The next scene took place far upstage, on the English shore, where the French sailors were pent up in a prison in Plymouth, gazing out barred windows across the Channel and pining, at considerable length, for France. This was by far the dullest part of the production and gave many a Countess an opportunity to powder her nose; but the upshot was that the mermaid, hearing their dirge, and spying the valiant French corsairs imprisoned through no fault of their own, begged her father to undo the spell he had laid on Jean Bart. Which was grudgingly done, though not until Bart, in his smaller, feline form, had slipped out between the bars of his cell and scampered onto the beach. Changed back into a man, he climbed into a rowboat, shoved it off the beach of Plymouth, and rowed to France.
When Jean Bart had achieved this feat for real, a few months ago, it had taken him fifty-two hours. That was compressed into about a quarter of an hour here. The passage of two days, two nights, and four hours was suggested as follows: Apollo, in a golden chariot suspended from an overhead track by wires, appeared low in the east (stage left); traversed the entire stage in a great arc, singing an aria all the while; and set low in the west (stage right) just as his sister Diana was being launched from stage left in a silver chariot. When she set in the west, Apollo reappeared (for his chariot had been unhooked and rushed around the back of the château) at stage left again, and sang through the second day of Jean Bart's epic row. Then Diana sang through the second night. During the first day and night, Apollo and Diana respectively mocked the poor figure below them, refusing to believe at first that anyone would have the stupid-ity or hubris to row a boat from Plymouth to France. During the second day and night, they literally changed their tunes: Astounded to see that Jean Bart was still alive, and still hauling on those oars, they began to sing his praises and to cheer him on.
It concluded at the end of the second night with Diana setting at stage right, Apollo rising at the left, and Jean Bart center stage, desperately trying to row the last mile or so to freedom. Apollo and Diana sang a duet, urging him on; and finally Neptune (who had perhaps had enough of their caterwauling) popped out of the waves, sang an additional stanza about what a magnificent chap Jean Bart was, and, raising his trident, ordered that the waves of the sea escort this hero safely back to shore. Which they did, in the form of four dancers painted blue and wearing foamy white caps.
Even this audience, which included some of the most jaded and cynical persons on the face of the earth, could hardly keep a dry eye as Jean Bart finally staggered up onto the beach where it had all started, accompanied by a flood tide of patriotic music; but just as the party-goers were erupting in an ovation, yet another god descended from the rafters, dressed in gold, brandishing a lightning-bolt, and crowned with a laurel-wreath: yes, Jupiter himself, but all bedizened with French touches to make of him a hybrid of France with the King of the Gods; or rather, to imply that there was no substantive difference. Apollo, Diana, and Neptune were amazed, and did obeisance; the insouciant Jean Bart favored Jupiter with a courtly Versailles bow. Jupiter had come to make his ruling, which was that Jean Bart did indeed deserve to be subjected to a metamorphosis: but of a rather different sort than being turned into a cat. He handed down a package in golden paper, crowned with a laurel wreath, and Mercury took it from his hand, pranced about for a while in a gratuitous solo, and delivered it to Jean Bart, setting the laurel wreath on Bart's head. Lieutenant Bart opened the package. Out tumbled a bolt of red. He held it up, and it unfurled: the long red coat and red breeches of a Captain in the French Navy.
The rigging that held the various Gods and Goddesses in the firmament now went into creaking and groaning movement, pulling those Olympian figures up or away so that Jean Bart was left alone on the stage to receive an ovation from the crowd. He hugged the uniform to his chest, turned stage right, and bowed very low to the King. This caused the laurel wreath to fall from his head. He snatched it just before it struck the floor and everyone in the room said, "Oh!" at once. Then, seized by an idea, he straightened up and tossed the wreath directly at Louis XIV, who did not fail to catch it. Everyone in the room said, "Ah!" The King, not the least bit discomposed, raised the laurel to his lips and kissed it, eliciting a great cheer from the assembled nobles of Versailles. For that moment, everything in France was perfect.
