But everyone knew what he was going to say. Eliza came out with it first. “Monsieur, you have news of Monsieur le duc?”
“Forgive me, mademoiselle-yes-if you please-his carriage has been sighted, coming on at great velocity-he shall be here in an hour.”
“Has word of this been sent to the Palais du Louvre?” asked Etienne.
“Just as you directed, monsieur.”
“Very well. You are dismissed.”
The officer was more than glad to be dismissed. He took a last beady look around, then bowed, and backed down the aisle. As he was going arse-first out the door, he rammed someone who was attempting to come in. There was an exchange of abject apologies back in the shadows; then in stalked a robed and hooded figure, looking like Death without the scythe. He pulled back the hood to reveal the pale face, the dark eyes, and the carefully managed facial hair of Father Edouard de Gex; and the look on his face proved that he was as surprised, not to say alarmed, by all of this as anyone else.
“I say, was this all planned?” demanded Eliza.
“I received an anonymous note suggesting that I should be ready to perform the sacrament of marriage on short notice,” said de Gex, “but-”
“You had better be ready to perform the sacrament of extreme unction, if the young Arcachon does not untie his tongue, or hide that dagger,” said Eliza, “and as to short notice-well-a lady requires a little more time!” And she stomped out of the chapel.
“My lady!” called de Gex several times as he pursued her down a gallery; but she had not the slightest intention of being called back in there, and so she ignored him until she was a safe distance removed from the chapel, and had reached a more frequented part of the house. By that point, de Gex had caught up with her. “My lady!”
“I’m not going back.”
“It is not my design to coax you back. You are the person I wished to see. For when Monsieur Rossignol and I made inquiries as to your whereabouts, they said you had gone to the chapel. It was never my intention to interrupt a-”
“You interrupted nothing. Why were you with Monsieur Rossignol?”
“He has got some new messages from the Esphahnians.”
“The who?”
“The Armenians. Come. Please. I pray you. It’s important.”
FATHER EDOUARD DE GEX ESCORTED Eliza to the library as fast as he could walk, which meant that he kept edging ahead. The most direct route took them through the grand ballroom of the Hotel Arcachon. Here, though, he faltered, and fell behind. Eliza wheeled about. De Gex was gazing up at the ceiling. This was understandable, for the de Lavardacs had hired Le Brun himself to paint it, and he had only recently finished. It was a colossal tableau featuring Apollo (always a stand-in for Louis XIV) gathering the Virtues about him in the bright center while exiling the Vices to the gloomy corners. The Virtues were not sufficiently numerous to fill the space, and so the Muses were there, too, singing songs, composing poetry, amp;c. about how great the Virtues were. Along the edges of the piece, diverse earthly humans (courtiers on one side, peasants on the next, then soldiers, then churchmen) listened adoringly to, or gazed rapturously at, the Virtue-promoting works of the Muses whilst generally turning their backs to, or aiming scornful glares at, all of those Vices crowded into the corners. Just to make it sporting, though, you might see, if you looked carefully enough, a Soldier succumbing to Cowardice, a Priest to Gluttony, a Courtier to Lust, or a Peasant to Sloth.
So everyone who came in here looked at the ceiling; but the expression on the face of de Gex was most peculiar. Rather than being dazzled by the splendour of the work, he looked as if he were expecting the ceiling to fall in on them.
He finally directed his dark eyes at Eliza. “Do you know what happened here, mademoiselle?”
“A fabulously expensive remodeling campaign that took forever and is only just finished.”
“But do you know why?”
“Le Brun is always engaged at Versailles, except when le Roi leaves off building it so that he can go fight a war. And so only since war broke out has any progress been made here.”
“No. I meant, do you know why they remodelled?”
“From the looks of it I should say it was de Maintenon.”
“De Maintenon?!” De Gex’s reaction told Eliza that her answer had been emphatically wrong.
“Yes,” she said, “she came along in 1685, did she not? Which is when this remodel got under way…and the subject matter of the painting is so markedly Maintenon-esque.”
“Correlation is not causation,” de Gex said. “They had to remodel, because of a disastrous Incident that took place in that year.”
And then De Gex seemed to remember that they were in a hurry, and once again began striding toward the library. Eliza stomped along beside, and a little behind him.
“You do know what happened here-?” he continued, and glanced back at her.
“Something grievously embarrassing-so embarrassing that no one will tell me what it was.”
“Ah. To the library, then.” They departed the ballroom and entered a gallery.
“What was that you said earlier, about being asked to perform a marriage on short notice?”
“I received a note to that effect. I suspect it was from your beau. Never mind; obviously he was deluding himself.”
“It is a bit sad,” said Eliza, remembering the chairs carefully arranged in the little chapel, never to be sat on, and the precious flowers, never to be seen or smelled before they were hauled out to a midden. “Perhaps he had in mind a sort of elopement-but being so polite, wished to arrange it so that it would enjoy the sanctions of Family and Church.”
“That is between you and him,” said de Gex a bit coldly, and hauled upon the library door for Eliza. “If you please, mademoiselle.”
“I PHANT’SIED YOU MIGHT FIND this interesting in more than one way,” said Bonaventure Rossignol. He sat with his back to the arched window of the library, which, though dark, afforded a view over the torch-lit courtyard of the Hotel Arcachon. Eliza was shocked to observe occasional snowflakes spiraling down-so intemperate and remorseless was this winter, they might as well be living in Stockholm.
Before Rossignol was a broad table on which he had spread out a panoply of letters, books, and notes. Many bore the Armenian script.
“I mentioned to you before that the Cabinet Noir had intercepted a remarkable letter, posted during the first week of August from Sanlucar de Barrameda, and addressed to the family Esphahnian, who were said to be dwelling in the Bastille.”
“You had not mentioned the family name to me,” said Eliza, “but it scarcely matters, and it is almost certainly an assumed name anyway-”
“Why do you say that?” said de Gex.
“Esphahnian simply means ‘of Esphahan,’ which is a city where a vast number of Armenians dwell,” Eliza explained. “It is as if you went to live among the Turks and they called you ‘Edouard the Frank.’ ”
Rossignol nodded. “I agree it is probably not the true name of this family, but it is the name we shall use, lacking any other. At any rate, I inquired after them, and learned that some Armenians had indeed been put in the Bastille in 1685 and kept there for a year or so: a mother and a large brood of sons. One of them died there. The matriarch was released soonest, then the brothers. Some went to debtors’ prisons.
“It took me some time to track them all down, for more have died in the meantime, and it was difficult to establish who is the eldest of the brothers. I found him-Artan Esphahnian-in a wretched entresol not far from here, and caused the letter from Sanlucar to be delivered to him.
“A few days later, Artan mailed a letter addressed to one Vrej Esphahnian in Cairo. I had an exact copy of it made, then sent it on its way. At the time, I held no particular opinion as to who this Vrej fellow might be-like you, mademoiselle, I suspected that the name Esphahnian was a meaningless ruse, or perhaps even a vector of hidden information, which, if true, might mean that Vrej was not even related to Artan.