“You have money,” said Eliza, and used one hand as a rake to sweep a pile of coins across the table so that it ended up piled before Pontchartrain. “And you wish to get it—here!” She strode through the double doors to the Grand Salon where a backgammon game had been abandoned. “Madame de Bearsul, you are a merchant banker in London—this table is London.”
Madame de Bearsul approached London with a show of cringing, blushing, and hand-wringing that made Eliza want to slap her. “But, madame, I know nothing of such occupations!”
“Of course not, for you are so well-bred; but just as Kings may play Vagabonds in masques, you are now a merchant banker named Signore Punchinello. Here, Signore Punchinello, is your strong-box.” Mercury clapped the backgammon-set closed, imprisoning the game pieces, and handed it to de Bearsul, who with much hair-patting and skirt-smoothing took a seat at London. Monsieur le chevalier d’Erquy pulled her chair out for her, for, anticipating Eliza’s next command, he had followed them into the Grand Salon.
“Monsieur, you are Pierre Dubois, a Frenchman in London.”
“Miserable fate! Must I be?” complained d’Erquy, to general amusement.
“You must. But you need not sit down yet, for you have not yet made the acquaintance of Signore Punchinello. Instead, you wander about the city like a lost soul, trying to find a decent loaf of bread. Now! Places, everyone!” and she walked back into the Petit Salon, where the Lyon table had been supplied with quills, ink, and paper.
“Monsieur le contr?leur-général, give your silver—which is to say, France’s silver—to Lothar the Banker.”
“Monsieur, s’il vous pla?t,” said Pontchartrain, shoving the pile across the table.
“Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” said étienne, a bit uncertainly.
“You must give him more than polite words! Write out the amount, and the word ‘Londres,’ and a time, say five minutes in the future.”
étienne dutifully took up his quill and did as he was told, putting down “half past three,” as the clock in the corner was currently reading twenty-five minutes past. “To the contr?leur-général give it,” said Eliza. “And now you, contr?leur-général, write an address on the back, thus: ‘To Monsieur Pierre Dubois, London.’ Meanwhile you, Lothar, must write an avisa addressed to Signore Punchinello in London, containing the same information as is in the Bill.”
“The Bill?”
“The document you have given to the contr?leur-général is a Bill of Exchange.”
Pontchartrain had finished addressing the Bill, and so Mercury snatched it out of his hand and pranced out of the room and gave it to “Pierre Dubois,” who had been watching, bemused, from the doorway. Then she returned to “Lothar,” who was writing out the avisa with a good deal more formality than was called for. Mercury jerked it out from under the quill.
“Good heavens, I haven’t even finished the Apology yet.”
“You must learn better to inhabit the r?le of Lothar. He would not be so discursive,” said Mercury, and wafted the avisa out of the room to “Signore Punchinello.” “In truth, there would be two or even three copies of the Bill and the avisa both, sent by separate couriers,” said Mercury, “but to prevent the masque from becoming tedious we shall only use one. Signore Punchinello! You said earlier you did not know how to play your r?le; but I tell you now that you need only know how to read, and be capable of recognizing Lothar’s handwriting. Do you? (The correct answer is ‘Yes, Mercury.’)”
“Yes, Mercury.”
“Monsieur Dubois, I think you can guess what to do.”
Indeed, “Pierre Dubois” now helped himself to a seat at the London table across from “Signore Punchinello,” and presented the bill.
“Now, signore,” said Eliza to Madame de Bearsul, “you must compare what is written on Monsieur Dubois’s Bill to what is in the avisa.”
“They are the same,” answered “Punchinello.”
“Do they appear to have been written in the same hand?”
“Indeed, Mercury, the hands are indistinguishable.”
“What time is it?”
“By yonder clock, twenty-eight minutes past the hour of three.”
“Then take up yonder quill and write ‘accepted’ across the face of the Bill, and sign your name to it.”
Madame de Bearsul did so, and then, getting into the spirit of the thing, opened up her backgammon-set and began to count out pieces.
“Not yet!” said Mercury. “That is, it’s fine for you to count them out, and make sure you have enough. But good banker that you are, you’ll not give them to Monsieur Dubois until the Bill has come due.”
But they only had to wait for a few more seconds before the clock bonged twice, signifying half past three; then the backgammon pieces were pushed across the table into the waiting hands of “Pierre Dubois.”
“Voilà!” announced Mercury to the audience, which by this point numbered above twenty party-guests. “The first act of our masque draws to a happy ending. Monsieur le contr?leur-général has transferred silver from Lyon to London at no risk, and even converted it to English silver pennies along the way, with practically no effort! All by invoking the supernatural powers of Mercury.” And Eliza took a little curtsey, and basked for a few moments in the applause of her guests.