither meagre nor lavish. They were people of high principle and ethical conviction, and sought to do good in the world as required by their faith. They disapproved of idle recreation, and did not share their fellow citizens’ zest for opera or the shows performed at the Théâtre de l’Alcazar and similar places. Although they were not consciously anti-social, only close family members were ever invited to their home for a meal – usually a pot roast. Parties, balls and elegant soirées were diversions for different sorts of people altogether.

  Veronique LeBlanc was a small, rather fragile woman who was also very devout. She had once thought she might have a nun’s vocation and had explored becoming an aspirant for a religious order, but after meeting Roland at her parish church, receiving encouragement from her parents and undergoing a contemplative retreat, she had become convinced that her true calling was to marry him and to be a wife and mother. Although she had found Roland’s looks agreeable and respected his intelligence and his values, her decision to marry him had been motivated by a sober calculation of affinity rather than deep emotion. The couple now had two children, three-year-old Mathilde, and Yves who was fourteen months old and had recently begun to walk. Both parents adored their children and assumed they would always be safeguards of marital content.

  Despite her love for her children, Veronique’s youth was not really a time of discovery and delight; it was too heavily burdened with self-imposed responsibilities. Everything she did was in the nature of a supplication, a plea for approval. She regarded her duty to her husband and family as an extension of her duty to God. She strove to be humble, patient, and obedient to what she presumed might be God’s will, but she could never match up to the standards she set for herself. Her ceaseless struggle to be a dependable wife, a loving mother, and a competent household manager, often made her fretful, and drained from her the possibility of real joy.

  At the meeting of the Salon des Œuvres the marquis had announced he was going to publish a monthly newspaper, La Nouvelle France, to report on everything to do with his colony and to keep his supporters informed. The paper would be produced in Marseille and distributed throughout France and beyond. As editor-in-chief he had chosen the entirely like-minded Émile Sumien.

  Roland paid for an annual subscription to La Nouvelle France, and the first issue arrived in July. He and Veronique spread out the paper on their dining-room table and studied it with great care. Occupying about a third of the title page was an engraved vignette of Port Breton. It showed several sailing ships riding at anchor in a bay framed by palm trees. The image electrified them, and they chirped, ‘Oh, look, look! Isn’t the village charming? What an excellent harbour!’ Then, in case either had missed anything in the illustrated scene, they pointed out the details to each other, ‘Can you see the nuns in their white cornets?’ ‘Have you spotted the monk in his cassock? He’s evangelising native boys.’

  The newspaper thrilled the couple; everything about it was entirely agreeable to them. Neither had ever travelled beyond the environs of Marseille, but both were avid consumers of missionary pamphlets that contained accounts of brave French priests taking the Gospel to the furthest corners of the globe, even at the peril of being martyred for their efforts. From these pamphlets, Veronique had learnt that the indigenous people of Oceania were primitive cannibals who could neither read nor write. They went about naked, daubed with red ochre and lime, and adorned themselves with plugs in their noses and straws through their septums.

  At the bottom of the title page was a picture of a grass-roofed hut set in a jungle clearing. The caption read, ‘A native dwelling in New France.’ Veronique peered at the image and mused, ‘The missionaries are going to have a difficult time converting the savages.’ She then paused for a few moments and continued, ‘but of course it’s the difficulty that will make their efforts so laudable, and that’s why the marquis deserves our support.’

  In fact, the marquis had emphasised this same point in the news­paper. ‘The most effective way of demonstrating confidence in my plans is to provide funding for their execution.’ There was an implied nexus between an investor’s level of funding and his belief in the Work.

  Veronique found it much easier to romanticise and support foreign missions than to render aid to the poor who were closer at hand. Notwithstanding her piety, she was distinctly uncharitable when it came to the large numbers of Italian immigrants who had recently moved into Marseille to provide the labour for its industrial expansion. These had become susceptible to the campaigns of Leftist political activists, and to Veronique, this was ominous and subversive.

  ‘These foreigners shouldn’t be allowed to come here,’ she would grumble to Roland. ‘They’ve no respect for French culture and they’re undermining our way of life. They don’t even speak our language.’ Veronique was similarly distrustful of Jews, whose numbers in Marseille had also grown along with the economy. The city’s conservatives resented Jews for their business success and their republican sentiments.

