The Confusion

“He was trying to warn me about such things,” Eliza said, “but his squadron of mercenaries conveys it much more effectively than words.”

“It is curious,” said Rossignol, turning his attention to Eliza. “I know that you are married to a Duke, and share his bed, and bear his children. Yet this causes me not the least bit of jealousy! But when I see you talking to this Samuel Bernard-”

“Put it out of your head,” Eliza said. “You have no idea.”

“What does this mean, I have no idea? I may be a mathematician, but yet I know what passes between a man and a woman.”

“Indeed; but you are not a commercant, and you haven’t the faintest idea what passes between the likes of me and Bernard. Don’t worry. If you were a commercant, I shouldn’t be attracted to you-just as I’m not attracted to Bernard.”

“But it looked for all the world as if you were flirting.”

“As indeed we were-but the intercourse to which this flirting will lead is not sexual.”

“I am perfectly confused now-you are playing with me.”

“Come now, Bon-bon! Let us review matters. Out of all the men in Germany, which did I choose for a friend?”

“Leibniz.”

“And what is he?”

“A mathematician.”

“Holland?”

“Huygens…a mathematician.”

“England?”

“Daniel Waterhouse. A Natural Philosopher.”

“France?”

“…”

“Come now! When I came to Versailles for the first time, and got invited to Court soirees, and was pursued by any number of randy Dukes, to whom did I give my affections?”

“You gave them to…a mathematician.”

“What was that mathematician’s name?” asked Eliza, cupping a hand to her ear.

“It was Bonaventure Rossignol,” said Bonaventure Rossignol, and flicked his black eyes to and fro to see if anyone was listening.

“Now, when I got myself into a big mess of trouble outside of St. Diziers, who was the first to learn of it?”

“That fellow who was reading everyone’s mail. Bonaventure Rossignol.”

“And who came galloping to my rescue across half of France, and journeyed north with me to Nijmegen, and put me on a boat?”

“Bon-”

“Stop. The name is beautiful and distinguished. But I prefer to call him Bon-bon.”

“Very well, then, it was Bon-bon.”

“Who made love to me along the banks of the Meuse?”

“Etienne de Lavardac.”

“Who else?”

“Bon-bon.”

“And who helped me concoct a plan to get out of my terrible mess of trouble?”

“Bon-bon.”

“Who helped me cover my traces, and forged documents, and lied to the King and to d’Avaux?”

“Bon-bon.”

“And who is the father of my first-born?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Only because you avoided looking at him, when you had the opportunity. But I tell you Jean-Jacques looks very much like Bon-bon-there is no trace in him of the tainted blood of the Lavardacs. You are the father, Bon-bon.”

“What is your point?”

“Only that it is absurd for you to be jealous of this Samuel Bernard. Whatever may pass between him and me in the way of business is nothing compared to the adventure that you and I had, and the son that we share.”

The attention of “Bon-bon” had strayed to a painting of a fabulous, many-domed mosque that adorned a wall behind Eliza. “You remind me of things I would forget. I could have done a better job.”

“Nonsense!”

“I could have exonerated you entirely from charges of spying.”

“In retrospect, perhaps. But I do believe it worked out for the best.”

“What…you married to a man you do not love, and Jean-Jacques held captive by a demented Saxon banker?”

“But that is not the end of the story, Bon-bon. We have met here today to further the story along.”

“Yes. And it is an interesting choice of venue,” Rossignol said, leaning far over the table and lowering his voice so much that Eliza nearly had to touch her forehead against his in order to hear him. “I have read every scrap of these people’s mail for two years, you know, but never seen their faces, and certainly never sipped their coffee.”

“Do you fancy it?”

“It is a cut above the usual swill, to be sure,” said Rossignol, “but on its merits as a beverage, it would never be so chic if you and Madame la duchesse d’Oyonnax were not forever singing its praises.”

“You see? There is nothing I would not do in the service of cryptology,” said Eliza with a smile, and spread out her hands, inviting Rossignol to take in the magnificence of the Cafe Esphahan. “Have you learned anything recently?”

“This is not the place or the time to speak of it! But no,” said Rossignol. “I have been much more preoccupied with reading your mail.”

“Does it make for interesting reading?”

“A bit too interesting. To Lothar you say, ‘The invasion of England will surely be called off,’ while to some financier in Lyon you are saying, ‘The invasion will happen soon and we must pay the troops!’ ”

“You don’t know the half of it.”