The Confusion

The astonishing appearance of Bob Shaftoe—who, along with his regiment of Irish mercenaries, had marched right past, en route to Cherbourg from their winter quarters above Brest—had enlivened her first week's stay at the place. His return visit last week had forced her to put her rusty scheming-and-intriguing skills to use again, there being no proper, sanctioned way for a French Duchess and nursing mother to meet with an English sergeant and probable spy who just happened to be the brother of the most infamous villain in Christendom.

Eliza and Étie

Eliza, then, merely had to get dressed, show up, try not to forget people's names, and make conversation. When she became insufferably bored, she would claim she could hear Lucien bawling, and flit off to the private apartments in the other wing of the château.

And so the only thing the least bit novel about her situation at this moment—viz. seated at a basset-table watching her husband deal out cards to idle nobles—was that the fellow seated directly across the table from her was of titanic importance. At any other of the parties that the Arcachons had hosted in the few weeks just past, it would have been the captain of some Ship of the Line, cringing and servile in the presence of his master, the Grand Admiral of France (for Étie

Basset was simple, which was why Eliza had chosen it. Each player was dealt thirteen cards face up on the table, and placed money on any or all of them. The dealer then dealt cards from the bottom and the top of the deck alternately, gaining or losing wagers on all cards of matching ranks. As turns went on, the wagers escalated by a factor of as much as sixty. The dealer was kept very busy. Étie

"My English friends have been complaining of this lack of coin for years—especially since the onset of war," said Eliza, "but only you, monsieur, would have the penetration to see it as a defensive strategy."

"That is just the difficulty—I did not penetrate it until rather late," said Pontchartrain. "When one is pla

"Because they are Spanish," said Eliza, "and so you can pay them in Pieces of Eight—"

"Which we can get anywhere in the world," said Pontchartrain. "But English pe

"At the Tower of London. I know," said Eliza, "but why do you say supposedly?"

Pontchartrain threw up his hands. "No one ever sees these coins. They come out of the Mint and they vanish."

"But is it not the case that anyone may bring silver bullion to the Tower of London and have it minted into pe

Pontchartrain was nonplussed for a moment. Then a smile spread over his face and he burst out in laughter and slapped the table hard enough to make money jump and buzz atop the playing-cards. It was a rare outburst for one of Pontchartrain's dignity, and it stopped the game for a few moments.

"Monsieur, what an honour and a privilege it is for us to bring you a few moments' diversion from your cares!" exclaimed Étie

"It is precisely of my cares that your magnificent wife is speaking, monsieur," said Pontchartrain, "and I believe she is getting ready to suggest something cheeky."

Étie

"On the contrary, monsieur, 'tis meant to embarrass the English!"

"Oh, well, that is all right then."

"Pray continue, madame!"

"I shall, monsieur," said Eliza, "but first you must indulge me as I speculate."

"Consider yourself indulged."

"The jacht on which you arrived is under conspicuously heavy guard. I speculate that it is laden with specie that is meant to cross the Cha

Pontchartrain smiled weakly and shook his head. "So much for my efforts at secrecy. It is said of some that he or she has a nose for money; but I truly believe, madame, that you can smell silver a mile away."

"Do not be silly, monsieur, it is, as you said, an obvious necessity of a foreign invasion."

For some reason she glanced, for a moment, at D'Erquy, and then regretted it. The poor chevalier was so transfixed that it took all her discipline not to laugh aloud. This poor fellow had melted down the family plate and loaned it to the King in hopes that it would get him invited to a few parties at Versailles. The interest payments had at first been delayed, then insufficient, later nonexistent. The man with the power to make those payments, or not, was seated less than arm's length away—and now it had been revealed that he had sailed into St.-Malo on top of a king's ransom in silver, which was locked up on a jacht a few hundred yards down the hill. A word, a flick of the pen, from Pontchartrain would pay back the loan, or at least pay the interest on it—and not just in the form of a written promise to pay, but in actual metal. This was the only thing D'Erquy could think about. And yet there was not a single word he could say, because to do so would have been impolite. Etiquette had rendered him helpless as effectively as the iron collar around a slave's neck. All he could do was watch and listen.