Eliza could not speak. She scanned the crowd over Rossignol's shoulder for a glimpse of d'Avaux, and, not finding him, forced Rossignol to spin around so that she could see the other half of the room.
"I beg your pardon, but which one of us is leading, my lady?" asked Rossignol. "Who is it you look for? You think of someone who wishes you ill? Do not be too sure of your first assumptions—that is a common error in cryptanalysis."
"Do you know who—?"
"If I did I should tell you at once, if for no other reason than that I should enjoy another sleigh-ride some day. But no, mademoiselle, I cannot guess who it is that the Duchess is so worried about."
"Excuse me, but may I break in?" said a man's voice behind Eliza.
"We are in the middle of something!" Eliza snapped; for men had been pestering her all night. But Rossignol had stopped dancing. He released his grip on Eliza, backed away one step, and bowed deep.
Eliza spun around to see King Louis XIV acknowledging the bow with a warm look. He loved his codebreaker.
"But of course you are, mademoiselle," said the King of France, "when my two most intelligent subjects put their heads together and converse, why, pourquoi non, how could they not be in the middle of something? But your expressions are so grave! It does not befit a Christmas celebration!" He had caught Eliza's hand somehow, and drawn her into the pattern of the dance. Eliza was no more capable of intelligent speech than she had been a minute ago.
"I have much to thank you for," said Louis XIV.
"Oh, no, your majesty, for—"
"Has no one ever told you that to contradict the King is not done?"
"I beg your pardon, your majesty—"
"Monsieur Rossignol has told me that you did a favor for my sister-in-law last autumn," said the King. "Or perhaps it was for the Prince of Orange; this is not clear."
Something now occurred that had only happened to Eliza a few times in her life: She lost consciousness, or close to it. A like thing had happened when she and her mother had been dragged off of the beach in Qwghlm and loaded into the longboat of the Barbary Corsairs. It had happened again, some years later, when she had been taken down to the waterfront of Algiers and traded to the Sultan in Constantinople for a white stallion—taken from her mother without even being given the opportunity to say good-bye. And a third time beneath the Emperor's palace in Vienna, when she'd been queued up with a string of other odalisques to be put to the sword. On none of these occasions had she actually crumpled to the ground. Neither did she now. But she might have, if Louis XIV, who was a big man, graceful and strong, had not kept an arm firmly about her waist.
"Come back to me," he was saying—and not, she guessed, for the first time. "There. You are back. I see it in your face. What is it you fear so much? Have you been threatened by someone? Tell me who has done it, then."
"No one in particular, your majesty. The Prince of Orange—"
"Yes? What did he do?"
"I should not tell you what he did; but he said I must spy for him or he would put me on a ship to Nagasaki, for the amusement of the sailors."
"Ah. You should have told me this immediately."
"That—my failure to be perfectly frank with you—is truly the source of my fear, your majesty, for I am not without guilt."
"I know this. Tell me, mademoiselle. What drives you to make such decisions? What is it you want?"
"To find the man who wronged me, and kill him." In truth, Eliza had not thought about this for so long that the idea sounded strange to her ears, even as it came from her lips; but she said it with conviction, and liked the sound of it.
"Certain things you have done have pleased me immensely. The ‘Fall of Batavia.' The loan of your fortune. Bringing Jean Bart to Versailles. Your recent efforts for the Compagnie du Nord. Others, such as the matter of the spying, displease me—though now I understand better. It is good that we have had this conversation."
Eliza blinked, looked around, and understood that the music had stopped, and everyone was looking at them.
"Thank you, mademoiselle," said the King, and bowed.
Eliza curtseyed.
"Your majesty—" she said, but he was gone, engulfed by the mobile Court, a school of expensively cinched waists and teased wigs.
Eliza went into a corner to get coffee and to think. People were following her—her own little Court of petty nobles and suitors. She did not precisely ignore, because she did not really notice, them.
What had happened? She needed a personal stenographer, so that she could have the transcript read back to her.
She had inadvertently given the King the wrong idea.
"Do you enjoy the soirée, my lady?"
It was Father Édouard de Gex.
"Indeed, Father, though I confess I do miss that little orphan—he stole my heart in the weeks we were together."
"Then you may have a little piece of your heart back any time you wish to visit. Monsieur le comte d'Avaux was at pains to make certain that the infant was comfortably housed. He predicted that you would be a frequent caller."
"I am indebted to the Count."
"We all are," said de Gex. "Little Jean-Jacques is a splendid boy. I look in on him whenever I have a moment. I hope to complete what you have begun, and d'Avaux has carried forward."
"And that is—what precisely?"
"You snatched the lad from death physical—the war—and spiritual—the doctrines of the heretics. D'Avaux saw to it he was placed in the best orphanage in France, under the care of the Society of Jesus. To me, it seems that the natural culmination is that I should raise him up into a Jesuit."
"I see, yes…" said Eliza dreamily, "so that the little Lavardac bastard does not create further complications by breeding."
"I beg your pardon, my lady?"
"Please forgive me, I am not myself!"
"I should hope not!" De Gex was actually blushing. Which wreaked a great change for the better on his face. He was dark, with prominent bones in the cheeks and nose, and had it in him to be handsome; but usually he was very pale from too many hours spent in dark confessionals listening to the secret sins of the court. With some pink in his cheeks he was suddenly almost fetching.
"Please," Eliza said, "I am still flustered by the memory of dancing with the King."
"Of course, my lady. But when you have gathered your wits, and remembered your manners, my cousine would like to renew her acquaintance with you." He leveled his burning gaze at a corner where the duchesse d'Oyonnax was smiling into the eyes of some poor young Viscount who had no idea what he was getting into.
De Gex took his leave.
She had spoken the truth to the King. For on the day she'd been swapped for the albino stallion, and loaded on a galley for Constantinople, she'd made a vow that one day she would find the man who was responsible for her and Mummy being slaves in the first place, and kill him. She had never divulged this to anyone, except Jack Shaftoe; but now, unaccountably, she had blurted it out to the King. She had done so with utmost conviction, for it really was true; and he had seen the look on her face, and believed every word.
"I have much work to do tomorrow, thanks to you, mademoiselle."
It was Pontchartrain, again favoring her with a benign smile.
"How so, monsieur?"
"The King was so moved by the story of Jean Bart's heroism that he has directed me to release funds for the Navy, and for the Compagnie du Nord. I am to attend his levée tomorrow, so that we may sort out the details."
"Then I shall not detain you any later, monsieur."
"Good night, mademoiselle."