The Baroque Cycle: Quicksilver, the Confusion, and the System of the World
Page 168
“I don’t know.”
“Nonsense!”
“It is quite true. All I know is that I look at the Compagnie des Indes and see—nothing! Nothing is happening. Something should be happening. It is curious.”
“You have scented an opportunity.”
“As have you, madame.”
“Oh—you refer to the silver in London?”
“Now you flirt with me. Madame, it is within my power to make this happen. I may have been re-baptized as a Catholic, but this has not prevented my maintaining any number of contacts with Huguenots who elected to leave. They have gone to places like London and prospered. You know this perfectly well, for you have filled the void that was created in the Compagnie du Nord by their departure. You buy timber from them in Sweden and Rostock all the time. So yes. I can see to it that your silver is transferred, and I shall. But it shall not be profitable. It shall not be especially convenient. Monsieur Castan’s credit with the Dépôt shall be over-extended for a time. I shall have to twist his arm. And I hate dealing with Lothar.”
“Very well. What could I do, monsieur, to show my gratitude for your undertaking so many travails?”
“You could direct your intelligence upon the strange case of the Compagnie des Indes in faraway St.-Malo. You, I take it, have no interest in this?”
“None whatsover, monsieur; the Compagnie du Nord is my sole concern.”
“That is well. You will supply me with your thoughts and observations, then, concerning the other?”
“It will be a joy to converse with you on the topic, monsieur.”
“Very well.” Bernard got to his feet. “I am off to Lyon, then. Au revoir.”
“Bon voyage.”
And Samuel Bernard exited the Café Esphahan as abruptly as he had come in.
His gilded chair was still warm when Bonaventure Rossignol sat down in it.
“I have seen Kings travel with a smaller guard,” Eliza remarked; for both she and Rossignol devoted some time now to enjoying the spectacle of the departure of Bernard’s carriage, his train of lesser vehicles, his out-riders, spare horses, grooms, et cetera from the Rue de l’Orangerie.
“Many Kings have less to fear,” Rossignol remarked.
“Oh? I did not know Monsieur Bernard had so many enemies.”
“It is not that he has enemies as a King does,” Rossignol corrected her, “which is to say, identifiable souls who wish him ill, and are willing and able to act on those wishes. Rather, it is that from time to time a sort of frenzy will come over certain Frenchmen, which only abates when a financier or two has been hanged from a tree-limb or set on fire.”
“He was trying to warn me about such things,” Eliza said, “but his squadron of mercenaries conveys it much more effectively than words.”
“It is curious,” said Rossignol, turning his attention to Eliza. “I know that you are married to a Duke, and share his bed, and bear his children. Yet this causes me not the least bit of jealousy! But when I see you talking to this Samuel Bernard—”
“Put it out of your head,” Eliza said. “You have no idea.”
“What does this mean, I have no idea? I may be a mathematician, but yet I know what passes between a man and a woman.”
“Indeed; but you are not a commerçant, and you haven’t the faintest idea what passes between the likes of me and Bernard. Don’t worry. If you were a commerçant, I shouldn’t be attracted to you—just as I’m not attracted to Bernard.”
“But it looked for all the world as if you were flirting.”
“As indeed we were—but the intercourse to which this flirting will lead is not sexual.”
“I am perfectly confused now—you are playing with me.”
“Come now, Bon-bon! Let us review matters. Out of all the men in Germany, which did I choose for a friend?”
“Leibniz.”
“And what is he?”
“A mathematician.”
“Holland?”
“Huygens…a mathematician.”
“England?”
“Daniel Waterhouse. A Natural Philosopher.”
“France?”
“…”
“Come now! When I came to Versailles for the first time, and got invited to Court soirées, and was pursued by any number of randy Dukes, to whom did I give my affections?”
“You gave them to…a mathematician.”
“What was that mathematician’s name?” asked Eliza, cupping a hand to her ear.
“It was Bonaventure Rossignol,” said Bonaventure Rossignol, and flicked his black eyes to and fro to see if anyone was listening.