MUCH MORE HAPPENED at the soirée, but it all felt like an afterthought to the masque. Captain Jean Bart lost no time changing into his red uniform; then he danced all night, with every lady in the house. Eliza for once in her life was flummoxed by the intensity of the competition; for in order to dance with Captain Bart, one had to be asked by him, which meant that one had to be able to see, or at least hear him; and at the end of each number the man in red was immediately walled up in a rampart of pretty silk and satin gowns, as all of the hopeful girls—most of whom were taller than Bart—crowded around him, hoping to catch his eye. Eliza was petite and hopelessly shut out. Moreover, she had some obligations as hostess. The Duchess had granted her leave to add some names to the guest list. Eliza had invited four minor courtiers and their wives: all petty nobles of northern France who had loaned money to the Treasury and built fortifications along the Channel coast. They had done so precisely in the hope that it would lead to their being invited to parties such as this one. Now their schemes had come to fruition; but they looked to Eliza to manage some of the details, such as introductions. Each of them had recently had an audience with Pontchartrain and received a loan document similar to Eliza's, albeit with a smaller amount inscribed upon it; each now phant'sied that this would entitle him to spend the entire evening following Pontchartrain around as full and equal participant in any conversation the contrôleur-général might become engaged in. In order to remain in the Count's good graces, Eliza had to track them around the château and snatch them away on some pretext or other whenever they started to annoy their betters. This was work enough for a single evening; but, too, it was expected that she would dance at least twice with Étienne, as his titular girlfriend. And since she had jerked him off in the sleigh, it would have been poor form not to dance at least one time with Rossignol.
Rossignol danced like a cryptanalyst: perfectly, but with little self-expression. "You did not understand the soap conversation," he said to her.
"Monsieur, was it that obvious? Please explain it to me!"
"During the time of the poisonings, ten years ago, where do you suppose all of those ambitious courtiers got their arsenic? Not by their own labors certainly, for they are helpless in practical matters. Not from Alchemists, for those style themselves holy men. Who, other than Alchemists, has mortars and pestles, vats, retorts, and ways of getting exotic ingredients?
"Soap-makers!" Eliza exclaimed, and felt herself blushing.
"Some laundresses wore gloves in those days," said Rossignol, "because their mistresses would have them go into Paris and buy soap that was loaded with arsenic. They would wash the husband's clothing in that soap, and he would absorb the poison through his skin. And so for a Duchess to make her own soap, on her own estate, is more than just a quaint tradition. It is a way for her to protect herself and those she loves. When she offers you, mademoiselle, the use of her soap, and of her laundry, it means two things: first, that she has true affection for you, and second, that she fears someone might wish you ill."
Eliza could not speak. She scanned the crowd over Rossignol's shoulder for a glimpse of d'Avaux, and, not finding him, forced Rossignol to spin around so that she could see the other half of the room.
"I beg your pardon, but which one of us is leading, my lady?" asked Rossignol. "Who is it you look for? You think of someone who wishes you ill? Do not be too sure of your first assumptions—that is a common error in cryptanalysis."
"Do you know who—?"
"If I did I should tell you at once, if for no other reason than that I should enjoy another sleigh-ride some day. But no, mademoiselle, I cannot guess who it is that the Duchess is so worried about."
"Excuse me, but may
I break in?" said a man's voice behind Eliza.
"We are in the middle of something!" Eliza snapped; for men had been pestering her all night. But Rossignol had stopped dancing. He released his grip on Eliza, backed away one step, and bowed deep.
Eliza spun around to see King Louis XIV acknowledging the bow with a warm look. He loved his codebreaker.
"But of course you are, mademoiselle," said the King of France, "when my two most intelligent subjects put their heads together and converse, why, pourquoi non, how could they not be in the middle of something? But your expressions are so grave! It does not befit a Christmas celebration!" He had caught Eliza's hand somehow, and drawn her into the pattern of the dance. Eliza was no more capable of intelligent speech than she had been a minute ago.
