The Confusion

“Ah, madame, but I said nothing of that noble man. It is not he who matters in this case-for, last I heard, Monsieur le comte de Pontchartrain was not the King of France.”

“Then you are being even more impertinent!”

“Not at all. For the King is the King, and it is his prerogative to spend his money twice, or even three times, if that is his pleasure, and neither I nor any other Frenchman will say a word against him! It might, however, make a difference to the Depot.”

“Suppose the Depot was asked to adapt to these trying new circumstances, and it was found wanting, and in consequence, France had to get a modern banking system? Would that not be better for France, and for you, monsieur?”

“For me, perhaps-as well as for you. For France, there might be grave disruptions.”

“That is beyond my scope. I am like a housewife shopping for turnips in the market. If I go to my old traditional turnip-sellers and they ask too high a price for turnips of poor quality, and not enough of them, why, I shall go and buy my turnips elsewhere.”

“Very well,” said Bernard, “I depart for Lyon this afternoon to meet with Monsieur Castan. I might relay your challenge to the Depot and we might see if they have got enough turnips for you.”

“Monsieur, what is this word might doing in the sentence? You do not strike me as a flirtatious man, in general.”

“You have a house in St.-Malo, madame.”

“Indeed, monsieur.”

“It is said you are quite fond of the place-more so than La Dunette.” Bernard glanced in that general direction, for La Dunette was only a couple of musket-shots up the hill from the Rue de l’Orangerie. But all he could see in that quarter was another gaudy painting of wild Turks in action.

“You would like it, too, for St.-Malo is a place where Commerce rules.”

“I understand. For that is where the ships of the Compagnie des Indes call, or have I been misinformed?”

“Many ships call there; but if India is a particular interest of yours, monsieur, then that is what we shall speak of.”

“How can it not be of interest to us, madame? Have you any notion of the profits made in that part of the world by the V.O.C. and the British East India Company?”

“Of course, monsieur. They are proverbial. As is the perpetual failure and reincarnation of the Compagnie des Indes. You need only ask Monsieur le marquis d’Ozoir-”

“The history is all too well known. I am more concerned with the future.”

“Then truly you are a shameless flirt, Monsieur Bernard, for I can scarcely contain my curiosity any longer-what are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nonsense!”

“It is quite true. All I know is that I look at the Compagnie des Indes and see-nothing! Nothing is happening. Something should be happening. It is curious.”

“You have scented an opportunity.”

“As have you, madame.”

“Oh-you refer to the silver in London?”

“Now you flirt with me. Madame, it is within my power to make this happen. I may have been re-baptized as a Catholic, but this has not prevented my maintaining any number of contacts with Huguenots who elected to leave. They have gone to places like London and prospered. You know this perfectly well, for you have filled the void that was created in the Compagnie du Nord by their departure. You buy timber from them in Sweden and Rostock all the time. So yes. I can see to it that your silver is transferred, and I shall. But it shall not be profitable. It shall not be especially convenient. Monsieur Castan’s credit with the Depot shall be over-extended for a time. I shall have to twist his arm. And I hate dealing with Lothar.”

“Very well. What could I do, monsieur, to show my gratitude for your undertaking so many travails?”

“You could direct your intelligence upon the strange case of the Compagnie des Indes in faraway St.-Malo. You, I take it, have no interest in this?”

“None whatsover, monsieur; the Compagnie du Nord is my sole concern.”

“That is well. You will supply me with your thoughts and observations, then, concerning the other?”

“It will be a joy to converse with you on the topic, monsieur.”

“Very well.” Bernard got to his feet. “I am off to Lyon, then. Au revoir.”

“Bon voyage.”

And Samuel Bernard exited the Cafe Esphahan as abruptly as he had come in.

His gilded chair was still warm when Bonaventure Rossignol sat down in it.

“I have seen Kings travel with a smaller guard,” Eliza remarked; for both she and Rossignol devoted some time now to enjoying the spectacle of the departure of Bernard’s carriage, his train of lesser vehicles, his out-riders, spare horses, grooms, et cetera from the Rue de l’Orangerie.

“Many Kings have less to fear,” Rossignol remarked.

“Oh? I did not know Monsieur Bernard had so many enemies.”

“It is not that he has enemies as a King does,” Rossignol corrected her, “which is to say, identifiable souls who wish him ill, and are willing and able to act on those wishes. Rather, it is that from time to time a sort of frenzy will come over certain Frenchmen, which only abates when a financier or two has been hanged from a tree-limb or set on fire.”