“What is the point of the story, Monsieur, other than to explain why Amsterdam is crowded with Orangish refugees, and why William hates your King so much?”
“Tomorrow, le Roi might pick up a bit of Gouda cheese and throw it to his dogs.”
“Amsterdam would fall, you are saying, and my hard-earned gold would be loot for some drunken regiment.”
“Your gold-and you, mademoiselle.”
“I understand such matters far better than you imagine, monsieur. What I do not understand is why you pretend to be interested in what happens to me. In the Hague, you saw me as a pretty girl who could skate, and who would therefore catch Monmouth’s eye, and make Mary unhappy, and create strife in William’s house. And it all came to pass just as you intended. But what can I do for you now?”
“Live a beautiful and interesting life-and, from time to time, talk to me.”
Eliza laughed out loud, lustily, drawing glares from women who never laughed that way, or at all. “You want me to be your spy.”
“No, mademoiselle. I want you to be my friend.” D’Avaux said this simply and almost sadly, and it caught Eliza up short. In that moment, d’Avaux spun smartly on the balls of his feet and trapped Eliza’s arm. She had little choice but to walk with him-and soon it became obvious that they were walking directly towards Etienne d’Arcachon. In the dimmest and smokiest corner of the room, meanwhile, Mr. Sluys kept laughing and laughing.
Thou hast met with something (as I perceive) already; for I see the dirt of the Slough of Despond is upon thee; but that Slough is the beginning of the sorrows that do attend those that go on in that way; hear me, I am older than thou!
-JOHNBUNYAN,The Pilgrim’s Progress
JACK WAS BURIEDup to his neck in the steaming manure of the white, pink-eyed horses of the duc d’Arcachon, trying not to squirm as a contingent of perhaps half a dozen maggots cleaned away the dead skin and flesh surrounding the wound in his thigh. This itched, but did not hurt, beyond the normal wholesome throbbing. Jack had no idea how many days he’d been in here, but from listening to the bells of Paris, and watching small disks of sunlight prowl around the stable, he guessed it might be five in the afternoon. He heard boots approaching, and a pad-lock negotiating with its key. If that lock were the only thing holding him in this stable, he would’ve escaped long ago; but as it was, Jack was chained by the neck to a pillar of white stone, with a few yards of slack so that he could, for example, bury himself in manure.
The bolt shot and John Churchill stepped in on a tongue of light. In contrast to Jack, he was not covered in shit-far from it! He was wearing a jeweled turban of shimmering gold cloth, and robes, with lots of costume jewelry; old scuffed boots, and a large number of weapons, viz. scimitar, pistols, and several granadoes. His first words were: “Shut up, Jack, I’m going to a fancy-dress ball.”
“Where’s Turk?”
“I stabled him,” Churchill said, pointing with his eyes toward an adjacent stable. The duc had several stables, of which this was the smallest and meanest, and used only for shoeing horses.
“So the ball you mean to attend is here. ”
“At the Hotel d’Arcachon, yes.”
“What’re you supposed to be-a Turk? Or a Barbary Corsair?”
“Do I look like a Turk?” Churchill asked hopefully. “I understand you have personal knowledge of them-”
“No. Better say you’re a Pirate.”
“A breed of which I have personal knowledge.”
“Well, if you hadn’t fucked the King’s mistress, he wouldn’t have sent you to Africa.”
“Well, I did, and he did-send me there, I mean-and I came back.”
“And now he’s dead. And you and the duc d’Arcachon have something to talk about.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Churchill asked darkly.
“Both of you have been in contact with the Barbary Pirates-that’s all I meant.”
Churchill was taken aback-a small pleasure and an insignificant victory for Jack. “You are well-informed,” he said. “I should like to know whether everyone in the world knows of the duc d’Arcachon’s intercourse with Barbary, or is it just that you are special?”
“Am I, then?”
“They say l’Emmerdeur is King of the Vagabonds.”
“Then why didn’t the duc put me up in his finest apartment?”
“Because I have gone to such extravagant lengths to prevent him from knowing who you are.”
“So that’s why I’m still alive. I was wondering.”
“If they knew, they would tear you apart with iron tongs, over the course of several days, at the Place Dauphine.”
“No better place for it-lovely view from there.”
“Is that all you have for me, in the way of thanks?”
Silence. Gates were creaking open all round the Hotel d’Arcachon as it mobilized for the ball. Jack heard the hollow grumbling of barrels being rolled across stone courtyards, and (since his nose had stopped being able to smell shit) he could smell birds roasting, and buttery pastries baking in ovens. There were less agreeable odors, too, but Jack’s nose sought out the good ones.
“You could at least answer my question,” Churchill said. “Does everyone know that the duc has frequent dealings with Barbary?”
“Some small favor would be appropriate at this point,” Jack said.
“I can’t let you go.”
“I was thinking of a pipe.”
“Funny, so was I.” Churchill went to the stable door and flagged down a boy and demanded des pipes en terre and du tabac blond and du feu.
“Is King Looie coming to the duc’s fancy-dress ball, too?”
“So it is rumored-he has been preparing a costume in great secrecy, out at Versailles. Said to be of a radically shocking nature. Impossibly daring. All the French ladies are aflutter.”
“Aren’t they always?”
“I wouldn’t know-I’ve taken a sound, some would say stern, English bride: Sarah.”
“What’s she coming as? A nun?”
“Oh, she’s back in London. This is a diplomatic mission. Secret.”
“You stand before me, dressed as you are, and say that?”
Churchill laughed.
“You take me for an imbecile?” Jack continued. The pain in his leg was most annoying, and shaking away flies had given his neck a cramp, as well as raw sores from the abrasion of his iron collar.
“You are only alive because of your recent imbecility, Jack. L’Emmerdeur is known to be clever as a fox. What you did was so stupid that it has not occurred to anyone, yet, that you could be he.”
“So, then… in France, what’s considered suitable punishment for an imbecile who does something stupid?”
“Well, naturally they were going to kill you. But I seem to have convinced them that, as you are not only a rural half-wit, but an English rural half-wit, the whole matter is actually funny. ”
“Funny? Not likely.”
“The duc de Bourbon hosted a dinner party. Invited a certain eminent writer. Became annoyed with him. Emptied his snuff-box into the poor scribbler’s wine when he wasn’t looking, as a joke. The writer drank the wine and died of it-hilarious!”
“What fool would drink wine mixed with snuff?”
“That’s not the point of the story-it’s about what French nobility do, and don’t, consider to be funny-and how I saved your life. Pay attention!”
“Let’s set aside how, and ask: why did you save my life, guv’nor?”