"I have much to thank you for," said Louis XIV.
"Oh, no, your majesty, for—"
"Has no one ever told you that to contradict the King is not done?"
"I beg your pardon, your majesty—"
"Monsieur Rossignol has told me that you did a favor for my sister-in-law last autumn," said the King. "Or perhaps it was for the Prince of Orange; this is not clear."
Something now occurred that had only happened to Eliza a few times in her life: She lost consciousness, or close to it. A like thing had happened when she and her mother had been dragged off of the beach in Qwghlm and loaded into the longboat of the Barbary Corsairs. It had happened again, some years later, when she had been taken down to the waterfront of Algiers and traded to the Sultan in Constantinople for a white stallion—taken from her mother without even being given the opportunity to say good-bye. And a third time beneath the Emperor's palace in Vienna, when she'd been queued up with a string of other odalisques to be put to the sword. On none of these occasions had she actually crumpled to the ground. Neither did she now. But she might have, if Louis XIV, who was a big man, graceful and strong, had not kept an arm firmly about her waist.
"Come back to me," he was saying—and not, she guessed, for the first time. "There. You are back. I see it in your face. What is it you fear so much? Have you been threatened by someone? Tell me who has done it, then."
"No one in particular, your majesty. The Prince of Orange—"
"Yes? What did he do?"
"I should not tell you what he did; but he said I must spy for him or he would put me on a ship to Nagasaki, for the amusement of the sailors."
"Ah. You should have told me this immediately."
"That—my failure to be perfectly frank with you—is truly the source of my fear, your majesty, for I am not without guilt."
"I know this. Tell me, mademoiselle. What drives you to make such decisions? What is it you want?"
"To find the man who wronged me, and kill him." In truth, Eliza had not thought about this for so long that the idea sounded strange to her ears, even as it came from her lips; but she said it with conviction, and liked the sound of it.
"Certain things you have done have pleased me immensely. The ‘Fall of Batavia.' The loan of your fortune. Bringing Jean Bart to Versailles. Your recent efforts for the Compagnie du Nord. Others, such as the matter of the spying, displease me—though now I understand better. It is good that we have had this conversation."
Eliza blinked, looked around, and understood that the music had stopped, and everyone was looking at them.
"Thank you, mademoiselle," said the King, and bowed.
Eliza curtseyed.
"Your majesty—" she said, but he was gone, engulfed by the mobile Court, a school of expensively cinched waists and teased wigs.
Eliza went into a corner to get coffee and to think. People were following her—her own little Court of petty nobles and suitors. She did not precisely ignore, because she did not really notice, them.
What had happened? She needed a personal stenographer, so that she could have the transcript read back to her.
She had inadvertently given the King the wrong idea.
"Do you enjoy the soirée, my lady?"
It was Father Édouard de Gex.
"Indeed, Father, though I confess I do miss that little orphan—he stole my heart in the weeks we were together."
"Then you may have a little piece of your heart back any time you wish to visit. Monsieur le comte d'Avaux was at pains to make certain that the infant was comfortably housed. He predicted that you would be a frequent caller."
"I am indebted to the Count."
"We all are," said de Gex. "Little Jean-Jacques is a splendid boy. I look in on him whenever I have a moment. I hope to complete what you have begun, and d'Avaux has carried forward."
"And that is—what precisely?"
"You snatched the lad from death physical—the war—and spiritual—the doctrines of the heretics. D'Avaux saw to it he was placed in the best orphanage in France, under the care of the Society of Jesus. To me, it seems that the natural culmination is that I should raise him up into a Jesuit."
"I see, yes…" said Eliza dreamily, "so that the little Lavardac bastard does not create further complications by breeding."
"I beg your pardon, my lady?"
"Please forgive me, I am not myself!"
