The Confusion (56 page)

“Madame la duchesse, who in those days was Mademoiselle la comtesse, said to me, then, that it must have consequences difficult to foretell,” said Pontchartrain.

“Before Monsieur le comte says a word against himself,” said Eliza, “I would have the honor of being the first to rush to his defense. The
favorable
consequences of the recoinage were immense: for it raised a fortune for the war.”

“But Madame la duchesse was a true Cassandra that evening in the sleigh,” said Pontchartrain, “for there have been consequences that I did not foretell, and one of them is that French coins are not likely to be accepted at full value in English market-places.”

“Monsieur, have you given any thought to minting invasion coin?” asked d’Erquy.

“Yes, monsieur, and to using Pieces of Eight. But before we take such measures, I am eager to hear more from our hostess concerning the English Mint.”

“I am simply pointing out to you, monsieur,” said Eliza, “that there already exists a mechanism for importing silver bullion to England, at no risk to France; having it made into good English coin in London; and transferring the coin into the hands of trusted French agents there.”

“What is this mechanism, madame?” inquired d’Erquy, suspicious that Eliza was having them on.

“France’s chief connection to the international money market is not here in St.-Malo, or even in Paris, but rather down in Lyon. The King’s moneylender is of course Monsieur Samuel Bernard, and he works hand-in-glove with a Monsieur Castan. I know Castan; he is a pillar of the
Dépôt
. He can deliver money to any of several merchant banking houses who maintain agencies in Lyon, and get negotiable Bills of Exchange which can be endorsed to French agents who can transport them to London in advance of the invasion. These may be presented well in advance of the expiry of their usance to bankers in London who, upon accepting them, will make whatever arrangements may be necessary to have the coin ready on the date the bills come due—which may mean that they shall have to ship bullion over
from Amsterdam or Antwerp and have it minted at the Tower. But that is their concern, not ours, and their risk. The coin shall be delivered to our agents, who need merely transport it to the front to pay the troops.”

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 Étienne, 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 Étienne.

“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 Étienne, and a few eyes flicked nervously his way. But Eliza forged on: “You, Monsieur de Pontchartrain, must sit. You are the Deliverer: the
contrôleur-général
of France.”

“That should be an easy rôle for me to play, Mercury,” said the
contrôleur-général
, 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 rôles 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
contrôleur-général
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 Étienne, playing the rôle of Lothar the Banker.”

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

“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 rôle,” said Étienne, 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 contrôleur-général
, give your silver—which is to say,
France’s
silver—to Lothar the Banker.”

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

“Merci beaucoup, monsieur,”
said Étienne, 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.”

Étienne 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
contrôleur-général
give it,” said Eliza. “And now you,
contrôleur-général,
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
contrôleur-général
is a Bill of Exchange.”

Pontchartrain had finished addressing the Bill, and so Mercury snatched it out of his hand and pranced out of the room and gave it to “Pierre Dubois,” who had been watching, bemused, from the doorway. Then she returned to “Lothar,” who was writing out the
avisa
with a good deal more formality than was called for. Mercury jerked it out from under the quill.

“Good heavens, I haven’t even finished the Apology yet.”

“You must learn better to inhabit the rôle of Lothar. He would not be so discursive,” said Mercury, and wafted the
avisa
out of the room to “Signore Punchinello.” “In truth, there would be two or even three copies of the Bill and the
avisa
both, sent by separate couriers,” said Mercury, “but to prevent the masque from becoming tedious we shall only use one. Signore Punchinello! You said earlier you did not know how to play your rôle; but I tell you now that you need only know how to read, and be capable of recognizing Lothar’s handwriting. Do you? (The correct answer is ‘Yes, Mercury.’)”

“Yes, Mercury.”

“Monsieur Dubois, I think you can guess what to do.”

Indeed, “Pierre Dubois” now helped himself to a seat at the London table across from “Signore Punchinello,” and presented the bill.

“Now, signore,” said Eliza to Madame de Bearsul, “you must compare what is written on Monsieur Dubois’s Bill to what is in the
avisa.
”

“They are the same,” answered “Punchinello.”

“Do they appear to have been written in the same hand?”

“Indeed, Mercury, the hands are indistinguishable.”

“What time is it?”

“By yonder clock, twenty-eight minutes past the hour of three.”

