Thriller (68 page)

Benjamin Franklin plucked his knight from the chessboard

and set it down beside his opponent’s rook. He tapped his finger

on the table for attention.

“If you take that knight with your castle, my friend, it’s mate in

three,” he announced to Thomas Jefferson, who’d glanced across

the board in surprise. “But if you don’t take my knight,” Franklin

added with a wry grin, “then I’m afraid it will still be mate in five.”

“My dear Jefferson,” said John Adams, standing at the wall of

windows overlooking the vast, manicured gardens of Le Valentinois, “that’s the third game you’ve lost in a row. If your skills at

negotiating treaties—for which Congress sent us to France, after

all—are no better than your skills at chess, we may as well pack

up our portmanteaus and go home.”

“Nonsense,” said Franklin, putting the chess pieces back in

order on the board. “Jefferson hasn’t had the practice I’ve had.

When I play chess, I brook no distractions. Why, I’ve played a

full evening, whilst Mme Brillon, my erstwhile
amour,
sat in a

state of deshabille, soaking in her bath!”

Franklin laughed uproariously, then he saw Jefferson rubbing

his unpowdered head of thick hair with both hands.

“Too much mental stimulation for one morning, I’m afraid,

and not enough accomplishment,” Jefferson said, adding apologetically, “I seem to feel one of my migraines coming on.”

“Willow bark,” said Franklin. “It contains a pain-killing ingredient specific to headaches. I never disturb the servants this

early, but I’ll ring for them to find Bancroft, the secretary of our

embassy—high time you met—and he shall make you a willow

tisane. The chap’s a medicinal genius,” Franklin assured Jefferson. “Worked on a plantation in Guiana. He’s patented all sorts

of textile dyes made from barks and tropical plants. I sponsored

his election, years ago, to the Royal Society in London—he’s

been our covert British agent ever since.”

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“But how do you know you can trust the fellow?” asked

Adams. “Some say Edward Bancroft’s a war speculator, only out

to profit himself. If he takes our money, he may do the same with

the French or British. Should he be privy to communiqués from

Congress? And take notes of our private councils?”

“My dear Adams—” Franklin was already pulling the bell cord,

as if shrugging off such concerns “—everyone in France is a spy

of some kind. You’ll find that a few things have changed since your

last foray to this continent. For one, there’s no war going on, upon

which one might speculate—either financially or philosophically. We keep eyes on the British only to make sure they won’t

begin one! For another, here at Le Valentinois, we live life so

openly and blamelessly that there is really nothing to spy upon!”

No sooner had Franklin released the bell cord than the door

to the outer hall popped open. There stood Edward Bancroft,

splendidly outfitted in lacy jabot, satin breeches and powdered

wig—dressed, as always, for a fancy ball. Adams shot a wicked

glance toward Franklin, who ignored it.

“Dash me,” said Franklin with his same wry smile. “It seems the

walls have ears. My dear Bancroft, we were just speaking of you!”

“I must possess better powers than Professor Mesmer,” said

Bancroft, returning the smile. “Only a moment ago, whilst in the

small salon, I had the intuitive feeling I was wanted here in this

room. Now I find you—uncustomarily dressed at this hour—and

locked away with some colleagues. By all appearances, you three

gents are already working up a storm of intrigue before your secretary’s arrival.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Franklin assured him. “We were playing chess. May I present Mr. Jefferson—lately arrived from America?” Bancroft took Jefferson’s proffered hand as Franklin added,

“And, of course, Adams here is not unknown to you—though

his wife and daughter, who’ve just set foot on these shores, will

be joining us to dine.”

“I’ve had the pleasure of their acquaintance moments ago,”

Bancroft told him.

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“Yes,” explained Adams. “My family wanted to arrive early.

John Quincy had promised to take the doctor’s little grandson,

Benny, for a ride in Mr. Jefferson’s trap.”

