“I have only seen étienne from a distance,” said Bart, “but I gather he is a good bit younger than his half-brother.” He gestured to a recent painting that depicted the owners of this house, the marquis and the marquise d’Ozoir.
“The Duke was but a stripling when he begat this fellow off a woman in the household. Her surname was Eauze. The bastard was raised under the name of Claude Eauze. He went off to India for a while to seek his fortune, and later made enough money in the slave trade that he was able—with a loan from his father—to buy a noble title in 1674 when they went on sale to finance the Dutch war. Thus he became the Marquis d’Ozoir, which I take to be a play on words, as his name, to that point, had been Eauze. Only a year before buying this title, he married none other than Charlotte Adélaide de Crépy: the younger sister of the duchesse d’Oyonnax.”
“You’d think he could have found someone of higher rank,” said Bart.
“By all means!” said Rossignol. “But there is something at work you have forgotten to take into account.”
“And what is that, monsieur?”
“He actually loves her.”
“Mon Dieu, I had no idea!”
“Or, barring that, he knows that they form an effective and stable partnership, and is too cunning to do anything that might queer it. They have a daughter. Our friend tutored her for a while, last year.”
“That must have been before the King woke up one morning and remembered that she was a countess.”
“Let us hope,” Rossignol, “that she will still be one, when d’Avaux is finished.”
“IT IS A PITY,” Eliza began, “that Irishmen broke into your house, and stole your papers and sold them on the open market. What an embarrassment it must be for you that everyone knows that your personal correspondence, and drafts of treaties written in your hand, are being bartered for drinks by scullery-maids in Dunkerque gin-houses.”
“What! I was not informed of this!” D’Avaux turned red so fast it was if a cup of blood had been hurled in his face.
“You have been on a boat for a fortnight, how could you be informed? I am informing you now, monsieur.”
“I was led to believe that those papers had come into your possession, mademoiselle, and it is you I shall hold responsible for them!”
“What you have been led to believe does not matter,” said Eliza, “only what is. And so let me tell you what is. The thieves who stole your papers sent them to Dunkerque, it is true. Perhaps they even entertained a phant’sy that I would buy them. I refused to lower myself to such a dishonorable transaction.”
“Then perhaps you will explain to me, mademoiselle, why you have some of those very papers on your lap at this moment!”
“As the saying goes, there is no honor among thieves. When these ruffians saw that I was adamant in my refusal to do business with them, they began to seek other buyers. The packet was broken up into small lots, which were offered for sale, on various channels. To add to the complexity of the matter, it seems that the thieves had a falling-out amongst themselves. I cannot follow the business, to tell you the truth. When it became evident that these papers were being scattered to the four winds, I began making efforts to purchase them, as available. The ones on my lap are all that I have been able to round up, so far.”
D’Avaux was at a loss for civil words, and could only shake his head and mutter to himself.
“You may be chagrined, monsieur, and ungrateful; but I am pleased that I have been able to repay some small part of my personal debt to you by recovering some of your papers—”
“And returning them to me?”
“As I am able,” Eliza answered with a shrug. “To recover them all does not happen in a single day, week, or month.”
“...”
“Now,” Eliza went on, “a minute ago, you were indulging in some speculations as to where I shall end up. Some of your ideas on this topic are quite fanciful—Barock, even. Some of them are distasteful to persons of breeding, and I shall pretend I did not hear them. I can see well enough that you have lost confidence in me, monsieur. I know that you must do as honor dictates. Go then to Versailles—for I cannot travel as fast as you, encumbered as I am with an infant and a household, and busy as I am with this project of recovering your papers. State your case to the King. Let him know that I am no noble, but a common wench who deserves no better treatment. He will be startled to learn these things, for he considers me to be a hereditary Countess. I am a dear friend of his sister-in-law and moreover have recently loaned him above a million livres tournois of my own money. But your persuasive powers are renowned—as you demonstrated during your posting in the Hague, where you so effectively reined in the ambitions of that poseur, William of Orange.”
This was truly a knee to the groin, and rendered d’Avaux speechless, not so much from pain as from a curious admixture of shock and awe.
Eliza continued, “You may induce the King to believe anything—particularly given that you have such strong evidence. What was it again? A journal?”
“Yes, mademoiselle—your journal.”