"I should hope not!" De Gex was actually blushing. Which wreaked a great change for the better on his face. He was dark, with prominent bones in the cheeks and nose, and had it in him to be handsome; but usually he was very pale from too many hours spent in dark confessionals listening to the secret sins of the court. With some pink in his cheeks he was suddenly almost fetching.
"Please," Eliza said, "I am still flustered by the memory of dancing with the King."
"Of course, my lady. But when you have gathered your wits, and remembered your manners, my cousine would like to renew her acquaintance with you." He leveled his burning gaze at a corner where the duchesse d'Oyonnax was smiling into the eyes of some poor young Viscount who had no idea what he was getting into.
De Gex took his leave.
She had spoken the truth to the King. For on the day she'd been swapped for the albino stallion, and loaded on a galley for Constantinople, she'd made a vow that one day she would find the man who was responsible for her and Mummy being slaves in the first place, and kill him. She had never divulged this to anyone, except Jack Shaftoe; but now, unaccountably, she had blurted it out to the King. She had done so with utmost conviction, for it really was true; and he had seen the look on her face, and believed every word.
"I have much work to do tomorrow, thanks to you, mademoiselle."
It was Pontchartrain, again favoring her with a benign smile.
"How so, monsieur?"
"The King was so moved by the story of Jean Bart's heroism that he has directed me to release funds for the Navy, and for the Compagnie du Nord. I am to attend his levée tomorrow, so that we may sort out the details."
"Then I shall not detain you any later, monsieur."
"Good night, mademoiselle."
The King thought she was referring to William of Orange. She had made some reference to William—again, if only she had a transcript!—and a moment later she had changed the subject and said she wanted to find the man who had wronged her, and kill him—and the King had put those two truths together to make a falsehood: his majesty now believed that Eliza's goal in life was to assassinate William! That she had spied on William's behalf only as a ruse so that she could get close to him.
She spun around, hoping to find the King, to get his attention, to explain all—but found herself looking into the face of a man dressed all in red. Jean Bart, putting his corsair skills to use, had hacked his way through a throng of female admirers to reach Eliza. "Mademoiselle," he said, "Madame la duchesse has announced that this is to be the last dance. If I might have the honor?"
She let her hand float up and he took it. "Normally, of course, I should make way for Étienne d'Arcachon in such a case," he explained, in case Eliza had been wondering about this—which she hadn't. "But he is outside, bidding farewell to the King."
"The
King's leaving?"
"Is already in his carriage, mademoiselle."
"Oh. I had been hoping to say something to him."
"You and everyone else in France!" They were dancing now. Bart was amused. "You have already danced with his majesty! Mademoiselle, there are women in this room who have sacrificed babies in the Black Mass hoping to conjure up a single word, or a glance, from the King! You should be satisfied—"
"I don't want to hear about such things," Eliza said. "It makes me cross that you would even mention such horrors. You have been drinking, Captain Bart."
"You are right and I am wrong. I shall make it up to you: As it happens, I shall see the King in a few hours—I have been summoned to his levée! We will discuss naval finance. Is there anything you would like me to pass on to his majesty?"
What could she say? I don't really mean to kill William of Orange was not the sort of message she could ask Captain Bart to blurt out at the levée; nor was I don't really know precisely who it is I mean to kill.
"It is sweet of you to offer and I do forgive you. Does the King talk much at his levées, I wonder?"
"How should I know? Ask me tomorrow. Why?"
"Does he gossip, tell stories? I am curious. For I told him something, just now, that, if it were to get around, would make me very unpopular in England."
"Pfft!" said Jean Bart, and rolled his eyes, dispensing with the entire subject of England.
"Do ask the King one thing for me, please."
"Only name it, mademoiselle."
"The name of a physician who is good down here." She let her hand slide down a few inches and patted him. She did it with exquisite caution. But nonetheless Jean Bart yelped and jumped, his face split open in agony. Eliza gasped and jumped back in horror; but his grimace relaxed into a smile, and he lunged after her and snared her back, for he was only joking.
The Confusion Page 13