“Why is this dune here, I wonder?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow it may not be. Why do you mention it?”

“I look at all these waves, spending so much effort to accomplish so little, and wonder that from time to time they can raise something as interesting as a dune. Why, this hill of sand is equivalent to Versailles-a marvel of ingenuity. Waves from the Indian Ocean, encountering waves of Araby off the Malabar Coast, must gossip about this dune, and ask for the latest tidings from Scheveningen.”

“It is normal for women, at certain times of the month, and in certain seasons of the year, to descend into moods such as this one,” the prince mused.

“A fair guess, but wrong,” Eliza said. “There are Christian slaves in Barbary, you know, who expend vast efforts to accomplish tiny goals, such as getting a new piece of furniture in their banyolar…”

“Banyolar?”

“Slave-quarters.”

“What a pathetic story.”

“Yes, but it is all right for them to achieve meager results because they are in a completely hopeless and desperate situation,” Eliza said. “In a way, a slave is fortunate, because she has more head-room for her dreams and phant’sies, which can soar to dizzying heights without bumping up ‘gainst the ceiling. But the ones who live at Versailles are as high as humans can get, they practically have to go about stooped over because their wigs and head-dresses are scraping the vault of heaven-which consequently seems low and mean to them. When they look up, they see, not a vast beckoning space above, but rather-”

“The gaudy-painted ceiling.”

“Just so. You see? There is no head-room. And so, for one who has just come from Versailles, it is easy to look at these waves, accomplishing so little, and to think that no matter what efforts we put forth in our lives, all we’re really doing is rearranging the sand-grains in a beach that in essence never changes.”

“Right. And if we’re really brilliant, we can cast up a little dune or hummock that will be considered the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

“Just so!”

“Lass, it’s very poetic, albeit in a bleak Gothic sort of way, but, begging your pardon, I look up and I don’t see the ceiling. All I see is a lot of damned Frenchmen looking down their noses at me from a mile high. I must pull them all down to my level, or draw myself up to theirs, before I can judge whether I have succeeded in making a dune, or what-have-you. So let us turn our attentions thither.”

“Very well. There is little to hold our attention here. ”

“What do you imagine was the point of the King’s admonition, at the end of your most recent letter?”

“What-you mean, what he said to me after his operation?”

“Yes.”

“Fear me inasmuch as you are my foe, be proud inasmuch as my friend? That one?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Seems self-explanatory to me.”

“But why on earth would the King feel the need to deliver such a warning to d’Avaux?”

“Perhaps he has doubts as to the count’s loyalty.”

“That is inconceivable. No man could be more his King’s creature than d’Avaux.”

“Perhaps the King is losing his grip, and perceiving enemies where none exist.”

“Very doubtful. He has too many real enemies to indulge himself so-and besides, he is very far from losing his grip!”

“Hmph. None of my explanations is satisfactory, it seems.”

“Now that you are out of France you must shed the habit of pouting, my Duchess. You do it exquisitely, but if you try it on a Dutchman he’ll only want to slap you.”

“Will you share your explanation with me, if I promise not to pout?”

“Obviously the King’s admonition was intended for someone other than the comte d’Avaux.”

This left Eliza baffled for a minute. William of Orange fussed with the rigging of his sand-sailer while she turned it over in her head. “You are saying then that the King knows my letters to d’Avaux are being decyphered and read by Dutch agents… and that his warning was intended for you. Have I got it right?”

“You are only starting to get it right… and this is becoming tedious. So let me explain it, for until you understand this, you will be useless to me. Every letter posted abroad from Versailles, whether it originates from you, or Liselotte, or the Maintenon, or some chambermaid, is opened by the Postmaster and sent to the cabinet noir to be read.”

“Heavens! Who is in the cabinet noir?”

“Never mind. The point is that they have read all of your letters to d’Avaux and conveyed anything important to the King. When they are finished they give the letters back to the Postmaster, who artfully re-seals them and sends them north… my Postmaster then re-opens them, reads them, re-seals them, and sends them on to d’Avaux. So the King’s admonition could have been intended for anyone in that chain: d’Avaux (though probably not), me, my advisors, the members of his own cabinet noir… or you.”

“Me? Why would he want to admonish a little nothing like me?”

“I simply mention you for the sake of completeness.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The Prince of Orange laughed. “Very well. Louis’ entire system is built on keeping the nobility poor and helpless. Some of them enjoy it, others don’t. The latter sort look for ways of making money. To whatever degree they succeed, they threaten the King. Why do you think the French East India Company fails time and again? Because Frenchmen are stupid? They are not stupid. Or rather, the stupid ones get despatched to India, because Louis wants that company to fail. A port-city filled with wealthy commercants- a London or an Amsterdam-is a nightmare to him.”

“Now, some of those nobles who desire money have turned their attentions toward Amsterdam and begun to engage the services of Dutch brokers. This was how your former business associate, Mr. Sluys, made his fortune. The King is pleased that you ruined Sluys, because he took some French counts down with him, and they serve as object lessons to any French nobles who try to build fortunes in the market of Amsterdam. But now you are being approached, yes? Your ‘Spanish Uncle’ is the talk of the town.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that the King of France views me as a threat.”

“Of course not.”

“ You,William of Orange, the Protestant Defender, are a threat.”

“I, William, whatever titles you wish to hang on me, am an enemy, but not a threat. I may make war on him, but I will never imperil him, or his reign. The only people who can do that are all living at Versailles.”

“Those dreadful dukes and princes and so on.”

“And duchesses and princesses. Yes. And insofar as you might help these do mischief, you are to be watched. Why do you imagine d’Avaux put you there? As a favor? No, he put you there to be watched. But insofar as you may help Louis maintain his grip, you are a tool. One of many tools in his toolbox-but a strange one, and strange tools are commonly the most useful.”

“If I am so useful to Louis-your enemy-then what am I to you?”

“To date, a rather slow and unreliable pupil,” William answered.

Eliza heaved a sigh, trying to sound bored and impatient. But she could not help shuddering a bit as the air came out of her-a premonition of sobs.

“Though not without promise,” William allowed.

Eliza felt better, and hated herself for being so like one of William’s hounds.

“None of what I have written in any of my letters to d’Avaux has been of any use to you at all.”

“You have only been learning the ropes, so far,” William said, plucking like a harp-player at various lines and sheets in the rigging of his sand-sailer. He climbed aboard and settled himself into the seat. Then he drew on certain of those ropes while paying out others, and the vehicle sprang forward, rolling down the slope of the dune, and building speed back towards Scheveningen.