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To begin with, this is a ripping yarn told in the first person, and great fun to read. Monsieur de Berault (I think we never learn his first name), Chevalier de Berault, is a Parisian rascal who lives by gambling. When we open, Berault has been accused of marking cards; he replies that it isn't his fault if his opponent plays with a mirror behind him. He then challenges his young opponent to a duel, wins by piercing the latter through the chest, and is arrested by the Cardinal's Guard for violating the edict against dueling.
N.b. the young opponent is English, and demonstrates his English strength of character by sparing de Berault when he slips and falls during the duel.
de Berault is summoned by Cardinal de Richelieu, who is, of course, a badass.
Richelieu orders de Berault off to retrieve a Huguenot who is currently across the Spanish border, but is known to be sneaking back to see his own wife. Hijinks ensue. The big romance/moral conflict is between a Huguenot lady and de Berault. The lady has absolutist morals, and considers a spy the worst person in the world because he *gasp* lies to people and betrays their trust. The spy's moral lodestone is that ... um ...it's him against the world. Later in the book it turns out that the one rule he will never bend is that once somebody's paid him, he does the job he was paid for.
Over the course of the novel de Berault remembers that he was raised better than that, and the lady realizes that even though he's a spy, de Berault is awesome. (This is gross oversimplifying; there's genuine doubt and mellowing on both sides.)
Here's de Berault deliberately provoking a fight in order to pass as a Huguenot:
The novel has an absolutist moral attitude that's very of its public-school culture and late-Victorian period. The authorial viewpoint agrees with the lady: the worst possible thing you can do is lie to people, and thus spying is the worst of all sins. This is, to put it mildly, not a 17th-century viewpoint. Neither is the blanket condemnation of duelling, especially when one party knows he's the superior swordsman. (Contrast Dumas's mid-century French take on the same issue.)
But how did you like the play, Mrs. Lincoln? It's a vividly-written --the descriptions of the Pyrenees are gorgeous-- late-century adventure novel, easily as good as Anthony Hope Hawkins and far more engaging IMHO than P. C. Wren. The protagonist is a fun head to be in. I'll be seeking out more Weyman. Wiki says he was a best-seller in his day, admired by Stevenson and Wilde, but is now forgotten. I wonder if the problem is the lack of Weyman-based movies?
N.b. the young opponent is English, and demonstrates his English strength of character by sparing de Berault when he slips and falls during the duel.
de Berault is summoned by Cardinal de Richelieu, who is, of course, a badass.
His cold glance, that, roving over me, regarded me not as a man but an item, the steely glitter of his southern eyes, chilled me to the bone. The room was bare, the floor without carpet or covering. Some of the woodwork lay about, unfinished and in pieces. But the man—this man, needed no surroundings. His keen pale face, his brilliant eyes, even his presence—though he was of no great height, and began already to stoop at the shoulders—were enough to awe the boldest. I recalled, as I looked at him, a hundred tales of his iron will, his cold heart, his unerring craft.
Richelieu orders de Berault off to retrieve a Huguenot who is currently across the Spanish border, but is known to be sneaking back to see his own wife. Hijinks ensue. The big romance/moral conflict is between a Huguenot lady and de Berault. The lady has absolutist morals, and considers a spy the worst person in the world because he *gasp* lies to people and betrays their trust. The spy's moral lodestone is that ... um ...it's him against the world. Later in the book it turns out that the one rule he will never bend is that once somebody's paid him, he does the job he was paid for.
In such a position some men might have given up the attempt in despair, and saved themselves across the border. But I have always valued myself on my fidelity, and I did not shrink. If not to-day, to-morrow; if not this time, next time. The dice do not always turn up aces.
Over the course of the novel de Berault remembers that he was raised better than that, and the lady realizes that even though he's a spy, de Berault is awesome. (This is gross oversimplifying; there's genuine doubt and mellowing on both sides.)
Here's de Berault deliberately provoking a fight in order to pass as a Huguenot:
Having me at this disadvantage—for at first I made no resistance --the landlord began to belabour me with the first thing he snatched up, and when I tried to defend myself, cursed me with each blow for a treacherous rogue and a vagrant. Meanwhile the three merchants, delighted with the turn things had taken, skipped round us laughing, and now hounded him on, now bantered me with 'how is that for the Duke of Orleans?' and 'How now, traitor?'
When I thought that this had lasted long enough—or, to speak more plainly, when I could stand the innkeeper's drubbing no longer—I threw him off, and struggled to my feet; but still, though the blood was trickling down my face, I refrained from drawing my sword. I caught up instead a leg of the stool which lay handy, and, watching my opportunity, dealt the landlord a shrewd blow under the ear, which laid him out in a moment on the wreck of his own table.
'Now,' I cried, brandishing my new weapon, which fitted the hand to a nicety, 'come on! Come on! if you dare to strike a blow, you peddling, truckling, huckstering knaves! A fig for you and your shaveling Cardinal!'
The novel has an absolutist moral attitude that's very of its public-school culture and late-Victorian period. The authorial viewpoint agrees with the lady: the worst possible thing you can do is lie to people, and thus spying is the worst of all sins. This is, to put it mildly, not a 17th-century viewpoint. Neither is the blanket condemnation of duelling, especially when one party knows he's the superior swordsman. (Contrast Dumas's mid-century French take on the same issue.)
But how did you like the play, Mrs. Lincoln? It's a vividly-written --the descriptions of the Pyrenees are gorgeous-- late-century adventure novel, easily as good as Anthony Hope Hawkins and far more engaging IMHO than P. C. Wren. The protagonist is a fun head to be in. I'll be seeking out more Weyman. Wiki says he was a best-seller in his day, admired by Stevenson and Wilde, but is now forgotten. I wonder if the problem is the lack of Weyman-based movies?
