The Second Footman by Jasper Barry

Author:Jasper Barry [Barry, Jasper]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Historical, Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9781780883656
Google: TYxjs2n7HuUC
Amazon: B00BC08NME
Publisher: Matador
Published: 2013-02-01T22:34:52.897000+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Once Max had seen M de Miremont into a cab, he had retraced his steps and strolled aimlessly about the gardens. It was a bore; while he could not have undone the lie without losing face, he was not due at the Zhukovskys’ for hours and it would have been pleasant—very pleasant it seemed to him now—to have whiled away the rest of the afternoon with the old boy.

Undoubtedly this was a weakness. Yes, of course it was a weakness to allow oneself to be flattered and won over by someone who had shown he was not to be trusted. In any dealings with M le marquis de Miremont Max would be well advised to exercise caution.

All the same—caution be damned! This was the chance he had hoped for and believed lost. What sort of fool would he be to refuse it? Since Bordeaux, his dislike of service had grown to loathing. How could he pursue his quest when he had but one niggardly free Sunday a fortnight? In any case, he was heartily sick of the tedium and petty backbiting and Michel’s endless attempts at revenge. The chance to live in the Hôtel de Miremont as monsieur’s lover—Max inhaled the dizzying scent of freedom.

Not that he entirely liked the sound of his new employment; ‘librarian’ inevitably conjured Dom Aloysius’s rheumy stare and the sting of his ruler across one’s knuckles. Besides, books were for reading, not for tending like caged canaries. But the old boy would not expect Max to remain walled up in the library—had he not said as much? And think, only think of the advantages.

Max would have ample scope for his researches, but perhaps they would no longer be needed, for he could return to his previous plan. In due course—who could doubt it?—as monsieur came to trust him, he could resume his confession where he had left off; and this time it would not be disastrous, this time he would conquer the minor obstacles—the troubling memories, his lack of German. Meanwhile every day he spent at the Hôtel de Miremont would serve to prepare him for that moment. Living intimately with monsieur, he would finally acquire that inner certainty of being, that negligent assumption of right that, like a last layer of varnish, would seal to perfection his gentlemanly veneer. Add M de M himself, eager to throw the weight of his rank and fortune behind his claim—how could Max not convince, who would dare disbelieve him?

Yes, here finally was the stroke of fortune that would transform his fate. Was it after all surprising that he felt a certain warmth towards the old fellow? If the old boy had not seen fit to apologise on this occasion, nonetheless repentance was written in his every line and furrow, he was as transparent as ever, in this as in other matters—and here Max could not forbear to chuckle. Altogether, there was no shame in being pleased to see the old chap again, in finding amusement

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