Newton's Cannon (8 page)

Ben was trying to decide which way to go when he heard hushed footfalls coming his way, weirdly regular, like the ticking of a clock.

Ben knew instantly who it was by the broad brim of his hat, by the set of his shoulders. For a moment Ben stood, watching the stranger approach, gripped by a sudden fear. It was the same magus he had spied upon four years ago, he was sure, the man who had watched John and him carrying the harmonicum home yesterday. Was the man following him or merely out for a stroll?

Ben pretended to be gazing out at the Common. The metronome steps continued to approach. Ben held his breath, caught by an almost paralyzing fear. Of course the man had stopped to stare at two boys carrying such a bizarre device. Who wouldn't?

Then a last heel clacked down. Ben stood, shivering. Behind him he heard a small, polite cough.

“Good morning to you,” a voice said as he turned. The man, only a yard away, regarded him with a faint smile upon his rounded features. His accent was from the north of England. His mouth was grinning, and his cheeks were dimpled. But his eyes were gray and unsmiling, with the hard look of glass.

“Good morning, sir,” Ben managed, conscious of the quaver in his voice.

“Benjamin, isn't it? Benjamin Franklin?” The man stuck out his hand. Ben just stared at it dumbly until the fellow raised his eyebrows and said, “I'm Trevor Bracewell.”

“Ah, yes, sir,” Ben said, finally reaching out his own hand to shake that of the stranger.

“Walk with me for just a bit, Benjamin?” Though phrased like a request, Ben sensed that it was not. He nodded as the
stranger laid a hand on his shoulder and directed his steps out toward the Common.

“Excuse me, sir, but how is it you know my name?”

“Boston is no large place,” the man observed. “It is not difficult to find the name of the boy who peeps into your window.”

A flush crept up Ben's face, quickly replaced by fear. Where were they going?

“I … I'm sorry, sir,” he stuttered. “I was younger then, and …”

“And you had never seen science in operation before. Yes, I understand, Benjamin. I know the attraction of these things.”

Benjamin felt a small flare of courage at that. “Are you a philosopher, then?”

“No,” the man said. “No, as you know by now, items such as my light can be purchased. I fear I do not possess the intellect to master this new science. What's more …”

He stopped and looked around, and then slipped his arm farther around Ben's shoulder. He increased his pace so that suddenly they were almost running across the Common. Ben shrieked, but something seemed to snatch his voice from the air. Suddenly he could no longer keep up, was stumbling and finding himself being
dragged
along. Now he began to struggle, but the man had shifted his grip to his arm, and the fingers dug into him like steel bands. He was completely helpless, and in his belly he knew he was going to die.

Adrienne followed the smooth motion of the machine's writing arm with some pleasure. The mathematical symbols— interspersed with lines of Latin, English, and French—told a fascinating if incomplete story. Fatio had asked her to send part of a formula to their “colleagues”—whoever they were, for none signed their responses, as she had been cautioned not to sign Fatio's, save with the letter
F
. This was the response of M. Three. Adrienne liked M. Three better than MM. One and Two—as she had named them—because he seemed brighter. He did not, however, seem to have the answer that Fatio—who was peering restively over her shoulder—was seeking.

“That won't do!” he snapped.

Adrienne wished she knew why. She understood most of the correspondence; it was about the motion of large masses. It was clear to Adrienne that some sort of movement was being calculated, almost certainly orbital motion. But the present correspondence concerned an alchemical formula dealing with affinity. Yet she could not guess
what
affinity. It did not seem to be gravity, magnetism, or simple sociability, though it did seem to be an
attractive
rather than repulsive affinity.

“It's like shooting at a single pigeon in the dark,” Fatio complained, stamping across the room toward Gustavus. “I should never have told the king we could do it! ‘All I lack is the mediating formula,’ I told him. All! I will lack it until doomsday, at this rate!”

“I don't even see how we can know we are correct,” Gustavus replied.

“We
must
know we are correct before we implement
anything
,”
Fatio said. “And yet, in a month it will be too late! What am I missing? The answer must be simple, I know it is!”

