Duponceau and I chatted or chattered. I bemoaned the palates of the Philadelphians who had called his Medoc cold and sour. Miraculously, it was free of sediment, and rushed into my glass at that perfect stage of life. In a year it would be a dowager with a faded old corsage, but as it entered my mouth it was vigorous and manly, completely composed, its orchestra all present and correct. Oh heavens, that such small things make a man so happy. I revealed to my host my plan to interview each of the forty-two prisoners in the Quaker prison. He told me it was well known that the cost of the famous outer wall was $200,000, a little under a third of the entire cost of the prison.
We finished a bottle and he decanted another.
"I have heard it asserted," I said, holding high my glass, admiring its treasure-gorgeous garnet fading, toward the rim, to the color of a brick. "I have heard it asserted," I said-although this was not true-"that in general you have appointed incompetent people to run your undertakings."
"I have appointed?"
"Have you not become an American?"
"Indeed it appears so," sighed M. Duponceau. "And yes, what you have heard is commonly said. Seldom does the choice fall on an able man. All official positions are given for political reasons; the spirits of faction and intrigue grow here as they do under monarchies. Only the master is different."
Throughout all this the peculiar Larrit said not a word. I thought, He is paid to spy on me. He is reporting to Monsieur who is writing to my mother. Well, let him. He stood at table like an egret, his shoulders hunched, his wine untouched, leafing very slowly through the book. So strange was this behavior, I did not know whether to keep my first opinion or to be upset by his ill manners.
"You are here to study the Americans," Duponceau said, as he refreshed my glass. "There are nice distinctions that may not yet be obvious to you, although this will be very clear in time, and here is one: Our morality in France is shaped by each man's knowledge that he is shut in a certain sphere from which he does not hope to escape."
I thought, He makes it sound like a prison.
"Here," he said, "the road to riches and fortune is open to everybody, no matter from where they start."
I thought, Why must everyone tap my knee?
"So there is a restlessness of spirit and a greed for wealth which it would be hard for you to understand."
I thought, Miss Godefroy. Restlessness of spirit.
"Yes, you must appreciate that everybody in America wants to grow rich and rise in the world, and there is no one who does not believe in his power to succeed. From that there springs a wearisome social activity, ever-changing intrigues, continual excitement, and an uncontrolled desire of each to outdo the others."
"But in all this frenzy," said I, "what becomes of equality?"
"Equality exists only in the marketplace," answered M. Duponceau.
"Good grief," cried Larrit.
He was now kneeling on the floor, peering closely at the book.
Duponceau appeared distressed. I quickly changed the subject, asking where I might buy a pocket book or duodecimo of Tartuffe.
"I doubt they translate him," said he, "although they should, for there is a great deal in Tartuffe that you would recognize in Philadelphia."
"I will read it in the language it was born in."
"Then you must write to France."
"I have no time."
Duponceau cocked his head. I could not tell whether I had offended his notions of Art and Time or if he could somehow look into my soul and see Miss Godefroy.
"Very well," he said at last. "You must send your man to New York. You may be lucky."
I thought, Good heavens, I cannot send him to New York. Who could guess what Peek is up to with his painter wife? And yet look at him, I thought. He was kneeling on the floor. He was sighing, and exclaiming. Now he stood. With the rare volume in both hands, he turned toward us. I thought, His hair looks mad. I will send him to New York.
"I did this," he cried.
He stood there: Brother Egret at the lectern, the book held wide in his big hands, his eyes alight, and on his face the most alarming smile.
"This work is mine."
VII
IT IS A RELATIVELY EASY MATTER to estimate a person's intelligence just by looking at him, or so I had thought until my interrogation of John Larrit in the library of M. Duponceau.
To see him there, his eyes bright as a boy's, the heavy folio edition held reverently in his weathered leathern hands, was to doubt one's own judgment.
"I did this," he said.
Removing the folio promptly from his charge, I held it to the light. I had assumed he had spilled his wine but I found no color on the paper except some tiny bits of shirts and petticoats, which had survived the grinding of the pulp.
"Nonsense," I said, irritated to have been unnecessarily alarmed.
He stared at me. "It is not possible."
Duponceau arrived to gaze, not at his own treasure, but at the servant. "What is not possible?"
"These here are my engravings," said the Parrot. "Mine own."
Gentle as a surgeon, M. Duponceau carried his book to his lectern. Here we could all three examine it, as the proud proprietor turned the pages. I read: Sauvages des environs de la riviere Nepean. 1. Jedat; 2. Tara; 3. Nemare.
"Where is the Nepean River?" I asked Larrit.
"In New South Wales," he replied.
"So they are fancies, these faces?"
Outrage came storming to conquer his astonishment. "They are drawn from life," he said, and I saw M. Duponceau reach up, for he was a good head shorter, and place a hand between his shoulder blades.
Said he, "What was your crime, poor fellow?"
Good Lord, I thought, I have shared a cabin with a convict.
Duponceau turned a page to reveal a page of botanical drawings very like the ones my mother so enjoyed.
"Then how did you reach Botany Bay, Mr. Larrit?"
"By ship of course."
"How old?"
"I was a boy, sir."
I could not believe I was party to such a conversation. I thought of the teeming criminal poor, millions of them, breeding in lanes, crowding in slums.
"You picked a pocket?" suggested our host, his voice marked by the greatest delicacy.
John Larrit shook his head and wiped his eye with the back of his wrist.
"Your father was transported?"
"Oh I wish he had been, sir. A certain gentleman transported me, so to speak. That's all."
That's all, I thought. What vile business am I hearing?
"What was this gentleman's name?" I asked. I had never liked my mother's botanical drawings. Those strange seed pods with lips like women's parts.
"It would mean nothing to you, sir. You would not know him. He was a forger, sir. You would not know a forger."
I thought, he never called me sir like this. I have become the procureur-general in this case, and he is guilty.
"A forger would be hanged."
"He was never apprehended sir," said the prisoner. "I went on the ship an innocent boy, but I was found with forged notes."
"In short, Mr. Larrit, you are a convict."
"No, sir."
"You were transported to a penal colony. How old are you?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Don't know?"
"I decided to forget. It would make me too angry to have lost so many years. I thought I will not count the days, and so I didn't."
"Is that possible?"
"It was possible for me sir. Off the boat they first put me to be servant for Major Grose who was temporarily in charge of the colony. Mrs. Grose had wanted a maid, but there were no maids so she made me wear a dress."
I thought, What story can this be?
"How long were you made to wear female attire?"
"More than a year, I think."
"Was it one year or two? Surely you noticed the seasons."