January 20th 1670
The ladies do love Claude Duval.
He’s a famous gentleman of the road, a dashing wild eyed French cavalier, thumbing his nose at the law and kissing the hand of any pretty maiden who comes his way.
He’s only twenty seven but already he’s a legend, was ever a man so blessed by good fortune?
That’s what my wife Margaret says; to be honest I don’t see it myself.
I mean he’s sat in a prison cell at the moment.
His only companion a turnkey who constantly refers to him as “A thieving frog ponce” and then in the morning they’re hanging him at Tyburn.
My wife’s right though, the ladies certainly do love him.
I wonder if it’s his accent.
They say he was born a humble millers son in Normandy who, when he was thirteen, fell in with a group of English royalists on their way to Paris.
It would have been difficult not to, in the 50s there were more exiled royalists in France then fleas on a dog.
England you see held nothing for them; they had lost the war and under Cromwell, music, dancing, theatres, inns, whoreing, flamboyant clothing, Christmas, and laughing on a Sunday had all been banned.
Those of us of a Puritan persuasion enjoyed devoting our free time to pious worship and penitence…. but every Godless debauchee with an appetite for sin and a large enough purse immediately sailed across the channel and started calling himself “Monsieur.”
Many of them lodged in the Fauberg St Germain and young Claude became an errand boy there at a tavern, come cook-shop, come brothel - along the Rue de Bourchiere.
Watching these well-to-do fools spend a fortune on wine and cunny while he scampered about filling their glasses and polishing their boots no doubt gave rise to impertinent thoughts of bettering his own station in life.
When, to the despair of the righteous, Charles returned as king in 1660 all of his followers came home too.
Many brought French footman to attend them.
This was a fashionable affectation as it was thought that the rudeness and hauteur of their demeanour reflected well upon their masters breeding.
It was sign of the times that these exotic French imports were particularly popular among wanton married women who found the simple attentions of their English husbands too “Unromantic.”
You couldn’t move in the 60s without some insipid “Gallant” quoting Moliere and sniffing around your wife.
Claude came to England in the employ of Charles Stewart, 3rd Duke of Richmond. By then he was well versed in gentlemanly manners, could ride a horse, shoot a pistol, and appreciate the value of gold. Like many in his profession, he was a Highwayman in waiting.
It’s said by then he was already rummaging beneath the skirts of his employers bride-to-be, Francis Stewart.
So great was Francis’s beauty she was known as “La Belle Stewart.” Her face even adorns a coin of the realm in the role of Britannia herself (I hear however that recently the smallpox has left her features somewhat pitted.)
Tumbling her though wasn’t enough for Claude; he left the Dukes service (before he was horse whipped) and took to the road.
Apparently he held up some gentlemen in Holborn Fields who were travelling to Newmarket races. “I’ve been reliably informed that I’ll win a lot of money if I bet upon lord Exeter’s horse “Boopeepe” says he, “Give me all your gold and if my wager is successful I promise I will return your stake with interest.”
Apparently he was very polite and holding two loaded pistols so no one argued with him. Needless to say they never heard from him again.
As a highwayman Duval quickly developed his distinctive “Foreign” style. This meant he never used violence, dressed like a velvet and lace popinjay and flirted with every woman he came across.
My wife Margaret often relates the tale of how Duval and his band stopped a coach in which they knew a lord carrying a purse of £400 was travelling. To show she was not afraid, one of the ladies in his company began to play a merry tune on a small flute she carried about her person.
Duval then produced a similar instrument and began to accompany her. Dismounting, he asked if she could dance as well as she played and if so would she join him in a “Courante.”
He then took £100 from the lord and charged him £300 for the dance. Obviously terrified by this effeminate minstrel brandishing a piccolo, the lord offered no resistance.
This tale seems pure folly which shames true Englishmen but I have seen with my own eyes the lustful expression on the faces of normally respectable ladies whenever it is told.
The London Gazette described him as “The most wanted Highwaymen in England” and he evaded capture for over seven years.
Then, at Christmas he was finally caught, reeling drunk and full of festive cheer at the Hole in the Wall Tavern.
In court they tried him on multiple charges of robbery and even murder but so eloquent was his defence and so powerful his support, particularly among certain high born ladies, the King was tempted to offer him a pardon.
Fortunately Sir William Morton, justice of the Kings Bench hates highwaymen with a passion and threatened to resign unless the sentence was carried out, so the nimble footed Frenchman will soon be dancing the Tyburn Jig.
Apparently, scores of women have visited his cell to offer comfort. They wear masks it’s said to hide their eyes which are red rimmed from sobbing, I also suspect it’s so their husbands don’t find out.
My wife, Margaret insisted that we come here to see if the rogue has repented of his sins.
She has been in the cell for over an hour, on her knees before him in prayer.
