But it was not available just now. She felt the warmth of the sun on her face; or maybe that was the gaze of the contrôleur-général. "The amount is correct," she announced, and hitched up her skirts in the rear with her cold hands and tired arms, and stepped back until her face was protected in shadow.

"Very well," said the Count in a gentle voice, like a kindly physician, and rotated his large brown eyes toward an aide, who for the last several minutes had been edging closer and closer to a fireplace at the other end of the room. Pontchartrain dipped his quill, set it to the page, and executed a lengthy series of evolutions, moving his arm from the shoulder. A vast mazy PONTCHARTRAIN took shape at the base of the page. The aide bent forward and countersigned.

Pontchartrain rose. "I hoped that my lady would consent to join me for some refreshment, while…" and he glanced at the aide, who had moved into the Count's place at the table and was busying himself with a panoply of wax-pots, ribbons, seals, and other gear.

"I would gladly do so, or eat rocks, for that matter, if it is to happen near the fireplace."

The Count offered the Countess his arm and together they glided to the pagan spectacle that answered to the name of fireplace here. Two chairs had been set out; both were armchairs, for the guest and the host were of equal rank. He got her settled in one of them, then picked up a log with his own two hands and threw it onto the fire; not a wholly normal thing for a Count to do, and presumably a coded gesture, meant to convey to Eliza that the Count did not mean to stand on ceremony. He dusted his hands together and then polished them with a lace handkerchief as he sat down. A maid shuffled forward on cold and unresponsive feet, worried her hands out of her sleeves, and poured coffee, sending up gales of steam.

"You've been doing a lot of these, my lord?" Eliza asked, looking over at the table, where the sealing process was just entering its opening rounds.

"Rarely for such amounts. Never for such a charming creditor, my lady. But yes, many Persons of Quality have followed the King's example, and lent idle assets to the Treasury, where they may be put to work."

"You will be gratified to know that those assets have been working very hard indeed along the Channel," Eliza said. "Any English Ship of Force that dares sail that way stares up into many new guns, protected by new revetments, fed by powder-houses linked by excellent roads that were only cow-paths when his majesty added those lands to France."

"It pleases me very much to hear this!" exclaimed the Count, crinkling up his eyes and rocking forward in his chair. Eliza was startled to see that he was entirely sincere; then wondered why it was so startling.

The Count's face began to sag as he looked at Eliza's and saw nothing there. "Please forgive me if I am…inappropriately subdued," she said, "it is just that I have been traveling for some time. And now that I am finally here, there is so much to do!"

"Soon all that will be behind you, my lady, and you can enjoy the season! You should get some rest. This soirée that Madame la duchesse d'Arcachon is hosting tomorrow…"

"Yes. I do need to conserve my energies, if I am to remain awake for even one-third of that."

"I do hope that when you have recovered from the journey, my lady, we shall have more opportunities to converse. As you know, I am rather new to the post of contrôleur-général. I accepted the position gladly, of course…but now that I have had a few months to settle in, I find that it is far more interesting than I had ever imagined."

"Everyone imagines it to be interesting in a financial sense," said Eliza.

"Of course," said Pontchartrain, sharing her amusement. "But I did not mean it that way."

"Of course not, monsieur, for you are an intelligent man, not motivated by money—which is one of the reasons his majesty chose you! But now that you are here, you find it fascinating intellectually."

"Indeed, my lady. But you are one of the very few at Versailles who can understand this."

"Hence your desire to carry the conversation forward. Yes, I understand."

Pontchartrain dropped his eyelids and inclined his head minutely, then opened his eyes again—they were large and handsome—and smiled at her.

"Do you know Bonaventure Rossignol, my lord?"

The smile faltered. "I know of him, my lady, but—"

"He is another fish out of water."

"He does not even live here, does he?"

"He lives at Juvisy. But he will be at La Dunette tomorrow. As will you, I trust?"

"Madame la duchesse has honored us with an invitation. Neither of us would miss it for anything."

"Seek me out there, monsieur. I shall introduce you to Monsieur Rossignol, and we shall found a new salon, restricted to people who love numbers more than money."

"AH, HERE COMES OUR CHAPERONE at last!"

"Our chaperone!?"

"But of course, Monsieur Rossignol. Madame la duchesse will join us. Otherwise people would talk! And look, Monsieur le comte de Pontchartrain is coming as well! I have wanted to introduce you to him."

This name was sufficient to make Rossignol turn his head, or want to. But the head was encased in a wig that cascaded over his shoulders, over which he had draped a heavy wool blanket, rendering independent movement of head and torso inadvisable. He rose to his feet, triggering small avalanches—for he and Eliza had been waiting in this open sleigh long enough for drifts to form in their laps. As he tottered around to get a view of the garden entrance of La Dunette, he reminded Eliza of a club balanced on a juggler's palm. He had much in common physically with Pontchartrain; but where the Count's eyes were warm and brown, Rossignol's were hot and black. And not hot in a passionate way, unless you counted his passion for his work.

A recorder arpeggio—some fragment of a minuet—leaked out of the doors for a moment as servants pulled them open. Pontchartrain stepped out, looked up, and blinked at the falling snow, then pirouetted towards his hostess, who had fallen behind, and was shooing him forward in violation of all rules of precedence. An aurora of red silk bloomed around her as she drew out a scarf and allowed it to settle atop her wig. With fingers slowed by cold, fat, and arthritis, she knotted it under a chin, then accepted Pontchartrain's proffered arm and stepped out into the frozen garden with more gingerness than was really warranted. The gravel paths near the château had been swept clear of snow; the sleigh was stopped a stone's throw away, on a track that wandered off into the Duke's hunting-park. Party-goers surged to the door and the fogged windows to bid the Duchess farewell, as if she were sailing to Surinam, and not just going on a quarter of an hour's sleigh-ride on her own property.

Rossignol rotated back around to gaze at Eliza. There was no point in sitting, as he'd just have to stand up again when the Duchess and the Count arrived.

"Monsieur Rossignol," said Eliza, "every child knows that the juice of a lime, or a bit of diluted milk, may be used to write secret messages in invisible ink, which may later be made to appear by scorching it before hot coals. When you stare at me in this way, it is as if you phant'sy that some message has been writ upon my face in milk, which you may make visible by the heat of your scrutiny. I beg you remember that more often than not the procedure goes awry, and the paper itself catches fire."

"I cannot help that God made me the way I am."

"Granted; but I beg you. Monsieur le comte d'Avaux, and Father Édouard de Gex, have given me enough of such glares, in the last few days, to raise blisters on my brow. From you, monsieur, I should be grateful for a warm, rather than hot, regard."

"It is obvious enough that you are flirting with me."