  Veronique had a limited circle of friends and family. Her sheltered life meant that neither she nor any member of her family had ever knowingly met an Italian or a Jew, or indeed anyone foreign. Never­theless she was highly receptive to derogatory anecdotes about

  unfamiliar outsiders whose very presence in Marseille represented social change. Veronique was troubled by such change. Her fragility seemed to require the anchor of certainty, and she wanted France to be closed and homogenous and thus, to her mind, safe, stable and harmonious. She had an instinctive respect for French institutions such as the Army and the Church, and for the representatives or agents of such institutions of whom she could believe nothing adverse. The marquis’ plans for Port Breton had given her a cause for real cheer. The colony might be remote, but it would serve as a beacon of piety, simple rectitude, and old values.

  The young couple would often happily discuss how the proposed colony might advance.

  ‘There’ll need to be a community of settlers before any mission can thrive at Port Breton. A new country can’t flourish without a steady intake of suitable people.’ Veronique had specific ideas about the sorts of people who might be suitable.

  Roland agreed. ‘That’s right. But we can’t go ourselves. What do we know of farming? Precisely nothing.’

  ‘Farmer Roland.’ Veronique smiled at the absurdity of the idea.

  ‘In any case we have too many responsibilities here in Marseille to leave.’ Roland was thinking of the family’s business. Although his father was in excellent health, if this ever changed, Roland would need to take charge.

  Roland and Veronique agreed on most questions of consequence, but Roland had also married without much ardour. While he was fond of his wife, and found her blonde prettiness and grace rather charming, he had never really been in love with her. This did not trouble him unduly. Roland’s mother had died when he was six, and his two older sisters had married young and moved away from Marseille. He had thus grown up in a house without women, and with a preoccupied and undemonstrative father. As an only son, he had learnt early to rely on himself and to be emotionally self-sufficient. As a consequence, he tended to think of romantic love as sentimental. He had even sailed through adolescence without experiencing the heartburn of youthful infatuation. He had married Veronique because it was likely she would make an affectionate and steadfast partner.

  Roland and Veronique were
both naturally prudish and unadventurous in their intimacy. Their restraint was a product of their moral earnestness and rigid propriety as well as their suspicion of self-indulgence. To both of them, physical pleasure, if enjoyed merely for its own sake, was louche and dubious. Duty and responsibility invariably trumped amatory inclination and carnal desire. Neither ever said ‘I love you’ to the other, but assumed their marital harmony was in itself a testament to their affection.

  Their religious devotions aside, the couple’s energies were, in Roland’s case, largely expended on the printery, and in Veronique’s, on their home and children. They did not often bother each other with matters that were exclusive to their own sphere. Apart from the allowance that Roland gave Veronique for household expenses, the family’s finances and their management were entirely matters for Roland. He was, however, so consumed by his zest for the marquis’ colony that not long after receiving the first issue of La Nouvelle France, he made a disclosure to Veronique. ‘I’ve decided to support the marquis by making an investment in Port Breton. What do you think?’

  Veronique tried not to show she had been praying earnestly for this outcome. She beamed at her husband and exclaimed vigorously, ‘That’s wonderful! I’m so glad and so proud of you.’ The two relished a rare moment of shared fervour. Roland basked in the warmth of her approval and inferred she was awed by his decision. She did not question whether it was his to make – it was his manly prerogative as head of the household. Roland saw no reason to advise her that he was intending to pay for his stake with her dowry as well as a large portion of his carefully accumulated savings. Time enough for this when he was receiving handsome returns.

  On a scorching day towards the end of July, Roland visited the office of Mâitre Léon Roubaud in la rue de la République. It was Mâitre Roubaud who had invited the marquis to Marseille to address the Salon des Œuvres after he had received circulars about the intended colony. He had thought the topic might be of particular interest to the inhabitants of a great maritime port. Charles du Breil later repaid his keenness by making the notary his agent for all land voucher sales and other business in southern France.

  Roland’s first impression of Mâitre Roubaud’s office was its extraordinary messiness. Every surface was covered with heaps of unsorted papers, bundles of files and unopened letters. His desk was littered with empty bottles of ink, their sides blotched with dried out blue sediment, and jars of bedraggled goose quills that probably hadn’t been used for decades. The notary himself was a dishevelled gnome of a man with wisps of grey hair drifting from his uncombed head. Roland, who was meticulously neat, hoped his face did not reveal his disapproval. He was mildly shocked that the sleek marquis had chosen such an untidy muddler to be his representative.

  Roland exchanged greetings and then described the purpose of his visit. ‘I wish to purchase vouchers for four hundred hectares of land in New France. I understand the price is ten francs per hectare and so I’ve calculated the cost at four thousand francs. Is that correct?’