“We will find it,” Gustavus assured him.

“I hope so. I told the king—” but then he broke off short, as he remembered Adrienne was present.

If I only knew what you were trying to do, you fool, I could probably help
, Adrienne groused inwardly. That was really the largest piece of the puzzle for her. If she only understood the relationship between the calculations of motion and the incomplete alchemical formula, she could do the calculations and pretend it had come from M. Two, who used several different secretaries to do his schreibing.

A sharp rapping sounded at the door. She would have to answer it and likely miss a part of what was being written. She had just changed the paper, so she had no excuse not to answer the door. Once the formula was off the desk, however, and replaced by a blank sheet, Fatio would snatch it up so that he and Gustavus could ponder it, and she would not get a chance to see it again.

She opened the door to a young page boy. He bowed to her.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but do I have the honor of addressing Mademoiselle de Montchevreuil?”

Adrienne was astonished, for callers here were almost always for Fatio, occasionally for Gustavus—
never
for her. Then she suddenly remembered the king's invitation. “Indeed, you do.”

“In that case, I have the honor of escorting you to the king's carriage. He requests your presence at Versailles this evening.”

“This evening? But … the king's entertainment is tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lady,” the page replied. “I have been told to wait until you have finished your immediate business.”

“I—” She turned helplessly to see if Fatio and Gustavus had followed this exchange and found them both staring at her.

“Of course you must go,” Fatio said softly.

Adrienne turned back to the page. “I must finish something first—a matter of a few moments. Would you please wait?”

Adrienne returned to the aetherschreiber, wound it again, and nervously waited for the message to finish.

* * *

As Adrienne approached the carriage, she realized that it was occupied already—the man inside of it was, in fact, stepping out. She recognized him as he swept off his tricorn hat and bowed low to her.

“Demoiselle de Montchevreuil,” he said, “how wonderful to see you.”

“And I am delighted to see you, Monsieur Minister,” she replied, though she was in fact quite intimidated by Jean-Baptiste Colbert, the marquis of Torcy and the king's minister of foreign affairs. Torcy was in his midfifties, but he carried his years well. The solid bones of his nearly square face refused to let his flesh droop, and his carriage was that of a young musketeer. Only his eyes and the corners of his mouth showed his true age and the weight of his responsibilities. Like so many at court, the marquis had a charming exterior, but his smile hid dragon's teeth and his dark eyes the fatal glance of the gorgon.

At the moment, however, he was charming, kissing her hand and making certain that she was comfortably seated in the carriage before sitting next to her.

“It happened that I was in Paris when the king sent his carriage for you,” Torcy explained, “and I begged for the pleasure of accompanying you to Versailles.”

Adrienne looked down, wondering how Maintenon would have replied to that. “You are too kind,” she finally settled upon—perhaps the most conventional response possible.

Outside, the dark and dreary streets of Paris passed, though they traveled in the pool of light cast by the sorcerous lantern that adorned the coach. She could make out faces, stroked briefly golden, watching them pass, and see the expressions of the Parisians as they recognized the king's coach. Some—the hungriest and meanest of them— scowled openly, though most expressed more controlled disapproval or, occasionally, awe. The general sentiment of Paris toward the king was one of brooding tolerance. After all, Louis almost refused to admit that the great city existed. But their ire sprang from the effects of decades of war. Even the splendor of the new era of science could not eclipse suffering and hunger. She understood that; though her family was counted among the nobility, they were also destitute,
and as a child she had missed more than one meal. It had been Madame de Maintenon and the king who had saved her when they had accepted her family's petition to admit her to Saint Cyr at the age of seven. Saint Cyr only received girls whose families were both noble
and
impoverished.

Most Parisians were impoverished, but few had noble blood. This gave them very little hope of ever gaining
anything
. To Adrienne this seemed dangerous. The king was wrong to ignore Paris, for in Paris he might see France; in Versailles he would only see himself.

“How does Mademoiselle find the Academy of Sciences?” Torcy asked.

