Restoration

hearing of the dying of Pierpoint, it began to yield a little to his probing. Thus, Fogg set this down as a probability; that the First Rule of the Cosmos is the Separateness of All Things. As each planet and star is entire of itself and not joined to any other planet or star, so must every person upon earth remain separate and alone, even in death. Thus in impenetrable solitude did Pierpoint die.

But whereas the planets are serene in their separateness, knowing any collision with one another likely to destroy them and return them to dust, Fogg remarks that he, along with very many of his race, finds his Separateness the most entirely sad fact of his existence and is every moment hopeful of colliding with someone who will obscure it from his mind. Yet what he now perceives is the folly of such a collision. Collision is fatal because it transgresses the First Rule. In collision, Fogg is split apart. In collision, he turns to jealous gas, to heartless dust…

At this inconclusive (and somewhat incoherent) point, my scribbles to Rosie were interrupted. Will Gates came up to my room and informed me that Mister de Gourlay had arrived and urgently requested to see me.

'Look at me, Will,' I said. 'I can see no one until I am well again.'

'He asks me to tell you that he has brought with him something to make you well.'

'Ah,' I said, 'the blood of swallows, perhaps.'

'I beg your pardon, Sir?'

'I would prefer to remain alone, Will. I have much to think about.'

'He is very pressing, Sir.'

'There's the reason he is not popular. He has not grasped that life is a quadrille, necessitating backward as well as forward pas.'

Upon saying this, I immediately reflected that my apology to Celia was one such backward pas, without which I would not be able to resume any dance whatsoever, unless perhaps a Dance of Death. Thus, while Will was further pressing Degeulasse's suit, I quickly laid aside my letter (if such it was) to Rosie Pierpoint, took up a clean sheet of vellum and wrote the following simple message:

Fair Celia,

I am mightily sorry for my foul behaviour. I beg you to forgive me this transgression, that I may remain your friend and loyal protector.

R.M.

I then instructed Will to bring Degeulasse to my room and, having done so, to deliver my short note to Celia.

I put on my wig. The anxiety within me had lessened by a small measure, seeming to cause a sudden drop in the temperature of my blood. Whereas I had been boiling and burning, I now felt chill. I reached for my tabard and put it on and sat with my arms tucked under its apron. What, I wished to enquire, as I waited for my guest, had happened to my painting of Russians? Was it ever begun anywhere but in my mind?

Degeulasse's arrival interrupted me before I could find an answer to this. The sight of him relieved me of worry about my appearance. He is one of those people who is most horribly and voluptuously ugly, but whose ugliness one seems to forget the moment he leaves one's sight, only to remember it more forcibly again the next time one lays eyes upon him. (I do find myself wondering whether he appears thus to his wife and children, so that his family like him most when he is not with them.)

To compound the fleshy grossness of his features, Degeulasse has upon his left cheek a very virulent psora he is in the habit of trying to conceal with his hand. It pains me to see him do this. There must be some remedy, I found myself thinking, but of course I had forgotten what it was. It was he, at all events, who had come to play the role of physician, not I. He appeared honestly concerned that 'since the night of your intended party, it is reported you are not much yourself' and proceeded to put before me a bottle containing some green cordial. 'Got from a mountebank, a regular quack!' he announced. 'Not worth the threepence charged!'

'Ah,' I said. 'Then why do you bring it to me, Mister de Gourlay?'

'Because it is the most efficacious cure for melancholy that has ever been distilled.'

'And yet you said it was not worth the small sum you expended…'

'So I did! And which do you believe, Sir Robert? Is it valueless or is it beyond price?'

'I believe neither…'

'Very wise.'

'Until I have taken some…'

'Precisely. Thus, you have invested it with no expectation? You are neutral?'

'Yes.'

'You believe in equal measure that its properties are worthless and that it may also work a wonderous cure?'

'I believe less in the cure.'

'Yet you admit it to be a possibility?'

'Yes.'

'Excellent. And you will promise to take some before sleeping?'

'I will.'

'Perfect.'

De Gourlay sat down. He was beaming. I have noticed this about human beings: secret knowledge makes them smile. It is the smile of power. It is invariably irritating but, on this occasion, I found myself intrigued that Degeulasse was playing a little game with me. I was wondering what, precisely, the game was about, when Degeulasse gave his large belly a comradely slap and declared: 'Expectation, you see! Reason's whore! And there she clings round all our necks, n'est-ce pas?'

'You may be right.'

'I am right. Consider your soiree, so lately cancelled. I cannot describe to you with what expectation of happiness and lasting consequence my wife and daughters had invested it, I cannot describe to you!'

'I am sorry…'

'No, no. Do not apologise. No one had informed my wife that great and influential men from Court would be there, who would, in the space of that one evening, advance our fortunes by three thousand livres per annum. No one had promised my daughters that at your table they would meet the sons of Marquises or young nephews of Prince Rupert. And yet this is what they expected of it! And when informed the party was cancelled, do you know what they did, all three of them? They fell to weeping!'

'Well,' I said, 'I regret that no eminences from Court or kindred of Rupert had agreed to come to it.'

'As I did not believe they would, or at least, I did and did not believe they would in precisely equal measure and so stored up for myself no hope whatsoever.'

'Most wise, I would venture.'

'Precisely. Now do feel at your ease to confide in me what has happened to you, if it pleases you to do so. I am a man of absolutely no wisdom at all. Then again, my mother believes me to be one of the most clever people ever to reside in Norfolk.'

Degeulasse laughed heartily. This was the first time I had heard laughter in very many days and it reverberated in the room most curiously, like an echo or like a sound coming from under water. Then it ceased and there was silence, and, in the silence, my gaze fixed upon the crusty, enflamed skin of de Gourlay's cheek, the remedy for the psora returned to me and I said: 'Alas I do not know what has happened to me. Thus, I can confide in no one. On the other hand, I know what will cure the suppurations on your face.'

'No!' said Degeulasse quickly. 'Do not say you know! Say you know and yet you do not know.'

'Very well. There are two remedies. Either of these will help the infection, or neither will help it at all. The first is plantain water mixed with a little loose sugar; the second is a treacle posset. These will or will not cure you.'

De Gourlay thanked me and laughed again and seemed impatient for me to join in the laughter. But I could not. Now I saw that, by believing in the cleverness and wisdom of his own game, he was in fact rendering himself rather foolish. For what was the game but another self-deception: by juggling negatives and positives he expected to be able to protect himself from pain, yet it was clear to me that he craved as much from life as any man. For