“Now, when I got myself into a big mess of trouble outside of St. Diziers, who was the first to learn of it?”
“That fellow who was reading everyone’s mail. Bonaventure Rossignol.”
“And who came galloping to my rescue across half of France, and journeyed north with me to Nijmegen, and put me on a boat?”
“Bon—”
“Stop. The name is beautiful and distinguished. But I prefer to call him Bon-bon.”
“Very well, then, it was Bon-bon.”
“Who made love to me along the banks of the Meuse?”
“Étienne de Lavardac.”
“Who else?”
“Bon-bon.”
“And who helped me concoct a plan to get out of my terrible mess of trouble?”
“Bon-bon.”
“Who helped me cover my traces, and forged documents, and lied to the King and to d’Avaux?”
“Bon-bon.”
“And who is the father of my first-born?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Only because you avoided looking at him, when you had the opportunity. But I tell you Jean-Jacques looks very much like Bon-bon—there is no trace in him of the tainted blood of the Lavardacs. You are the father, Bon-bon.”
“What is your point?”
“Only that it is absurd for you to be jealous of this Samuel Bernard. Whatever may pass between him and me in the way of business is nothing compared to the adventure that you and I had, and the son that we share.”
The attention of “Bon-bon” had strayed to a painting of a fabulous, many-domed mosque that adorned a wall behind Eliza. “You remind me of things I would forget. I could have done a better job.”
“Nonsense!”
“I could have exonerated you entirely from charges of spying.”
“In retrospect, perhaps. But I do believe it worked out for the best.”
“What…you married to a man you do not love, and Jean-Jacques held captive by a demented Saxon banker?”
“But that is not the end of the story, Bon-bon. We have met here today to further the story along.”
“Yes. And it is an interesting choice of venue,” Rossignol said, leaning far over the table and lowering his voice so much that Eliza nearly had to touch her forehead against his in order to hear him. “I have read every scrap of these people’s mail for two years, you know, but never seen their faces, and certainly never sipped their coffee.”
“Do you fancy it?”
“It is a cut above the usual swill, to be sure,” said Rossignol, “but on its merits as a beverage, it would never be so chic if you and Madame la duchesse d’Oyonnax were not forever singing its praises.”
“You see? There is nothing I would not do in the service of cryptology,” said Eliza with a smile, and spread out her hands, inviting Rossignol to take in the magnificence of the Café Esphahan. “Have you learned anything recently?”
“This is not the place or the time to speak of it! But no,” said Rossignol. “I have been much more preoccupied with reading your mail.”
“Does it make for interesting reading?”
“A bit too interesting. To Lothar you say, ‘The invasion of England will surely be called off,’ while to some financier in Lyon you are saying, ‘The invasion will happen soon and we must pay the troops!’ ”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Your misinterpretation is total,” Eliza said. “There was no forgiving, but an œconomic transaction. And I did not get off scot-free, as you seem to phant’sy, but paid a price so terrible I do not think you’ll ever fathom it. To you, perhaps, it seems that I am plunging once more into a sea of intrigue from which I was absent for a couple of years—restful years for you, Bon-bon!—but to me it seems I have been submerged in it the whole time, and am only now getting my head above water where I can see and breathe again. I mean to keep clawing away until I have dragged myself out.”
“You’ll never be out,” said Rossignol, “but if it is in your nature to claw, then claw away. Speaking of which, my back has healed since the last time—”
“I have three more engagements to-day, but perhaps I could append a fourth,” said Eliza. She reached across the table and set a packet of letters in front of Rossignol. “My out-going mail,” she explained. “I was going to post it, but then I thought, why not give it directly to Bon-bon?”
“I shall decrypt them while I await your fourth social engagement,” said Rossignol. “Here is your incoming.” And he handed Eliza a packet.
“Thank you, Bon-bon. Anything interesting?”
“Compared to most of what I have to read? Madame, you have no idea.”
