The Confusion

Eliza was seated across from the duchesse d’Oyonnax and tried to avoid meeting her eye. She was a big woman, but not fat, though middle-aged. She wore a lot of jewels, which was risqué in these times (she really ought to pawn them for the War, or, barring that, hide them), but she carried it off well; in this her size helped. Eliza was irked by this woman: by her physical presence, her wealth, what she had done, but most of all by her confidence. Other women, she knew, disliked Eliza because they envied her confidence, and so Eliza was startled to observe a similar reaction in herself to Madame la duchesse d’Oyonnax.

 

“How is your little orphan?” the Duchess asked Eliza, at one point. To bring this up was either na?ve, or rude, and it caused a few heads to twitch their way—like housecats alert to faint fidgeting.

 

“Oh, I do not think of him as mine any more, but God’s,” Eliza returned, “and anyway he is not so little now: a year old—or so we think, as there is no way to be sure precisely when he was born—and walking around already. Creating no end of trouble for the nurses.”

 

This elicited a few chuckles from those who had small children. It was a well-crafted reply on Eliza’s part, calculated to place defenses athwart all possible axes of attack from Oyonnax; but the Duchess responded only with an unreadable gaze, seeming almost nonplussed, and dropped the topic.

 

A young officer—Eliza recognized him as one Pierre de Jonzac, an aide to the Duke—sidestepped into the room carrying a dispatch. The Duke accepted it gratefully, for he was bored. People around him had poked fun at him for not eating any of his food; but the Duke had silenced them with the information that he was on a special diet, “for my digestion,” and had eaten previously by himself. He opened the dispatch, glanced at it, slapped the table, and shook for a few moments with suppressed laughter; but all the while he was shaking his head back and forth, as if to deny that there was anything funny.

 

“What is it?” asked Madame la duchesse d’Arcachon.

 

“The report was false,” he said. “The Franciscans will have to douse their bonfire. William of Orange is not dead.”

 

“But we had reliable news that he was struck from the saddle by a cannonball,” said the Earl of Upnor—who, being a man of some importance in James Stuart’s army, got all the latest intelligence.

 

“And so he was. But he is not dead.”

 

“How is that possible?” And the table went into an uproar over it, which did not die down for twenty minutes. Eliza found herself thinking of Bob Shaftoe, who must be there at this battle on the Boyne, if he had not died of disease over the winter. Then she happened to glance up, and once again saw the green eyes of the Duchess of Oyonnax gazing at her interestedly.

 

 

 

“NOW, AS TO THE TRANSACTION,” said the Duke, once he had got his pipe lit. The fragrance of the smoke was welcome, for the dead-animal smell Eliza had noticed out at the gazebo seemed to have followed them into the drawing-room. She was of a mind to go and throw the doors open, to admit some rose-scented air from the gardens; but that would have defeated the purpose of a private meeting in this place.

 

“It’s going to involve moving a lot of silver. I want you to go to Lyon and make the arrangements.”

 

“Will the silver actually be passing through Lyon, then, or—”

 

“Oh yes. You shall see it. This is not just a Dép?t sort of manipulation.”

 

“Then why Lyon? It is not the best place.”

 

“I know. But you see, it will come off of my jacht at Marseille. From there, Lyon is easy to reach—right up the Rh?ne, of course.”

 

“It makes sense, then. It is safer than any alternative. Tell me, is it coined?”

 

“No, mademoiselle.”

 

“Oh. I had assumed it would be pieces of eight.”

 

“No. It is pigs. Good metal, mind you, but not coined.”

 

“It makes more sense to me as we go along. You do not wish to be moving uncoined silver around, any more than you must. You want instead a Bill of Exchange, payable in Paris.”

 

“Yes, that is it precisely.”

 

“Very well. There are several houses in Lyon that can do this.”

 

“Indeed. And normally I would not care which one of them handled it. But in this case, I specifically want you not to use the House of Hacklheber. I have reason to believe that the old ogre, Lothar, will be most unhappy with me after the transaction goes through.” And the Duke laughed.

 

“I see. May I guess, from this hint, that it has something to do with piracy?”

 

Plainly the Duke thought this a stupid question. But he was polished, and handled it in good form. “That is the word that Lothar will attach to it, no doubt, in order to justify any…retaliations he may contemplate. But the method is normal, in a war. I am sure you will see nothing unusual in it, mademoiselle, given that you are such a friend of Jean Bart, and that along with the Marquis d’Ozoir you are a direct supporter of his exploits?” He laughed again, with gusto; and she felt his breath on her face, and with some trepidation drew it into her nostrils, and smelled death. It reminded her of something in addition to death, however.

 

“You look peaked, mademoiselle. Are you all right?”

 

“The air is stuffy.”

 

“We shall go outside, then! I have nothing further to say, other than that you should plan to be in Lyon no later than the end of August.”

 

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