Newton's Cannon (26 page)

He followed along, the humming of his blood in his ears obliterating the sound of footsteps coming behind.

Adrienne critically regarded the three gentlemen facing her. On her left stood one as straight and tall as an Italian cedar, somewhat slender, one hand rakishly on the hilt of his smallsword, the other straightening his bronze-embroidered waistcoat. Beneath a beaver tricorn and periwig, a black mask with a hooked nose covered all but his sardonic smile.

The gentleman on the right was almost as tall as the first, though his shoulders were broader. He seemed ill at ease in his vermilion coat and chocolate waistcoat. His mask was small, with a buffoonish round nose picked in silver scale.

But the fellow between them commanded most of Adri-enne's attention. A head shorter than the other two, he wore an old-fashioned felt hat with an enormous ostrich plume, brim cocked at the side like a musketeer's of the last century. A gold waistcoat overlapped indigo knee breeches, and his greatcoat was a deep brown faced with blue and gold. His little mustache and beard looked, to her, ridiculous beneath the huge-nosed scarlet mask he had affected.

“This will never work,” she groaned at the mirror. “I will never pass for a man.”

“Nonsense,” said the first gentleman—who was, of course, Mademoiselle Crecy. “You look the true image of a chevalier.”

Nicolas nodded his head.

“Besides,” Crecy went on, “it does not matter if from your voice and mannerisms someone guesses you are a woman. It is not so important that we disguise
what
you are as
who
you are. And I assure you, you do not resemble Adrienne de Mornay de Montchevreuil in the slightest.”

“There is truth in that.” Nicolas sighed. “But if we are found out, if the king should discover my part in this—”

“How ungallant,” Crecy interrupted. “Since when do the Hundred Swiss care for personal safety?”

Adrienne could see Nicolas blushing furiously below his mask, and found herself confused. She wanted Nicolas to push his point—that this masquerade was bound to end in disaster for them. But now that Crecy mentioned it, it
did
seem ungallant for her guardian to balk at accompanying her.

“How much worse for you if we had eluded you rather than asking you to accompany us,” Adrienne said, and understood that, almost without meaning to, she had now committed herself to Crecy's plan. Yes, the devil with it. If this silly costume could help her get the secret of Fatio's experiments, it was worth the risk.

“I hope no one challenges me to a duel,” Adrienne remarked, patting the hilt of her mostly ornamental sword. “I have not the faintest idea how to use this.”

“Nor do most who wear them,” Crecy replied.

Nicolas sighed heavily. “I know who shall do the dueling when it comes to it.”

Adrienne felt a brief flare of anger. Maintenon was right; men promised much but little could be expected of them. After all, had Nicolas not sworn to her that no man would ever touch her again if she did not desire it? And yet
one
man did. Should it matter that it was the king? Of course she had never actually
told
Nicolas that she did not desire the king's embrace …

But he should know.

“Well,” Crecy said, “shall we go? Our carriage awaits us.”

“Where did you tell the king we were going?” Adrienne asked.

“I did not, of course, speak to the king,” Crecy told her, “but his valet gave him to understand that you were not feeling well. The word is that you are visiting Montchevreuil for a breath of country air. And so you shall.” She winked.

Adrienne plucked thoughtfully at her glued-on beard. They had ridden from Versailles as if heading out into the country,
stopping covertly here at Triannon to don their garb. Were there any flaws in their story? Probably, but it was not important.

Adrienne wondered if she would enjoy being a man for a night. To her surprise she realized that despite her misgivings she felt a certain excitement, a kind of devilish joy. She recalled how Ninon de Lenclos had once dressed as an officer, complete to guns and sword, to pursue on horseback her lover of the month. She was playing such a scene, something that would have provoked disdain from Maintenon but that made her feel—for the first time in months—young, hopeful. Alive.

After months in the country, the trip to the palace through Paris was something of a shock. Versailles, Marly, Triannon, Fountainbleu—the palaces the king frequented were all reflections of Louis' fancy and fantasy.