“I am most content there,” she replied. “Everyone is kind to me, and my work is interesting. And, I must admit, I have enough leisure to devote to my own interests.”

“And what might those be, my dear?” Torcy asked with a flicker of a smile. His eyes seemed almost on the verge of closing, as if her answer could hold no interest for him.

“Music, predominantly,” she answered, “and also writing. I hope to compose a history of the academy someday.”

“How very interesting,” Torcy exclaimed. “And how laudable. You are aware, then, that it was my uncle who was instrumental in founding the academy?”

“But of course,” Adrienne said. “How could one not know that?”

“You are too kind.” He turned to look at her. “You know,” he said, his tone still more than amiable, “that when the academy was founded, twelve
women
were nominated as members?”

Of course I do
, she thought bitterly, but what she replied was, “No? Really?” She hoped she sounded convincingly surprised.

The marquis smiled. “Those were different times,” he murmured. “Yet my uncle had a very high opinion of women: He believed that they were capable of scientific scholarship. Of course, none of them had their nominations confirmed, and none have been nominated since. But, as I said, those were different times.”

“They must have been,” Adrienne agreed, flashing her own
bright smile. “But I wonder if women are truly suited to such endeavors. It does not seem complementary to our natures.”

“Oh, but there are many who would disagree with you, my dear. In fact, I have always wondered why
you
chose to find a position in the king's library, when you might have taken the veil at Saint Cyr. Or rather, I wonder
how
it came to be that you were placed there.”

A little chill stroked her heart. Did Torcy know about her and the others?

Beneath the wheels of the carriage, stone pavement had given way to dirt, and the stench of the city was being replaced by the scents of the countryside. “I don't know, Monsieur,” she replied. “I had expressed my interest to Madame the queen before she passed on.”

“Yes, which I can hardly believe she approved of. Madame Maintenon had as little use for science as for vice.”

“But I explained to Madame that my interests were not in science,” Adrienne told him.

“Yes, and I am sure that she believed you, just as I do,” he replied ironically. “What you must understand, Mademoiselle, is that I do not care
what
your interests are, so long as they do not endanger the king.”

Adrienne frowned, amazement at Torcy's implication transforming into anger. “Sir,” she said steadily, “I am quite certain that I do not know what you are insinuating.”

Torcy nodded, all traces of joviality swept from his face. “Very well. Let me be candid,” he said. “I remember you. You were an excellent secretary to Madame. You are intelligent, and you know how to hide things. But when the king takes an interest in someone,
I
take an interest in that person. And when I took an interest in you, do you know what I found?”

Adrienne could only stare at him, smiling to hide her panic.

“I found that you had been given your position by the duke of Orléans.”

“What?” Adrienne managed in stunned disbelief, for that was not at all what she had thought he would say.

“Yes, it is true. Do you understand the implications of this?”

“Monsieur, I …”

“Come, come. You were Madame's secretary for an entire year. You
cannot
be that ignorant of the intrigues of the court, even if you are innocent of its vices.”

Adrienne struggled for some response. The duke of Orléans? If Torcy were fencing with her, now would come the kill. She heard herself answer, almost as a stranger talking. “I understand something of them. I know that the duke of Orléans is a possible heir to the throne.”

“He might be regent, if the king were to die now, but the little dauphin, the king's great-grandson, would be king. And after that would come King Philip of Spain—also a legitimate descendant of the king. In fact, the royal will even places the duke of Maine—His Majesty's bastard by Madame Montespan— ahead of Orléans.”

“If Orléans is not a plotter for the throne,” Adrienne managed, “why then are you so concerned that he might have done me some favor?”

“I never said the good duke was not plotting to take the throne,” Torcy said. “The dauphin is only ten years old. And if France should ever conclude a peace with her enemies, they will never allow Philip to sit both thrones.
And
if the king were dead, his will would be set aside by Parliament. They would never allow a bastard to rule in the place of Orléans, who is a legitimate prince. So you see, the duke
could
be king—if the appropriate accidents were to occur.”