The Confusion

Early in this discourse, the mouth of Madame de Bearsul fell open, as if she might more easily take in these difficult words and notions through her mouth than her ears; and as Eliza went on, similar transformations came over the faces of all her other auditors, including some at adjacent tables; and by the time she reached the terminal phrase pay the troops, they had all begun glancing at each other, trying to build solidarity in their confusion. And so before anyone could give voice to his amazement, Eliza, with unfeigned, uncharacteristic ardor for her role as entertainer to the bored nobility of France, had got to her feet (obliging Etienne, Pontchartrain, and d’Erquy to stand) and begun to arrange a new parlor-game. “We are going to put on a little masque,” she announced, “and all of you must sit, sit, sit!” And she called to a servant to bring quills, ink, and paper.

“But, Eliza, how can gentlemen sit in the presence of a lady who stands?” asked Etienne.

“The answer is simple: In the masque, I am no lady, but a God: Mercury, messenger of Olympus, and patron deity of Commerce. You must phant’sy wings on my ankles.”

The mere mention of ankles caused a little intake of breath from Etienne, and a few eyes flicked nervously his way. But Eliza forged on: “You, Monsieur de Pontchartrain, must sit. You are the Deliverer: the controleur-general of France.”

“That should be an easy role for me to play, Mercury,” said the controleur-general, and, with a little bow to Eliza, sat down.

Now-since the ranking man in the room had done it-all others were eager to join in.

“First we enact the simple Bill of Exchange,” said Eliza, “which requires only four, plus Mercury. Later we will find roles for the rest of you.” For several had gravitated over from different tables to see what the commotion was about. “This table is Lyon.”

“But, Mercury, already I cannot suspend my disbelief, for the controleur-general does not go to Lyon,” said Pontchartrain.

“We will remedy that in a few minutes, but for now you are in Lyon. Sitting across from you will be Etienne, playing the role of Lothar the Banker.”

“Why must I have such a ridiculous name?” demanded Etienne.

“It is an excellent name among bankers-Lothar is Ditta di Borsa in Lyon, Bruges, and many other places.”

“That means he has impeccable credit among other bankers,” said Pontchartrain.

“Very well. As long as the fellow is as well-reputed as you say, I shall accept the role,” said Etienne, and sat down across the table from Pontchartrain.

“You have money,” said Eliza, and used one hand as a rake to sweep a pile of coins across the table so that it ended up piled before Pontchartrain. “And you wish to get it-here!” She strode through the double doors to the Grand Salon where a backgammon game had been abandoned. “Madame de Bearsul, you are a merchant banker in London-this table is London.”

Madame de Bearsul approached London with a show of cringing, blushing, and hand-wringing that made Eliza want to slap her. “But, madame, I know nothing of such occupations!”

“Of course not, for you are so well-bred; but just as Kings may play Vagabonds in masques, you are now a merchant banker named Signore Punchinello. Here, Signore Punchinello, is your strong-box.” Mercury clapped the backgammon-set closed, imprisoning the game pieces, and handed it to de Bearsul, who with much hair-patting and skirt-smoothing took a seat at London. Monsieur le chevalier d’Erquy pulled her chair out for her, for, anticipating Eliza’s next command, he had followed them into the Grand Salon.

“Monsieur, you are Pierre Dubois, a Frenchman in London.”

“Miserable fate! Must I be?” complained d’Erquy, to general amusement.

“You must. But you need not sit down yet, for you have not yet made the acquaintance of Signore Punchinello. Instead, you wander about the city like a lost soul, trying to find a decent loaf of bread. Now! Places, everyone!” and she walked back into the Petit Salon, where the Lyon table had been supplied with quills, ink, and paper.

“Monsieur le controleur-general, give your silver-which is to say, France’s silver-to Lothar the Banker.”

“Monsieur, s’il vous plait,” said Pontchartrain, shoving the pile across the table.

“Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” said Etienne, a bit uncertainly.

“You must give him more than polite words! Write out the amount, and the word ‘Londres,’ and a time, say five minutes in the future.”

Etienne dutifully took up his quill and did as he was told, putting down “half past three,” as the clock in the corner was currently reading twenty-five minutes past. “To the controleur-general give it,” said Eliza. “And now you, controleur-general, write an address on the back, thus: ‘To Monsieur Pierre Dubois, London.’ Meanwhile you, Lothar, must write an avisa addressed to Signore Punchinello in London, containing the same information as is in the Bill.”

“The Bill?”

“The document you have given to the controleur-general is a Bill of Exchange.”