“Now you flirt with me. Madame, it is within my power to make this happen. I may have been re-baptized as a Catholic, but this has not prevented my maintaining any number of contacts with Huguenots who elected to leave. They have gone to places like London and prospered. You know this perfectly well, for you have filled the void that was created in the Compagnie du Nord by their departure. You buy timber from them in Sweden and Rostock all the time. So yes. I can see to it that your silver is transferred, and I shall. But it shall not be profitable. It shall not be especially convenient. Monsieur Castan’s credit with the Dép?t shall be over-extended for a time. I shall have to twist his arm. And I hate dealing with Lothar.”
“Very well. What could I do, monsieur, to show my gratitude for your undertaking so many travails?”
“You could direct your intelligence upon the strange case of the Compagnie des Indes in faraway St.-Malo. You, I take it, have no interest in this?”
“None whatsover, monsieur; the Compagnie du Nord is my sole concern.”
“That is well. You will supply me with your thoughts and observations, then, concerning the other?”
“It will be a joy to converse with you on the topic, monsieur.”
“Very well.” Bernard got to his feet. “I am off to Lyon, then. Au revoir.”
“Bon voyage.”
And Samuel Bernard exited the Café Esphahan as abruptly as he had come in.
His gilded chair was still warm when Bonaventure Rossignol sat down in it.
“I have seen Kings travel with a smaller guard,” Eliza remarked; for both she and Rossignol devoted some time now to enjoying the spectacle of the departure of Bernard’s carriage, his train of lesser vehicles, his out-riders, spare horses, grooms, et cetera from the Rue de l’Orangerie.
“Many Kings have less to fear,” Rossignol remarked.
“Oh? I did not know Monsieur Bernard had so many enemies.”
“It is not that he has enemies as a King does,” Rossignol corrected her, “which is to say, identifiable souls who wish him ill, and are willing and able to act on those wishes. Rather, it is that from time to time a sort of frenzy will come over certain Frenchmen, which only abates when a financier or two has been hanged from a tree-limb or set on fire.”
“He was trying to warn me about such things,” Eliza said, “but his squadron of mercenaries conveys it much more effectively than words.”
“It is curious,” said Rossignol, turning his attention to Eliza. “I know that you are married to a Duke, and share his bed, and bear his children. Yet this causes me not the least bit of jealousy! But when I see you talking to this Samuel Bernard—”
“Put it out of your head,” Eliza said. “You have no idea.”
“What does this mean, I have no idea? I may be a mathematician, but yet I know what passes between a man and a woman.”
“Indeed; but you are not a commer?ant, and you haven’t the faintest idea what passes between the likes of me and Bernard. Don’t worry. If you were a commer?ant, I shouldn’t be attracted to you—just as I’m not attracted to Bernard.”
“But it looked for all the world as if you were flirting.”
“As indeed we were—but the intercourse to which this flirting will lead is not sexual.”
“I am perfectly confused now—you are playing with me.”
“Come now, Bon-bon! Let us review matters. Out of all the men in Germany, which did I choose for a friend?”
“Leibniz.”
“And what is he?”
“A mathematician.”
“Holland?”
“Huygens…a mathematician.”
“England?”
“Daniel Waterhouse. A Natural Philosopher.”
“France?”
“...”
“Come now! When I came to Versailles for the first time, and got invited to Court soirées, and was pursued by any number of randy Dukes, to whom did I give my affections?”
“You gave them to…a mathematician.”
“What was that mathematician’s name?” asked Eliza, cupping a hand to her ear.
“It was Bonaventure Rossignol,” said Bonaventure Rossignol, and flicked his black eyes to and fro to see if anyone was listening.
“Now, when I got myself into a big mess of trouble outside of St. Diziers, who was the first to learn of it?”
“That fellow who was reading everyone’s mail. Bonaventure Rossignol.”
“And who came galloping to my rescue across half of France, and journeyed north with me to Nijmegen, and put me on a boat?”
“Bon—”
“Stop. The name is beautiful and distinguished. But I prefer to call him Bon-bon.”
“Very well, then, it was Bon-bon.”
“Who made love to me along the banks of the Meuse?”
“étienne de Lavardac.”
“Who else?”
“Bon-bon.”
“And who helped me concoct a plan to get out of my terrible mess of trouble?”
“Bon-bon.”
“Who helped me cover my traces, and forged documents, and lied to the King and to d’Avaux?”
“Bon-bon.”
“And who is the father of my first-born?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Only because you avoided looking at him, when you had the opportunity. But I tell you Jean-Jacques looks very much like Bon-bon—there is no trace in him of the tainted blood of the Lavardacs. You are the father, Bon-bon.”
“What is your point?”
“Only that it is absurd for you to be jealous of this Samuel Bernard. Whatever may pass between him and me in the way of business is nothing compared to the adventure that you and I had, and the son that we share.”
The attention of “Bon-bon” had strayed to a painting of a fabulous, many-domed mosque that adorned a wall behind Eliza. “You remind me of things I would forget. I could have done a better job.”
“Nonsense!”