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
than fleas on a dog.
England you see held nothing for them; they had lost the war and under Cromwell, music,
dancing, theatres, inns, whoring, 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 a 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 employer's 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 smallpox has left her features somewhat pitted.)
Tumbling her though wasn@t enough for Claude; he left the Duke's 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 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 husband's 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...What?