“As we’ve so many young folk, my dear Bancroft,” said

Franklin, “you might ask the servants for an earlier meal than

our usual two o’clock repast. Oh, and while you’re at it, a willow bark tisane for Mr. Jefferson.”

The instant John Adams was sure that Bancroft was out of

earshot, he struck out again: “Do you not find it odd that your

secretary was lurking at the door, just when his name came up

in conversation?” he demanded of Franklin.

“
Our
secretary,” Franklin corrected him. “He is paid by the

mission. And I don’t find it strange, when I was just ringing to

find him myself—”

“Good Lord!” cried Jefferson, peering out the library’s French

windows. “There is a barnyard animal eating your costly roses,

and the wench who’s astride him clearly can’t manage the beast!”

The two men went to the windows. There, at the center of the

jewel-like garden, a middle-aged woman sat astride an obdurate

white mule, yanking at the reins. When this got her nowhere,

she swung her leg over the saddle in apparent exasperation, dismounted like a man, and still grasping the reins forcefully, she

uprooted a bunch of flowers from a nearby garden bed and

shoved them into the mule’s muzzle. The beast, instantly diverted by the fresh buds, took a healthy mouthful.

Franklin smiled a strange, private smile.

“I believe that I am acquainted with that ‘wench’ out there—

though not with her beast,” he informed his companions. “I

may add, in my experience, the lady has assuredly mounted animals superior to that one.” He laughed as he saw the astonished

faces of Adams and Jefferson.

“Do you not recognize her?” Franklin asked Adams. When the

latter shook his head, Franklin clarified: “It is Notre dame d’Auteuil.”

“Madame Helvetius?” cried Adams, aghast.

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When Franklin nodded, Jefferson said, “Not the wife of the

philosophe! But why is she dressed as a farmer’s wife?”

“Ah, the upper classes are always a mystery, aren’t they?” said

Franklin. “Our charming queen, Marie Antoinette, has a peasant farm on the grounds of the palace, where she plays at being

a poor shepherdess. Rousseau has made these ‘natural’ ideas so

popular.”

But privately, Franklin couldn’t imagine why Anne-Catherine

Helvetius would arrive here in this fashion, astride a recalcitrant

mule. The situation did not bode well.

Suddenly he saw that Mme Helvetius had lashed her mule to a

tempting-looking lemon tree with lush green leaves. While it was

occupied, she was headed on foot—with a swiftness that almost

resembled stealth—straight for the garden entrance to the salon,

where the others Bancroft had mentioned would be waiting.

What in blazes was the woman thinking, prancing about in

the garden instead of using the customary entrance? And where

was her driver? Where was her cabriolet? Action seemed called

for on Franklin’s part—and quickly.

“Enough for the morning, gentlemen, I can rest here no

longer,” he announced, rubbing his leg as if to plead his eternal

gout. “Let’s attend to the others, shall we?”

And, leaving the two men to collect themselves, he hobbled

swiftly out the door.

He was too late—at least, too late to halt the explosion.

Echoing down the long gallery of mirrors and many-paned

windows that led from the library came a piercing shriek that had

emanated from within the salon. Franklin knew it could only be

Anne-Catherine Helvetius:

“O, mon Dieu, ou est Franklin? Et qui sont ces dames-là?”

A bit more commotion from within—raised voices, the sound

of a door opened and banged shut, then a moment of silence.

Franklin stepped up his painful gait along the corridor. All at

once, Anne-Catherine Helvetius came hurtling down the hall to-
525

ward him, her idiotic straw hat askew. In her flush of excitement,

she nearly collided with him.

Grasping her by the arms, Franklin said, “My beloved

friend…” But then he caught a whiff of her. “What is that interesting aroma—a new
eau de parfum?
”

Helvetius glared up at him in fury.