Paris was real—and frightening. The sullen faces were more hostile than ever. One person even threw a rock at their carriage. When they at last reached the Palais Royal, it loomed over them, an ancient and potent mistress who would not be neglected forever. Louis believed that the heart of France was where
he
was; the Palais Royal quietly pronounced that a lie.

Inside, Paris and its ragged masses were again forgotten. Glowing ephemeral things bobbed in the air, luminescent dandelion puffs dancing to a brittle elfin music. Water jetting from the mouth of a triton fountain became ice and shattered back into its basin as squealing courtiers plunged their hands into the shards. Where Louis used science to re-create the grandeur of his past, the duke of Orléans delighted in the toys it could produce. Adrienne found herself intrigued and saddened by this waste of scientific effort and talent.

Crecy presented their invitation. The three of them moved onto the floor, where dancing had already begun. Hundreds of people danced, overlooked the dancing from the gallery above, or stood milling about. Glimpses of side chambers showed courtiers at cards or billiards. All wore fantastic masks, many in the Venetian carnival style, many more outrageous.

“And now?” she asked Crecy as they made their way through the crowd, beginning to relax. Though she had identified several
men she knew to be of the king's secret police, her worries about being noticed in such an immense crowd were fast fading. Indeed, they would be lucky to find Fatio in such a swarm.

“Now, enjoy yourself,” Crecy remarked. “Let me do the work.”

“Enjoy myself?” Adrienne protested, but at precisely that moment an arm slipped through her own.

“Dance with me, Monsieur,” a delighted voice lisped into her ear. The music had just changed to a minuet, and Adrienne found herself staring into a delicate black mask that made no real effort to hide the duchess of Orléans.

“No!”
Adrienne said, trying to pull away.

“My dear, don't cause a commotion! Dance with me!”

“Someone will notice. The police!”

“They will only notice if you do
not
dance,” the duchess insisted.

In a moment she was in the line, and the duchess was smiling across the floor at her as the first couple began the stately minuet.

“My God, I can't believe it,” Adrienne gasped, stumbling into the courtyard with the duchess. Adrienne realized she was more than slightly intoxicated. She had never drunk brandy before. How could she have known it would be so much stronger than wine? She finished what was in her cup as the duchess poured her a bit more.

“Such a wonderful partner, sir,” the duchess complimented, curtseying. “You should dance more often.”

“Indeed,” Adrienne said. After that first dance with the duchess she realized that people really
did
believe her to be a man. She realized further that she was not the only person clothed contrary to her sex; more than one man was dressed as a woman. Adrienne knew that the transvestites had been cast out of Versailles nearly twenty years before, but it had never occurred to her to wonder where they had gone.

Apparently the court of the duke of Orléans was one place, which was fitting since the duke's father, Louis' brother, had been the beloved lord of such men.

“What are you thinking, dear?” the duchess asked, leaning against one of the white pillars that supported the inner eaves of the palace. “Your face grew long. And you seemed to be enjoying yourself a moment ago.”

“I was. It's only … This thing the Korai have asked of me— to be the king's mistress and marry him—it is a very hard thing.”

“Marriage is often hard.”

“I know. But the king is …” She frowned. “I'm drunk.”

“Not drunk enough, I think,” the duchess remarked, pouring her another finger of brandy.

“No, I can't.”

“No, you
must
,” the duchess insisted. “For your own good.”

Adrienne took the newly filled glass, stared at it, and then took another sip. “He is
old
,” she said at last. “And mad.”

The duchess took her hand and squeezed it. “Never say that, dear,” she chided, gently.

“You have not been with him. You have not
lain
with him. He believes himself to be young!”

“Poor dear,” the duchess sighed. Then she brightened, and Adrienne now recognized the future of her own smile—as false as the masks they both wore. “You must learn what all of us at court learned, Adrienne—to gather your pleasures while you can. You must dance, and you must take lovers, and you must be happy when you are able, or you will wither.”

“Those aren't the things that make me happy,” Adrienne said.

“Of course they are, dear. Look at how much fun you have had tonight. And how
many
things you have not tried. A lover for instance.”