  The notary smiled and agreed with Roland’s estimate in his quavery voice. ‘Yes, that’s correct. You’re wise to be getting in early as it’s a really excellent opportunity.’ He then added, ‘Of course you can buy additional vouchers whenever you wish.’

  Roland handed a banker’s draft to Mâitre Roubaud. who read the document carefully.

  ‘That’s all in order. You’ll receive a ‘titre de propriété’ within a few days and you may be sure I’ll be advising the marquis of your commitment.’

  ‘And can you give me an idea of the expected return?’ To Roland this was a question of due diligence rather than an enquiry implying cupidity.

  ‘I understand from the marquis that the land represented by the vouchers will be planted with sugarcane or coffee and cultivated by Chinese labourers. He estimates the annual earned income per hectare will probably exceed a thousand francs.’

  Roland was sceptical, but didn’t say anything. He calculated that a return of a thousand francs per hectare on a purchase price of ten could not possibly be correct, and that Roubaud must have misunderstood the marquis – or perhaps the old man was confounded by arithmetic. Roland would be more than satisfied to receive a return of around eight to ten percent.

  After leaving the notary, Roland was so elated he might have danced down la rue de la République on his way back to the printery. As he turned into the quai de la Fraternité, he glanced upward to Marseille’s highest hill, a rocky outcrop on the southern side of the city. Its summit was crowned with a spectacular basilica, Notre-Dame de la Garde, whose interior was covered in mosaics that glittered with gold and gemstones. At the church’s northern end was a bell tower, from which, at six o’clock every morning, a peel rang out to awaken the city’s inhabitants. On top of the tower was an eleven-metre tall gilded statue of the Madonna and Child; this was a beacon for the godly of Marseille, who regarded the basilica as the port’s symbolic sentinel and protector, and called it ‘la Bonne Mère’. In the afternoon sunlight, the good mother radiated her splendour with an aura of beneficence, and the motherless Roland was reminded that his faith necessitated obligations.

  Roland observed the glinting statue with a mix of humility and confidence. A grand vista seemed to open before him as he reflected, ‘I have done something to advance the influence of Catholicism and to reaffirm the time-honoured values of France. I may never again accomplish anything that will have such significance.’ His sentiment was genuinely untainted by the anticipation of future riches, and unclouded by any doubts.

  TWO

  Charles du Breil de Rays was beaming, and buoyant with self-satisfaction. After the last of those attending the April meeting of the Salon des Œuvres had left, he turned to Léon Roubaud.‘Well, that went off very well.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been better,’ replied the notary. ‘I’m so glad you came – the crowd was very positive and I don’t think we’ve ever had a speaker who attracted such a favourable response. Émile Sumien told me he’s going to cover the proceedings in Gazette du Midi, so I expect I’ll be getting a lot of follow-up enquiries.’

  ‘And when I publish La Nouvelle France it will sustain the enthusiasm I’ve created.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Both men were exhilarated. They sensed they were on the verge of an important endeavour. When they parted, Charles walked back to his hotel in la Canebière. He sniffed the briny air wafting in from the Mediterranean, and imagined the handsome sailing ship he was in the process of buying to carry the first colonists to Port Breton.

  Émile Sumien had also left the meeting elated. He had been spellbound by the enthralling speaker, who seemed to embody all the vigour he believed was missing from French life. The marquis had exactly the powerful message that conservative Frenchmen wanted to hear. It was surprising he wasn’t better known. Sumien had already offered to act as editor-in-chief for La Nouvelle France, but now he decided he would become directly and closely involved with its content and production. He was fascinated by the marquis, and curious as to the origin of his colonisation ideas. In fact, Sumien wanted to fathom all the influences that had shaped this man whom he found so extraordinary.

  A few nights later, Émile Sumien and Charles met for dinner at the appropriately named and richly appointed Grand Hotel, where the courteous and discreet staff sought to affirm the social superiority of the guests through compliant servility and implicit esteem. The hotel’s restaurant, Le Restaurant Louis XIV, was the most splendid in Marseille, and was lit by twinkling crystal chandeliers, candles in sconces, and tall tapers in gilded candelabra. Ornately framed mirrors covered the walls and multiplied the lighting to an apparent infinity. Intricately carved consoles groaned under domed échauffeurs, silver dishes, and polished cutlery.

  A waiter showed the two men to their table, where they sank into fauteuils upholstered in crimson brocade. Émile Sumien was wary of opulence, and found the restaurant rather intimidating. To Charles, who assumed luxury as his due, the restaurant was a wholly appropriate milieu.