Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.

12 August 1018
17 Rue de Chêne, Mont-Havre

Armand,

I have reached Mont-Havre at last, and it has not been the comfort I was hoping for. It had been my plan to spend a few days’ time here, looking up old cronies, but it seems—

Well, I shall have to tell you the whole sorry tale. First, though, I beg of you, please send a conveyance of some kind to fetch me to Bois-de-Bas. I am staying with M. Suprenant, as you can see from the direction, and I don’t think I shall be stirring from here after I post this letter.

Indeed, as Leon has just offered one of his boys to run the letter to the post, perhaps I shan’t stir at all until you come.

First, the cronies. It seems that, with the departure of Lord Doncaster, I have no cronies remaining in Mont-Havre. Either they departed with His Lordship, were replaced by His Lordship’s successor and subsequently vanished, or were no true friends of mine, for none of those who remain will see me. I am “not anybody,” you see, not anymore. I no longer have the Governer’s ear.

It has been a relief to throw myself on the mercy of the Suprenants, I can tell you.

“C’est la vie politique, n’est-ce pas?” says Leon, and I suppose he is right, but I did not expect to have it thrown in my face in this way.

I tell you truly, Leon, that if I were a dueling man Mont-Havre would be shy three or four choice specimens this day. Losing my leg has affected my aim not at all.

But let it pass.

So much for la vie politique. But there is worse. I attended upon your friend M. Fournier this morning, hoping to purchase a few new books; for I exhausted the stock of books I brought for the voyage here in the second week of the journey.

I had always been on the best of terms with Mr. Fournier, for I visited his shop frequently during my time with His Lordship. But today I received a scowl and the coldest greeting imaginable.

“M. Fournier, dear chap,” I said, “whatever is wrong? I have only just arrived. I can’t possibly have earned such a welcome in the short time I’ve been here.”

He snarled at me, and turning plucked a poorly bound volume from the shelves behind him and thrust it into my hands.

It was, Lord help me, my book: the one that drove me from Yorke.

I stared at it, and I am afraid I subjected M. Fournier to a prolonged display of the most vicious soldierly invective I have the displeasure to command.

There followed a somewhat confused discourse, in which I explained that the book had not been written for publication, that it had been much altered and extended by another hand, that I was receiving not a farthing from its sale, and that, in short, I was not responsible for it, and especially not for the scurrilous bits; and in which he for his part inquired fiercely how I could write such rubbish, how I could so besmirch Lord Doncaster’s good name, and—and I think this was the sticking point—how I could have had it published by the sort of cheap publishing house that supplied M. Fournier’s competitor, M. Harte?

We got it untangled in time. It seems that M. Harte had taken delivery of several crates of the thing two weeks prior; that, due to its connection with Lord Doncaster, the thing sold like anything; and that, as Lord Doncaster remains immensely popular here in Mont-Havre, the more scurrilous passages have left me with no countenance at all.

And now I know why Leon Suprenant’s face had been so long when he first found me at his door, though he had greeted me warmly enough. He seemed much relieved when I returned from M. Fournier’s shop, books in hand, and related what had passed.

“I had thought better of you, Jacques,” he said, “and I am I glad to see I was right to do so.”

But one can’t explain these things to the entire city. There was a young lady—

So now I am a pariah in Mont-Havre, and I beg you to come fetch me; for two day’s walk is more than my peg leg will bear. I long to see Amelie and your girls; they, at least, will not scowl at me.

Your disgusted and dismayed cousin,

Jack

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