Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

‘Oh, yes. He is kind, generous and courageous, and has been very good to me. The sort of man who inspires affection and trust. How could I not like him? Everybody else does.’

‘Somebody must dislike him,’ Argyll commented.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Well,’ he said, a bit surprised by the sharp tone that crept into her voice. ‘He’s powerful and successful. Reading between the lines he’s still very influential. And that creates jealousy. No one like that is universally loved.’

‘I see. Perhaps you’re right. Certainly he’s always fought for things he thought were right. But I can honestly say I have never come across anyone who had a personal dislike of him. Universally loved, no. Universally respected, yes. I think you could claim that. That’s why he’ll be up there receiving the Europa prize in a couple of weeks.’

‘The what?’

‘Have you not heard of it?’

Argyll shook his head.

‘It’s a bit difficult to describe. It’s a sort of European Community Nobel prize for politics. Each government nominates one of its citizens and one person is chosen from the short list. It’s for a lifetime’s achievement. It’s only been awarded a few times; it really is an extraordinary honour.’

‘So what does it involve? I mean, is it just a question of turning up and collecting the cheque?’

She looked disapproving, as though he weren’t taking the honour seriously. ‘There’s a ceremony at the next meeting of the Council of Ministers. Monsieur Rouxel will be given the award, and then address every head of government in the community, and the Parliament. He’s been working on his speech for months. It’ll be a summary of his vision for the future and, believe me, it’s very good indeed. A sort of statement of his life’s principles. A summing-up of everything he believes in.’

‘Splendid. I shall look forward to reading it,’ he said politely but not entirely truthfully. There was a pause as each looked at the other wondering what to do next. Argyll resolved the situation by calling for the bill and paying it. Then he helped her on with her coat and they walked out into the night air.

‘It was very kind of you to see me...’ he began.

She moved closer and rested her hand on his arm, looking steadily into his eyes.

‘Why don’t we go to my apartment for a drink? It’s just down there,’ she said softly, pointing down a street to his left. That slightly wild look was back again.

One of the most popular types of picture of the late seventeenth century was the classical allegory, in which mythological subjects were used to illustrate moral issues. An enormously popular topic was entitled the Judgement of Hercules. It was painted dozens of times in the baroque era.

The subject is very simple: Hercules, the strong man of antiquity, dressed in a scanty lion-skin so that the viewer can both identify him and admire the painter’s skill at depicting the male torso, stands in the middle, listening to two women. Both are beautiful, but one is dressed in often quite severe clothes which cover most of her body, and frequently carries a sword. She may be shown with the finger of one hand raised as though making a not very appealing point. She is Virtue, sometimes personified as Athene, daughter of Zeus and defender of just causes.

On the other side, often lying languidly on the ground, and always semi-naked, is another figure. She may not be doing much of the talking, but she lies there tempting Hercules by her very presence. She is the easy life, sometimes Vice, occasionally Temptation, personified as Aphrodite, goddess of love. To the left, on the side where Athene stands, is a road, quite rocky and hilly, which leads to fame and fulfilment; on the side where Aphrodite lies is a gentle path, leading past all sorts of pleasure and going nowhere.

Hercules is listening to the women’s arguments, trying to make up his mind which one to choose. Generally his face would be that of the patron who paid for the picture, and he would be depicted at the very moment he plumps for the life of virtue. A handsome and decorous bit of flattery.

And to Argyll’s left, as this piece of art-historical trivia passed through his mind, lay the street which led back to his hotel, and to his right lay the road to Jeanne’s apartment.

Hercules at least had time to think about it, to weigh up the pros and cons, to ask supplementary questions and find out what he was letting himself in for. Argyll had to weigh Jeanne’s invitation, his attraction to her, his love of Flavia, all at the same time.

‘Well?’

‘I’m sorry. I was thinking.’

‘Does it need to be thought about?’

He sighed and touched her on the shoulder. ‘No, not really.’

And, like Hercules, he reluctantly trod the path of virtue.

Flavia’s train arrived in Paris at 7:15 the next morning, and she was ejected unceremoniously by the station porters into the cold, windy hall of the Gare de l’Est while still half asleep. It had been a rotten ride: non-stop interruptions from screaming babies, ticket-inspectors, new arrivals in the compartment and sudden, jerking stops waking her up, it seemed, every five minutes. She felt dirty, unkempt and ragged. God, just look at me, she thought as she looked at herself in a mirror. What a mess. At least Jonathan never notices. She was looking forward to seeing him; he was a reassuring person to be around and, even though he was frequently mightily irritating, she found herself pleasurably anticipating a long chat. There hadn’t been much to be cheerful about recently, after all.

She was half inclined to stop and have a coffee and a proper breakfast before heading off to his hotel. What she thought was his hotel, anyway. It had never occurred to her that he might be staying in a different one. Now that it did, she realized she had a potential problem on her hands. How would she ever find him? Equally alarming, what if he’d gone back to Rome?

Worry about that later, she told herself. The more immediate problem was that no bars were yet open, she had no French money, and consequently couldn’t take a taxi.

She walked down the stairway into the Métro, worked out where she was meant to be heading, then stood and watched the passers-by. About one in ten came up to the turnstiles, looked around carefully and vaulted over. Although there were official-looking types around, they paid no attention. When in Paris, do as the Parisians, she thought. Clutching her bag, she hopped over the barrier, then scampered off down to the platform, feeling atrociously guilty.

She had once stayed with Argyll in his usual hotel, and remembered it was somewhere near the Panthéon. Exactly where was more difficult: it is an area with a lot of hotels, and all Flavia could remember was that it had a very ornate door. On the fourth go she didn’t find it, but at least got directions from an early-morning porter to the right place. She finally arrived at 8:15.

Did they have a Jonathan Argyll staying here?

A flipping of pages, then the man at the desk admitted that they did.

Where was he?

Room nine. Did she want him to ring?

No, it was all right. She’d just go up.

And so she did, walking up the stairs, finding the right door and knocking on it vigorously.

‘Jonathan?’ she called. ‘Open up. It’s me.’

There was a long silence. There was no one in. Unlike him, she thought. Not one of the world’s early risers.

She stood outside the door for a few moments, wondering what to do next. Of all the possibilities she’d considered, the idea that he might be out had never crossed her mind.

Fortunately, she did not have to resolve the problem of what to do next on her own. A clumping of feet up the stairs — Argyll was no ballet-dancer — indicated that the decision was made for her.