“My milkmaid’s dress! I am
en camouflage!
” she said, trying

to keep her voice down. “That
cafard
of a mule. I have been on

his back for hours. And now this—a roomful of women. You

never entertain so early—and so many guests! I do not wish to

intrude, but this is of great urgency,
mon ami
…”

“
Au contraire
, my beloved
madame,
” Franklin assured her,

“you’re always a welcome guest. I pray you’ll join us for an early

dinner.” Casting an eye again at her attire, he added with amusement, “I am sorry to inform you, however,
madame,
that no cows

will be available for milking—we were not planning to hold our

meal alfresco!”

“Canaille!”
cried Mme Helvetius, stamping her foot.

“
Madame!
Your language!” Franklin cautioned with a saucy grin.

With her next words, he looked as though he’d been seized

with an attack of kidney stones, on top of the gout.

“Faites attention!”
she told Franklin, sotto voce, lest prying

ears overhear:
“Le message est arrivé!”

“The message!” he nearly cried aloud. “Then we should not

be seen here…”

Just then came the distant sound of the library door closing,

followed by clicking footsteps approaching.

“My colleagues arrive,” whispered Franklin. “What is the

message?”

“C’est encodé!”
Mme Helvetius whispered back, her silvery

eyes enormous.

“Of course it’s encoded!” snapped Franklin, pulling in irritation at the long tail of his own hair that clung to his shoulder.

“What is it?”

When Anne-Catherine stood on tiptoe and put her lips to

526

Franklin’s ear, he caught another whiff of her attire—earthy, like

a barnyard, but not altogether rank.

“‘Frère Jacques,’”
Mme Helvetius whispered.

The silence was broken only by the footsteps approaching the

corner, where they would soon be exposed, huddled together

here in the open hall.

“A name?” Franklin whispered back. “No other clue? Just

‘Brother Jacques’?”

“Non, non, mon ami,”
she breathed in impatience.
“C’est une

chanson!”

“A song is the message?” said Franklin in confusion. But when

Mme Helvetius hummed the first notes under her breath, he said,

“Ah, I see—very clever!” With a quick pat on her rump, he said,

“Make haste. To the salon, by the far door. I shall join you.”

In swift comprehension, she vanished into the east hall just a

moment before Adams and Jefferson rounded the corner. With

his colleagues close at heel, Franklin entered the salon just as

Mme Helvetius appeared breathlessly through a door at the opposite side of the crowded room. All the guests and family members turned to greet Franklin. Though his own heart was beating

like a Mohican drum, he shot Mme Helvetius a confident smile

across the room. He knew exactly what he must do.

12:00 noon

Le Valentinois

Benjamin Franklin looked around the table at the assorted

group who had collected, as customary, for the seven-course afternoon repast at the expense of his host. Today it was a few

hours early—but then, time was of the essence, was it not?

Here at the table were those who would soon represent the

past: the owner of this magnificent château, the pudgy millionaire Donatien le Ray de Chaumont, who had an ax to grind: he

was still outraged with the American Congress, which had never

paid his bills to supply arms for the Revolution. Beside Chau-
527

mont, his attractive wife—the mistress, some said
(de temps en

temps)
of the naval hero John Paul Jones. Then the revolutionary playwright Beaumarchais, author of huge hits,
The Marriage

of Figaro
and
The Barber of Seville,
a man who had run more munitions into the British colonies than any other, in aid of the revolution. Mme Helvetius was seated between Franklin himself and

John Adams, with Abigail at Adams’s far side—looking annoyed

by Notre dame d’Auteuil’s blithe bantering to her husband—part

of her inane camouflage.

Thomas Jefferson sat at the side of the table that Franklin

viewed as the future. Beside Jefferson was young John Quincy

Adams, seventeen, who seemed to dote on the Virginian’s each

word. Quincy’s sister, Abigail the younger—Nabby Adams—

who at age nineteen seemed to have captivated Franklin’s twentytwo-year-old grandson, Temple. And Benny Franklin Bache,

Franklin’s other grandson, the youngest at the table at age fifteen,

who was bracketed at the other side by Edward Bancroft, the mission’s secretary and sometime spy.

After the soup course had been served and the servants had

departed, Franklin announced portentously, “Thirteen at dinner,