“I couldn't,” Adrienne said. “I won't. And what would be the use? What point of lying with
another
man?”

“My dear,” the duchess said, “you must not think that all men are the
same
in that respect. There are some with whom you might enjoy it quite a lot. That handsome young guard, for instance.”

“No, I don't think so,” Adrienne replied, though she had a sudden image of Nicolas and knew that she lied. “Thank you for your concern, but I cannot listen to you in this matter.”

“Dear, you are
young
. You have a body with every part of it at its height. Do not waste that, for you will not be young for very long, I assure you. Not in Versailles, you won't be.” She put her arm around Adrienne's shoulder. “See what you are doing right now, worrying about things you can't help? You are wasting the pleasure you could be having now by contemplating miseries yet unborn. You are an intelligent woman, Mademoiselle, when it comes to the science, but in this you are a stupid girl. Come, drink your brandy. We have a card game to attend.”

By the time they reached the card game, Adrienne was having trouble standing steadily.

She frowned. She had missed something. She was being introduced to someone.

In a sharp wave of clarity she realized that it was
Fatio
she was being introduced to. The mathematician wore a small mask across his eyes only—his own nose was more impressive than any carved impostor.

“It is no matter, sir,” Fatio said, bowing from his seat, apparently responding to her failure to acknowledge him. Was she
that
obviously drunk? “I am also in my cups tonight,” he went on. “It is good to meet the baron.”

Baron? Oh yes, she was supposed to be an Austrian, was she not, with little command of French? Baron von Klimmer, or some such nonsense.

“And I, you,” she said. Crecy was there, she saw, as well as several men and women she did not know. Crecy was carrying out the introductions as well as dealing the cards. Adrienne was sure she gasped aloud. Crecy had unbuttoned her waistcoat and shirt, leaving no doubt whatever that she was
not
a man. Fatio's face was flushed, and Adrienne suddenly realized that Crecy's hand was beneath the table.

“Please take a seat, sir,” Fatio said magnanimously. “Play a hand of
reversi
.”

Adrienne sat, stupefied in more ways than one.

“Monsieur de Duillier is a famous mathematician,” Crecy remarked, addressing the duchess. Adrienne blinked, for Crecy
pitched her voice low like a man, and recognition struck her like lightning.

Crecy! It had been
Crecy
at the canal,
Crecy
who was her kidnapper, not a man at all.

The room spun. And she must pay attention, for Fatio was speaking.

“Not so famous,” Fatio demurred. Both Crecy's hands had reappeared, and cards were sliding across the table. Adrienne stared at them stupidly, realizing Crecy had been dealing her cards for some time. Her scalp tingled, recalling the hours on horseback, the violent intimacy.

Confession. Tomorrow she must go to confession.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but the darkness behind them was cyclonic.
Pay attention!

“No, do not pretend,” Crecy replied to Fatio. “We have all heard of your fabulous invention, the one which will sweep our enemies into the sea.”

“Oh, I shouldn't talk about
that
,” Fatio murmured, swallowing more of whatever was in his cup.

“But of course not,” the duchess interrupted. “It is a state secret, I should think.”

“The king …” Fatio said, slurring badly, “the king frightens me. I am not afraid to admit it. But I will please him! I will please them all, and then they will see!”

“What will they see, sir?” Adrienne blurted.

For an instant Fatio's clouded eyes sharpened. “Do I … do I
know
you, sir?” he asked.

“But of course, my dear,” Crecy interposed. “You were just introduced.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. What will they see? They will see that I understand Newton better than anyone. That no one grasps his equations as
I
do. They will see—” He grinned drunkenly and went on. “—they will see that Lead and Tin have not gobbled all their children. They will see the dogs of Iron sent baying by their master in toward Earth! They will see the ellipsis straighten. They will see the
cannon
, by God! Look to the west on October twenty-fourth, my friends. You will
see
something then!”

“I'm sure we shall,” Crecy said, hand beneath the table again.

“No, they will,” Fatio insisted. “
He
will.”

“The king?” the duchess asked.

Fatio laughed. “Yes, yes, the king: the king of science, the king of calculus!”