“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 soiree, my lady?”
It was Father Edouard 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 levee 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 Etienne 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 levee! 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 levee; 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 levees, 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.