The Confusion

“Shall I see you there?”

 

 

“It is not known. There is another aspect of this transaction, which has nothing to do with money, and everything to do with the honor of my family. It is a matter of personal revenge, which need not concern you. I must tend to it myself, of course—that’s the whole point! No telling where or when exactly. Nevertheless, you may count on my being back in Paris, at the H?tel Arcachon, for my birthday party on the fourteenth of October. It shall be splendid. I am already making the plans. The King will be there, mademoiselle. You and I shall see each other then and there, and if étienne has done the honorable thing, why, then I shall expect a blessed announcement!”

 

He turned and offered his arm to Eliza, who took it, trying not to recoil from the smell of him. “I am certain it shall all come to pass just as you say, monsieur,” she said. “But as I go outside with you, I should like to change the subject, if I may, to horses.”

 

“Horses! It is a welcome change of subject! I am a great fancier of them.”

 

“I know, for the evidence has been all around me ever since I came here seven months ago. I noticed quite early that you have some albinos in your stable.”

 

“Indeed!”

 

“Seeing this, I phant’sied that such horses must be very popular among the Quality here, and that, in consequence, I could expect to see many more of them, in the stables of the King and of the many other nobles who live in these parts. But this has not been the case.”

 

“I should hope not! For the entire point of having them is that they are rare. They are distinctive. They are of Turkish stock.”

 

“May I ask who you bought them from? Is there some breeder hereabouts who has connections in the Levant?”

 

“Yes, mademoiselle,” said the Duke, “and he has the honor of being on your arm at this moment. For it is I who imported the Pasha to France some years ago, from Constantinople, via Algiers, in an unfathomably complex exchange of assets—”

 

“The Pasha?”

 

“A stud, mademoiselle, an albino stallion, the father of all the others!”

 

“He must have been magnificent.”

 

“Is magnificent, for he still lives!”

 

“Really?”

 

“He is old, and does not venture out of the stables so often, but on a warm evening such as this, you may go down to the paddock and see him stretching his stiff old legs.”

 

“When did you import the Pasha?”

 

“When? Let me see, it would have been ten years ago.”

 

“Are you certain?”

 

“No, no, what am I saying!? Time passes so quickly, I quite lose track. It would have been eleven years ago this summer.”

 

“Thank you for satisfying my curiosity, and escorting me out to your beautiful garden, monsieur,” said Eliza, bending to one side to bury her nose in a rose—and to hide her reaction from the Duke. “I shall go for a stroll now, by myself, to clear my head. Perhaps I shall go down and pay my respects to the Pasha.”

 

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