“But how will you explain the timing of it!?”
“There is nothing that can’t be explained away, if Etienne is willing to play along, and not ask difficult questions. And I think he is willing. None of it matters, probably.”
“What do you mean by that?”
By way of an answer, Eliza-who was lying flat on her back in bed with a blanket over most of her face-thrust out a hand.
Eleanor screamed.
“Be quiet! They’ll hear you,” said Eliza.
“They-they have already left,” said Eleanor from the uttermost corner of the room, whence she’d fled, quick as a sparrow.
“Oh. Then go ahead and scream all you like.”
“When did the bumps appear?”
“I thought I felt one coming on yesterday. Had no idea they’d spread so rapidly.” Eliza flipped the blanket down to expose her face. Earlier she’d counted twenty bumps, there, by feel, then lost interest. Eleanor gave her only the briefest glance before turning her face aside, and adopting a pose in the corner of the room like a schoolgirl who is being punished.
“So this is why you insisted Caroline and Adelaide be sent away to Leipzig!”
“You do a sick woman an injustice there. You yourself told me that the Elector could not take his eyes off Caroline. You mentioned it half a dozen times unbidden. She has only bloomed the more since he last raped her with his eyes. That alone was reason sufficient to get her out of the house.”
“Does the Elector know?”
“Know that I have smallpox? Not yet.”
“How could he have missed it?”
“First, most of these vesicles have broken out in the last few hours. Second, we did it in the dark. Third, many persons-including some who were not hit on the head as boys-are unclear as to the distinction between smallpox, and the great pox, or syphilis. Given the company he keeps, I cannot but think that Johann Georg has seen much of the latter!”
“What you have done is horrible!” Eleanor said, turning around, and, when she saw Eliza’s face, thinking better of it.
“Oh, I’ve had worse.”
“No! I mean, trying to get someone sick.”
“You could have guessed yesterday that I had smallpox. You could have warned them off. You chose not to. So your outrage at this moment is very tiresome.”
Eleanor could not frame any response to this.
“I don’t know a single man at Versailles who has not killed someone, at least once in his life, directly or indirectly, by omission or commission. It is done commonly, and on the slightest pretexts. I might not have done what I did last night, had you not told me that the Elector desires Caroline. But knowing what I did of his lust for the girl, and his power over you, and knowing how it was likely to come out-well, I did what I did. Now, Eleanor, that is enough of talking about it. I really am spent. Last night took too much out of me at a time when I ought to have been conserving my strength. Now I’ll pay the penalty. I wrote out instructions-in case of my death. It’s under my pillow. I’m sleepy. Good-bye.”
MAY 1694
My lady,
I take the liberty of sending you a first draft, only because the English Navy is massing in the Channel to lob more bombs on to French soil, a most tiresome practice of which they have lately become quite fond. They would prefer, of course, to destroy the many ships of our fleet (which all ought to be named Eliza, as we owe their existence to you). But these are moving targets, which their vessels are too slow to pursue, and their gunners too inept to hit, and so instead they have have taken to shooting at buildings. One is reminded of some old Baron who phant’sies himself a brave hunter, but is too shaky, senile, and blind to hit anything, and so stands in his garden blasting away at stuffed animals that his servants have propped up against the hedge.
But life, and this letter, are both too short to be wasted on the English and so I shall go straight to the point and pray you’ll forgive my bald way of speaking.
My services are much in demand of late, as trade has stopped, owing to some confusion in the world of money. I do not understand it at all. You, I am certain, understand it perfectly. In between my perfect ignorance and your perfect knowledge stand the rest of humanity-innumerable persons of greater or less dignity, who phant’sy they understand it. Whatever the case may be, these persons know that your humble and obedient servant, Captain Jean Bart, is, at the present time, the only person making money in France (some small-minded pedants would assert that this is only by virtue of the fact that I steal things by force from their rightful owners; but this is a fine distinction that I shall leave to the Jesuits, so that one of them may one day come to me on my death-bed and inform me whether I’m bound for Heaven or Hell). Call it what you will, I bring money to France and deposit almost all of it into the King’s coffers, in accordance with certain rules and procedures that have seen set down, or so I am told, to govern my metier, viz. Privateer. In consequence, I have been noticed by many persons, foreign and domestic, who are owed money by our government. They write me letters, sidle up to me at soirees, tug on my sleeve at the many levees and couchees to which I am invited; they loiter before my house, overhaul me on the high seas, pursue me down streets and garden-paths, send me wine, plant the most alluring whores in my very bed, mutter to me in the confessional, and threaten to kill me, all in the hopes that I shall, by some prestidigitation, channel the next treasure-ship to this or that port, so that it may fall into the hands of this or that local official who shall route the proceeds to this or that account.
You might recall that two years ago I took a large amount of silver from Lothar von Hacklheber, who waxed very wroth, and sent me the most impertinent letters, claiming that the money had been meant to cover some French government loan that had been made down in Lyon. I replied to his representative that Lyon was a long way from Dunkerque-I even offered to draw him a map-and I threw up my hands, knowing little and caring less of these Lyonnaise follies. In time, von Hacklheber stopped importuning me about this; but then after an all too brief respite he got after me again, claiming that the controleur-general had failed to make good on that Lyon loan. It seemed that he or his agents had inquired in every pays and arrived at the conclusion that the only way he would ever get his money back was through Dieppe; for in that port he had come to some sort of understanding with the local officials, such that, of the King’s revenue that happened to come in there, some moiety would be diverted to the House of Hacklheber in repayment of the loan that it had extended to France.
Of course, I ignored him; though this did stick in my memory, for I recall that you had some sort of unpleasantness with Lothar von Hacklheber, though you would not part with any of the details; and in his communications, which were often of a most bizarre character, he made liberal use of your name.
A little bit more recently, I have begun to receive communications of a markedly similar nature from none other than the controleur-general himself, M. le comte de Pontchartrain, who is keen that I should get in the habit of bringing my prizes to the port of Le Havre. For it would seem that he has so arranged matters that any of the King’s revenue passing through that port shall be channeled to some destination that is pleasing to him. He too has mentioned your name; for he knows of my passionate, wholly inappropriate and scandalous, and (so far) unrequited affection for you.
Now as a practical matter nothing of value has entered either Dieppe or Le Havre for some weeks, as both were attacked, bombed, and burnt by the British, in the manner I have already described. These disturbances have not hindered me from plying my trade, and so I have, during the same interval, garnered much treasure I would fain unload. Instead I have, perforce, kept it stored away in the holds of diverse ships-which, being moving targets, are perfectly safe from the British Navy. Why, in the hold of my own ship Alcyon, where I sit writing these words, are stored three-quarters of a million livres tournoises worth of silver and gold. I’ll not unload such treasure in Dunkerque, for, as much as I love my hometown, its land connexions to France are too tenuous, and infested by highwaymen and Vagabonds. Dieppe or Le Havre, being closer to Paris, would be better-but which?