The Confusion

“Yes,” she said, “she came along in 1685, did she not? Which is when this remodel got under way…and the subject matter of the painting is so markedly Maintenon-esque.”

“Correlation is not causation,” de Gex said. “They had to remodel, because of a disastrous Incident that took place in that year.”

And then De Gex seemed to remember that they were in a hurry, and once again began striding toward the library. Eliza stomped along beside, and a little behind him.

“You do know what happened here-?” he continued, and glanced back at her.

“Something grievously embarrassing-so embarrassing that no one will tell me what it was.”

“Ah. To the library, then.” They departed the ballroom and entered a gallery.

“What was that you said earlier, about being asked to perform a marriage on short notice?”

“I received a note to that effect. I suspect it was from your beau. Never mind; obviously he was deluding himself.”

“It is a bit sad,” said Eliza, remembering the chairs carefully arranged in the little chapel, never to be sat on, and the precious flowers, never to be seen or smelled before they were hauled out to a midden. “Perhaps he had in mind a sort of elopement-but being so polite, wished to arrange it so that it would enjoy the sanctions of Family and Church.”

“That is between you and him,” said de Gex a bit coldly, and hauled upon the library door for Eliza. “If you please, mademoiselle.”

“I PHANT’SIED YOU MIGHT FIND this interesting in more than one way,” said Bonaventure Rossignol. He sat with his back to the arched window of the library, which, though dark, afforded a view over the torch-lit courtyard of the Hotel Arcachon. Eliza was shocked to observe occasional snowflakes spiraling down-so intemperate and remorseless was this winter, they might as well be living in Stockholm.

Before Rossignol was a broad table on which he had spread out a panoply of letters, books, and notes. Many bore the Armenian script.

“I mentioned to you before that the Cabinet Noir had intercepted a remarkable letter, posted during the first week of August from Sanlucar de Barrameda, and addressed to the family Esphahnian, who were said to be dwelling in the Bastille.”

“You had not mentioned the family name to me,” said Eliza, “but it scarcely matters, and it is almost certainly an assumed name anyway-”

“Why do you say that?” said de Gex.

“Esphahnian simply means ‘of Esphahan,’ which is a city where a vast number of Armenians dwell,” Eliza explained. “It is as if you went to live among the Turks and they called you ‘Edouard the Frank.’ ”

Rossignol nodded. “I agree it is probably not the true name of this family, but it is the name we shall use, lacking any other. At any rate, I inquired after them, and learned that some Armenians had indeed been put in the Bastille in 1685 and kept there for a year or so: a mother and a large brood of sons. One of them died there. The matriarch was released soonest, then the brothers. Some went to debtors’ prisons.

“It took me some time to track them all down, for more have died in the meantime, and it was difficult to establish who is the eldest of the brothers. I found him-Artan Esphahnian-in a wretched entresol not far from here, and caused the letter from Sanlucar to be delivered to him.

“A few days later, Artan mailed a letter addressed to one Vrej Esphahnian in Cairo. I had an exact copy of it made, then sent it on its way. At the time, I held no particular opinion as to who this Vrej fellow might be-like you, mademoiselle, I suspected that the name Esphahnian was a meaningless ruse, or perhaps even a vector of hidden information, which, if true, might mean that Vrej was not even related to Artan.

“Nothing further happened until yesterday, when a letter came in addressed to Artan, posted from Rosetta, at the mouth of the Nile-and written in the same hand as the one from Sanlucar de Barrameda. Now this was remarkable, for I had translated the Sanlucar letter into French, and it had said nothing about Egypt. It was full of family chitchat. The fellow who wrote it-who I now believe to be Vrej Esphahnian-had been out of contact with Artan for a long time. He had said nothing whatever about what he was doing in Sanlucar or whither he might be going next. And yet Artan, upon receiving this document, had known, somehow, that he must post his reply to Vrej in Cairo. Not long afterwards, this Vrej had appeared at Rosetta-which is en route to Cairo-long enough to despatch yet another letter filled with banal chitchat.”

“And so it is obvious to you that encrypted messages are contained in these letters,” Eliza continued; for she had spent enough time listening to the discourse of Natural Philosophers to recognize when one of them was developing a hypothesis. “This I understand well enough, and I compliment you on your prowess. But why do you deem it so important to tell me about it?”