Daniel Waterhouse to Eliza
19 APRIL 1692
I am in receipt of your recent note urgently requesting information concerning the Mint and the men who run it. I cannot fathom why you desire to know such things, so hastily. I can assure you that I am the wrong chap. The right chap is the Marquis of Ravenscar. I have taken the liberty of forwarding your questions to him. You may be assured of his discretion. I hope that everything is well with you; for I am, as always, &c., Daniel Waterhouse.
Roger Comstock, Marquis of Ravenscar, to Eliza
20 APRIL 1692
A LETTER
To Her Grace, ELIZA, Duchess of Arcachon and (though ’tis not recognized in France) Qwghlm
Madame,
Most humbly do I set before you this Offering, and do pray that Your Grace may deem it a satisfactory Answer to those Inquiries lately despatch’d to my wise Friend and Colleague, Dr. Daniel Waterhouse, F.R.S.
APOLOGY
Olympus’ Court no fairer Visage housed
Than that of Helen. Goddesses were roused
To ENVY: which though petty Vice on Earth
When spent on High where all’s of greater Worth
Loosed Havock down below. Fleets sailed, Gods vied,
For Helen cities fell and heroes died.
ELIZA’s Fame on Rumour’s wing hath come
To Albion’s shores. French flatterers, struck dumb,
Have kept her beauty hid ’til now, it seems;
But as a light beneath a Bushel gleams
Thro’ any Chink, ELIZA’s Charms are out,
And putting Goddesses to rout.
A-tremble, Men gaze up, and shall be glad
Not to be Players in her Iliad.
MY LADY,
You who are accustom’d to that incomparable Palace of Versailles would find little in London worthy of casting your eye over, and least of all my habitation near Red Lyon Square, which is yet but a pile of loose stones and timbers. Its sole Glory, at this time, is its Architect, Dr. Daniel Waterhouse, Secretary of the Royal Society, who being a diligent man is oft to be seen in its Precincts surveying, measuring, drawing, &c. Today I chanc’d to meet Dr. Waterhouse about the Property and, upon supplying him with certain Libations, learnt from him that his letter-box had been graced by a missive from the incomparable Duchess of Arcachon and of Qwghlm, who is the subject of some debate among Persons of Quality in this Country; for while some would have it that her Wit is exceeded only by her Beauty, others would have it the other way round. I confess myself incompetent to have an opinion on the matter, for while your letter to Dr. Waterhouse leaves me confounded and dazzled by your Wit, I cannot but suppose that were I to have the honour of encountering you in Person I should be as a-maz’d by your Beauty. Setting aside, then, this Question, which I cannot answer for lack of sufficient Data (though not, I assure you, for want of Curiosity), I shall apply myself to the Question that you put to Dr. Waterhouse in your recent Missive, viz.: who is in charge of the Mint at the Tower of London, and is it reasonable to assume that he is a good Tory?
The answers, respectively, are Sir Thomas Neale, and yes, it were reasonable to make such an assumption—but WRONG. Reasonable, because, as you have obviously heard, our Government has fallen under the Sway of the Tories since the election of ’90. Wrong because this is England, and Offices and Privileges of the Realm are not managed according to REASON but BECAUSE WE HAVE ALWAYS DONE IT THUS. Accordingly, Sir Thomas Neale, Master of the Mint, has his post, not because he is a Tory (for to the extent he holds fixed views on anything, they are Whiggish views, and to the extent he has friends, they are Whigs), but rather because James II gave him the position immediately upon his succession to the throne in February of 1685. Prior to that date, Sir Thomas had served as Groom-Porter of the Court of Charles II. The duties of the Groom-Porter are ill-defined and not susceptible of accurate translation into the language and the customs of La France. Nominally the Groom-Porter is in charge of the Sovereign’s furniture. Since this, however, rarely changes, it does not occupy very much of his time; consequently he devotes a larger moiety of his energies to furnishings smaller, more mutable and perishable: viz. dice and cards. Whatever other personal shortcomings Sir Thomas might possess, even his most obstreperous detractors would readily agree that never were man and job so perfectly match’d as Sir Thomas Neale, and Dice-Keeper Royal.