“Then take up yonder quill and write ‘accepted’ across the face of the Bill, and sign your name to it.”

Madame de Bearsul did so, and then, getting into the spirit of the thing, opened up her backgammon-set and began to count out pieces.

“Not yet!” said Mercury. “That is, it’s fine for you to count them out, and make sure you have enough. But good banker that you are, you’ll not give them to Monsieur Dubois until the Bill has come due.”

But they only had to wait for a few more seconds before the clock
bonged twice, signifying half past three; then the backgammon pieces were pushed across the table into the waiting hands of “Pierre Dubois.”

“Voilà!”
announced Mercury to the audience, which by this point numbered above twenty party-guests. “The first act of our masque draws to a happy ending. Monsieur
le contrôleur-général
has transferred silver from Lyon to London at no risk, and even converted it to English silver pennies along the way, with practically no effort! All by invoking the supernatural powers of Mercury.” And Eliza took a little curtsey, and basked for a few moments in the applause of her guests.

ENTR’ACTE

“I am the
contrôleur-général
of France, madame; I know what a Bill of Exchange is.” This from Pontchartrain, who had maneuvered her into a niche and was muttering out the side of his mouth with uncharacteristic harshness.

“And I know your title and your powers, monsieur,” said Eliza.

“Then if you have more to say concerning the Mint, I would fain hear it—”

“In good time, monsieur!”

Madame de Bearsul was pitching a minor scene at “London.” Petulance was something she did well. “I have given up my coins to Monsieur Dubois—in exchange for
what
!?”

“Bills written in the hand of a banker who is
Ditta di Borsa
—as good as money.”

“But
they are not money
!”

“But Signore Punchinello, you may turn them into money, or other things of value, by taking them to an office of Lothar’s concern.”

“But he is in Lyon, and I am stuck in London!”

“Actually he is in Leipzig—but never mind, for he maintains an office in London. After the Usurper took the throne, any number of bankers from Amsterdam crossed the sea and established themselves there—”

“Wait! First Lothar was in Lyon—then Leipzig—then Amsterdam—now London?”

“It is all one thing, for Mercury touches all of these places on his rounds.” And Eliza thrust an arm into a boozy-smelling phalanx of young men and dragged forth a young Lavardac cousin and bade him sit down near the backgammon table. “This is Lothar’s factor in London.” She grabbed a second young man who had been snickering at the fate of the first, and stationed him in the short gallery that joined the two salons, calling this Amsterdam.

“I must register an objection! (Pardon me for speaking directly,
but I am trying to inhabit the rôle of an uncouth Saxon banker),” said Eliza’s husband.

“And you are doing splendidly, my love,” said Eliza. “What is your objection?”

“Unless these chaps of mine in Amsterdam and London are titled nobility, which I’m led to believe is generally
not
the case—”

“Indeed not, Étienne.”

“Well, if they are not of independent means, it would seem to suggest that—” and here Étienne colored slightly again, “forgive me, but must I—” and he balked until both Eliza and Pontchartrain had made encouraging faces at him, “well,
pay
them—” he half-swallowed the dreadful word—“I don’t know, so that they could—
buy
—food and whatnot, presuming that’s how they get it? For I don’t phant’sy they would have their own farms, living as they do in cities.”

“You must pay them!” Eliza said loud and clear.

Étienne winced. “Well, it hardly seems worth all the
bother
for me to be taking in silver here, and sending Bills to one place, and
avisas
to another, all so that I can end up handing the silver over to Signore Punchinello in the end.” He scanned nearby faces uncertainly, taking a sort of poll—but everyone was nodding profoundly, as if the duc d’Arcachon had made a telling point. All of those faces now turned towards Eliza.

“You get to keep some of the money,” Eliza said.

Everyone gasped as if she had jerked the veil from a statue of solid gold.

“Oh, well, that puts it in a whole new light!” exclaimed Étienne.

“The amount collected by Pierre Dubois in London was not quite as large as what I gave to you,” said Pontchartrain. He then turned to look at Eliza. “But, madame, I live in Paris.”

Eliza went into the opposite corner of the
Petit Salon
and patted a gilded harpsichord. Pontchartrain excused himself from Lyon and sat before it. Then, to amuse himself and to provide incidental music for the second act of the masque, he began to pick out an air by Rameau.