"What is the purpose, my lady? You summoned me, and I reported for duty. I supposed my rôle was to keep my godson amused. But I can see that you disapprove of my methods. In a few years, when Jean-Jacques learns to talk, he will, I'm certain, take my side in the matter, and demand to be flung about; in the meantime, I am dragged along in your wake, purposeless." He gazed curiously out to sea; but the train had turned inland, and the object of his desire was rapidly receding into the white distance. He was hopelessly a-ground.
"You are forever fussing over your ships, Lieutenant Bart, wishing that you had more, or that the ones you have were bigger, or in better repair…"
"All the more reason, my lady, for me to jump off of this unnatural conveyance and return to Dunkerque post-haste!"
"And do what? Build a ship with your own hands, out of snow? What is needed is not Jean Bart in Dunkerque. What is needed is Jean Bart at Versailles."
"What purpose can I serve there, my lady? Pilot a row-boat on the King's reflecting-pool?"
"You want resources. You compete for them against many others. Your most formidable competitor is the Army. Do you know why the Army gets all the resources, Lieutenant Bart?"
"Do they? I am shocked to hear this."
"That is because you never see them; but if you did, you would be outraged at how much money they get, compared to the Navy, and how many of the best people. Let us take Étienne de Lavardac as an example."
"The son of the duc d'Arcachon?"
"Do not affect ignorance, Lieutanant Bart. You know who he is, and that he knocked me up. Can you think of any young nobleman with stronger ties to the Navy? And yet when war broke out, what did he do?"
"I've no idea."
"He organized a cavalry regiment and rode off to war on the Rhine."
"Ungrateful pup! I'll work him over with the flat of my cutlass."
"Yes, and when you are finished you can go to Rome and poke the Pope in the eye with a stick!" suggested the smaller of the Countess's two assistants.
"It is a splendid idea, Nicole—I shall do it for you!" Bart returned.
"Do you know why Étienne made such a choice?" asked the lady, unamused.
"All I know is, someone needs to teach him some more manners."
"That is exactly wrong—someone needs to teach him less. For he is generally agreed to be the politest man in France."
"He must have forgot his manners at least once," said Jean Bart, pressing his face to the grate and peering at little Jean-Jacques, who had his face buried in his mother's left breast.
"Nay, for even when he impregnated me he did so politely," said the mother. "It is because of this sense of honor, of decorum, that he, and all the other young Court men, prefer the Army to the Navy."
"Hmm!"
"At last I have rendered you speechless, Jean Bart, and so I'll take this rare opportunity to explain further. Every man at Court professes his loyalty to the King, indeed does little else but prate about it from sunup to sundown, which pleases the King well enough in times of peace. But in time of war, each and every man must go out and demonstrate his loyalty with deeds. On a battlefield, a Cavalier may attire himself in magnificent armor and ride forth on a brilliant steed to engage the foe in single combat; and what is better, he does so in full view of many others like him, so that those who survive the day can get together in their tent when it is all over and agree on what happened. But on the sea all is different, for our dashing fop is lumped together with all of the other men on the ship, who are mostly common sailors; he lives with them, and cannot move from place to place, or engage a foe, without their assistance. To order a gang of swabbies, ‘charge your cannon and fire it in the general direction of yonder dot on the horizon,' is altogether different from galloping up to a Dutchman on a rampart and swinging your sword-blade at his neck."
"We do not fire at dots on the horizon," huffed Jean Bart, "however, I take your meaning only too well."
"You, because of your recent exploit, are a shining counterexample to this general rule; and if we can get a physician to patch up your arse so that you can sit down at dinner and regale some Court ladies with the story—preferably without resorting to profanity or any other ribald elements—it shall translate directly into more money for the Navy."
"And more Court fops to adorn my decks?"
"That comes unavoidably with money, Jean Bart, it is how the game is played." And then she was banging on the carriage ceiling. "Gaetan! Over there, I see what looks like a new powder-magazine, let's go have a look."
"If my lady wishes to review all of his majesty's new coastal fortifications," said Jean Bart, "it is a thing more easily done from the deck of a ship."
"But then I don't get to interview the local intendants, and learn the gossip behind the fortifications."
"Is that what you were doing?"
"Yes."
"What did you learn?"
"That the chain of interlocking mortar emplacements we viewed this morning was financed by a low-interest loan to His Majesty's Treasury from Monsieur le comte d'Etaples, who melted down a twelfth-century gold punchbowl for it; and at the same time he improved the road from Fruges to Fauquembergues so that it can carry ammunition-carts even during the spring thaw; and in return the King saw to it that an old lawsuit against him was delayed indefinitely, and he got to hold a candle one morning at the King's levée."
"It makes one wonder what fascinations may be connected with yon powder-house! Perhaps some local Sieur cashed in his great-grandpère's ruby-set toenail-clippers to pay for the roof!" exclaimed Jean Bart, to stifled gurgles from Nicole and the large woman inside.
"Next summer, when Baltic timber is stacked to three times your height around the shipyard of Dunkerque, we shall see then if you are still mocking me," said she who was not amused.
"I BEG YOUR PARDON, mademoiselle; but this sound that you are making, ‘yoo-hoo! yoo-hoo,' has never been heard before in his majesty's stables, or anywhere else in France that I know of. To the humans who live here, such as myself and my lord, it is devoid of meaning, and to the horses, it is a cause of acute distress. I beg you to stop, and to speak French, lest you cause a general panic."
"It is a common greeting in Qwghlmian, monsieur."
"Ah!" This brought the man to a hard stop for several moments. The stables of Versailles, in December, were not renowned for illumination; but Eliza could hear the gentleman's satins hissing, and his linens creaking, as he bowed. She made curtseying noises in return. This was answered by a short burst of scratching and rasping as the gentleman adjusted his wig. She cleared her throat. He called for a candle, and got a whole silver candelabra: a chevron of flames, bobbing and banking, like a formation of fireflies, through the ambient miasma of horse-breath, manure-gas, and wig-powder.
"I had the honor of being introduced to you a year ago, along the banks of the Meuse," said the gentleman, "when my lord—"
"I remember with fondness and gratitude your hospitality, Monsieur de Mayet," said Eliza, which jerked another quick bow from him, "and the alacrity with which you conducted me into the presence of Monsieur de Lavardac on that occasion—"
"He will see you immediately, mademoiselle!" announced de Mayet, though not until after they had watched a second candelabra zoom back and forth a few times between the stall where they were standing, and one that lay even deeper in the penetralia of the stables. "This way, please, around the manure-pile."
"TRULY, MONSIEUR, YOU ARE SECOND to none in piety. Even Father Édouard de Gex is a wastrel compared to you. For in this season of Christmas, when all go to Mass and hear homilies about Him who lived His first days in a stable, Étienne de Lavardac d'Arcachon is the only one who is actually living in the same estate, and sleeping on a pile of hay."