Master of the Mint would seem to be a different sort of job entirely and so those of a Skeptickal turn of mind might argue, that it would seem to call for a different sort of chap. But no one seems to have offered up any such argument before James II; or if they did, perhaps his majesty did not understand it. Indeed, his appointment of Sir Thomas to run the Mint was construed by some as more evidence (as if more were wanted) tending to shew, that a certain Malady had got the better of the King’s Brain. Those of us of a more charitable habit of mind, might perceive a certain kind of Sense in the appointment. For Sir Thomas had become link’d, in the riddled mind of James, with dice and cards, which were associated with Money; hence Sir Thomas was the best chap in the land to coin Money, Q.E.D.
I know Sir Thomas well, for he has been extraordinarily keen to maintain friendly relations with me, ever since he got it in his head that I am a possible Supplier of Capital. You too, my lady, may so arrange it that you shall hear from him frequently, and even discover him loitering in front of your House several times a Week, merely by giving him some cause to phant’sy that you are in control of some bored Capital that wants an Adventure. For where some hommes d’affaires come into the world of Commerce from Shipping, and others from the ’Varsity, Sir Thomas came at it by way of Gambling, and not just of the penny-ante sort, but on the Royal plane. And so where another commerçant might employ a Ship-Voyage as his over-arching Metaphor for what a business-venture is, Sir Thomas sees all such Projects as Rolls of Dice. And where a Venturer of Ship frame of mind would have a care to raise profits, and reduce risk, by caulking his Ship well, hiring good seamen, keeping an eye on the weather-glass, &c., Sir Thomas’s notion of a well-structured Enterprise is one in which the dice are loaded, the cards marked, and the deck stacked, to the utmost extent possible. Indeed, this is why I have not ejected him from my Circle of Friends; for while I’d never risk any of my Capital on one of his Ventures, I very muc
h enjoy having them explained to me, much as I might derive pleasurable diversion from reading a vivid roman about some Picaroons.
I might add in passing that James II’s equation of Gambling with the Making of Money is not the syphilitic madness that it first seemed. For during the period of forced Idleness that has succeeded the disastrous Election of ’90, I have had leisure to consider diverse Schemes to raise money for the Government, which feels a want of Specie chargeable to the War. We contemplate a great national Lottery. To explain the scheme at any more length than that would be tedious, to point out Sir Thomas’s aptness for such a Project were to insult your intelligence. We meet from time to time with Mathematickal Savants of the Royal Society to explore its statistical penetralia.
In conclusion, I say to you that if you desire to have silver minted here as part of some Adventure (whose details I do not need or wish to know); and if the Adventure enures to the advantage of the Tories (which I hope it does not; but this is none of my business); and if you have phant’sied that our Tory government has some power over the Mint, so that the Mint’s interests, and yours, are naturally aligned; then you are mistaken. For the Mint is, I am happy to report, firmly in the grip of a Whig. This need not, however, militate against your Project. For if I read correctly between the lines of your letter, all you really need is a cooperative, not to say compliant, friend in the Mint; and you may make Thomas Neale just that, by meditating upon the Character I have given him in this Missive, and devising your approach to the man accordingly.
I pray that the question you sent to Dr. Waterhouse has been addressed, to your satisfaction, by the foregoing. If I have failed to satisfy, or (may God forbid it) given offense, I beg you to write back telling me as much, so that I may bend every effort to make it good. For it is my very great honour and pleasure to be your humble and obedient servant,
RAVENSCAR
P.S. If your intention is to mint French silver into English coin to pay the French and Irish troops that have been preparing to invade England from around Cherbourg in the third week of May, then I congratulate you on your ingenuity. Delivery of the coins from Mint to Front shall pose a not inconsiderable logistical challenge, and so I make you the following offer: If Admiral Tourville’s invasion-fleet makes it across the Channel without being sunk by the Royal Navy, and if the Papist legion establishes a beachhead on English soil without being destroyed by the Army or torn to bits by an enraged Mobb of English rurals, then I shall personally carry every single one of your coins from the Tower of London to the front in my arse-hole, and Deposit them in some Place where they may be easily Picked Up.