"You should dry your clothes."

"I don't give a fart about my clothes. I care about your bloody book."

"Mr. Larrit, you will go away and be very quiet."

"I am set to save your book," he said, more quietly, searching in his pockets to no avail.

"If you must, please do it then."

"Wait sir. I will convince you yet."

"Of what?"

"This Impromptu is your man."

Did the idiot think I would take Miss Godefroy walking so I could act out for her a great man's failure?

"No, no, let it rest poor fellow."

"Ah, but I have discovered sawdust," he said, and was gone, leaving me with a mystery I had little inclination to investigate.

The book, being ancient and handsomely bound in calfskin, was clearly a fetish. He revered the objet, mistaking it for what it contained, an embarrassing misunderstanding such as the Negro James had suffered when he took that gentleman's black hat and placed it on his own grizzled head. Thinking himself elevated, he became comic. So it was with the agitated Mr. Stasis and his Versailles Impromptu.

At the same time I was touched by his remorse. It was the first sign he had ever given that he truly wished to serve me, and it suggested a happier prospect for the days and weeks when we would collate the pages of my interviews, transcribe them, and begin the first rough ordering of the French commissioner's report. I returned to my study of the character of Mr. Lynds who had placed a cutthroat razor in a murderer's hands and ordered the felon to shave him before the assembled prisoners.

"Sir."

The Great Bird of the Antipodes had returned, dressed once more in a gray waistcoat although without his hat or shoes.

"There is no staining," he announced.

"Staining?"

"Your pages will be saved. They are ready to be ironed."

And off he went, barefooted, and I felt him running along the centerboard of the ship.

By the time he returned, the last of the sunset lay on the waters of Long Island Sound and I had lit my lantern and tried a taste of ginger wine. He stood at the cabin door, dressed in his frock coat and wearing shoes. In his hand he held the edition I had been so very disappointed by.

"Sir?"

"Please enter."

He stood before me, opening its pages one by one, and-had he been my butler and had the pages been, say, shirts-I would have been impressed with the rescue he had undertaken.

"You see sir," said he. "It is a beauty."

"You are a clever fellow."

He took my compliment solemnly. "I know paper, sir," he said, squatting down beside my chair. I had not the tiniest interest in that rare failure of Moliere's, and yet I looked at what he showed me for as an objet one must admit it was a well-made one, the calf covers being gilt tooled with a flower in each corner and a triple fillet.

"What chance to find this in America," he said, peering as I expected, at the engraving, a depiction of five actors on a stage.

"It is Holland paper," I observed.

He smiled at me, so sweetly I hardly knew the man. "Indeed," said he. "The engraver is Gravelot, but perhaps you also saw the crest."

Americans were always drawing my attention to escutcheons. So I looked with condescension, I suppose, and was slow to understand that I was looking at the Bourbon coat of arms.

"You see sir."

"I do," I admitted, but hid my true astonishment, for this book was from the library of a Bourbon king.

"His Majesty liked it no better than you do," he said, now having his turn to be amused by me.

"How much did I pay for this?"

"Two dollars, but it does not suit your purpose."

"My purpose is my own private business."

"You forget, sir, you told me your purpose. You wished to read the lines to Miss Godefroy."

"I cannot read her lines from this you puppy."

"Of course you can."

"Do not be impudent."

"Of course, you know how to do your own business."

"You think otherwise? Then show me how I would court her. What do you suggest?"

"Well, you tell the story."

"The story of the play? It is nothing."

"No, how you sent your stupid English servant to buy Tartuffe. He is an ignoramus." He raised an eyebrow and waited.

"Go on."

"The servant has no culture as you would expect. He returns with this ridiculous play. He has paid two dollars, more than it is worth. But then you discover it is from the library of your cousin the king."

"Not my cousin."

"Relation, no relation-it matters not a fig. You think, Has the rascal stolen it from the king? And do you know, my dear sweet American lady-you will whisper-Moliere and his troupe in the play, the actors are characters, have been asked to perform for this very king. The one who rightly owns the book. Louis Quatorze."

"Your French is awful."

"In fact it is better than your own."

"You will not tutoyer me! Tell me, clown, how can I recite this to Miss Godefroy?"

"You tell her how I performed it for you. You say, Miss Godefroy, dear," and the rascal jumped three feet sideways. "You see. This is how I do the different parts."

"Now here is Mrs. Moliere." He jumped a foot the other way. "Where is everyone?" he cried.

"What?"

"I am playing all the parts," he said, and jumped again. "Moliere is first onstage. He is calling for the actors-he shouts, Where is everyone?"

"Coming." The Parrot jumped.

"Not here." The Parrot jumped again.

"What's the matter with you?" He leaped back sideways and crashed against the cabin wall.

"You see," he said, "it is very athletic. You should do something that displays your calves."

"This is not at all romantic," I said. "I am a French aristocrat. She does not want me to be a clown."

"No, but it is funny, sir. You must admit that. You are smiling."

"You want me to be a figure of fun."

"She knows you are an aristocrat. What do you plan to do with her? She liked you. She will laugh. She will fall down laughing. Then you do the rest," he said, drinking the dreadful ginger wine in a single gulp.

"It will take five hours to perform."

"It is a short play."

"Two hours."

"Ah." He raised a finger, and there was something very lively in those opaline eyes. "Now your lordship is boasting."

Just as I admitted that his company had become enjoyable, something clouded his expression.

"Is your wife well?" I asked.

"Fit as a scrub bull," said he, a curious expression.

"The old lady?"

"Well also."

"You were very comic, Mr. Larrit. Where did you learn to read?"

"I learned from my father very young. He was a compositor."

"I have it on good authority," I remarked, "that the compositor's genius is to recognize the letters without understanding a single word."

"And who is your authority, my lord?"

"The Comte d'Auvergne, I believe."

"It is not true."

He stood for a moment, looking out into the dark, and I realized I had spoiled what had been a very pleasant mood indeed.

"Perhaps you will settle in America," I offered.

He held his hand close against the lantern to show me-what? That he had no wedding band? That his eyes were mirrors? That I should see some awful secret written on his leathern liver-spotted skin?