"Want of silver is not your difficulty, then," Eliza continued. "Very well. You must needs translate it across the Channel—very risky. For in the annals of military history, no tale is more tediously familiar than that of the train of pay-wagons, bringing specie to the troops at the front, that is ambushed and lost en route, with disastrous consequences to the campaign."

"We have been reading the same books," Pontchartrain concluded. "Even so, as we laid plans for this operation during the winter, I am afraid I paid more attention to my rôle as Secretary of State for the Navy, than that of contrôleur-général. Which is to say that I placed more emphasis on preparations of a purely military nature than on the attendant financial arrangements. Not until I reached Cherbourg the other day, and was confronted with the invasion in all of its complexity and scale, did I really grasp the difficulty of getting this specie to England. To send it across in an obvious and straightforward manner seems madness. I have considered breaking it up into small shipments and sending them over in the boats of those who smuggle wine and salt to remote ports of Cornwall."

"That would distribute the risk, but multiply the difficulties," said Eliza. "And even if it succeeded, it would not address the great difficulty, which is that if the silver is not accepted on the local—which is to say, English—market, then the troops will not deem themselves to have been paid."

"Naturally we should like to pay them in English silver pennies," said Pontchartrain, "but matters being what they are, we may have to use French coins."

"This brings us back to the conversation we had in the sleigh at La Dunette two years and some months ago," Eliza said; and the answering look on Pontchartrain's face told her that she had struck home.

But here Madame Bearsul threw a quizzical look in the direction of the Politest Man in France, who intervened. "On behalf of those of our guests who were not in that sleigh," Étienne said, "I beg permission to interrupt, so we may hear—"

"I speak of the recoinage, when all of the old coins were called in and replaced with new," said Eliza. "By royal decree, the new had the same value, and so to those of us who live in France, it made no difference. But they contained less silver or gold."

"Madame la duchesse, who in those days was Mademoiselle la comtesse, said to me, then, that it must have consequences difficult to foretell," said Pontchartrain.

"Before Monsieur le comte says a word against himself," said Eliza, "I would have the honor of being the first to rush to his defense. The favorable consequences of the recoinage were immense: for it raised a fortune for the war."

"But Madame la duchesse was a true Cassandra that evening in the sleigh," said Pontchartrain, "for there have been consequences that I did not foretell, and one of them is that French coins are not likely to be accepted at full value in English market-places."

"Monsieur, have you given any thought to minting invasion coin?" asked d'Erquy.

"Yes, monsieur, and to using Pieces of Eight. But before we take such measures, I am eager to hear more from our hostess concerning the English Mint."

"I am simply pointing out to you, monsieur," said Eliza, "that there already exists a mechanism for importing silver bullion to England, at no risk to France; having it made into good English coin in London; and transferring the coin into the hands of trusted French agents there."

"What is this mechanism, madame?" inquired d'Erquy, suspicious that Eliza was having them on.

"France's chief connection to the international money market is not here in St.-Malo, or even in Paris, but rather down in Lyon. The King's moneylender is of course Monsieur Samuel Bernard, and he works hand-in-glove with a Monsieur Castan. I know Castan; he is a pillar of the Dépôt. He can deliver money to any of several merchant banking houses who maintain agencies in Lyon, and get negotiable Bills of Exchange which can be endorsed to French agents who can transport them to London in advance of the invasion. These may be presented well in advance of the expiry of their usance to bankers in London who, upon accepting them, will make whatever arrangements may be necessary to have the coin ready on the date the bills come due—which may mean that they shall have to ship bullion over from Amsterdam or Antwerp and have it minted at the Tower. But that is their concern, not ours, and their risk. The coin shall be delivered to our agents, who need merely transport it to the front to pay the troops."

Early in this discourse, the mouth of Madame de Bearsul fell open, as if she might more easily take in these difficult words and notions through her mouth than her ears; and as Eliza went on, similar transformations came over the faces of all her other auditors, including some at adjacent tables; and by the time she reached the terminal phrase pay the troops, they had all begun glancing at each other, trying to build solidarity in their confusion. And so before anyone could give voice to his amazement, Eliza, with unfeigned, uncharacteristic ardor for her role as entertainer to the bored nobility of France, had got to her feet (obliging Étienne, Pontchartrain, and d'Erquy to stand) and begun to arrange a new parlor-game. "We are going to put on a little masque," she announced, "and all of you must sit, sit, sit!" And she called to a servant to bring quills, ink, and paper.

"But, Eliza, how can gentlemen sit in the presence of a lady who stands?" asked Étienne.

"The answer is simple: In the masque, I am no lady, but a God: Mercury, messenger of Olympus, and patron deity of Commerce. You must phant'sy wings on my ankles."

The mere mention of ankles caused a little intake of breath from Étienne, and a few eyes flicked nervously his way. But Eliza forged on: "You, Monsieur de Pontchartrain, must sit. You are the Deliverer: the contrôleur-général of France."

"That should be an easy rôle for me to play, Mercury," said the contrôleur-général, and, with a little bow to Eliza, sat down.

Now—since the ranking man in the room had done it—all others were eager to join in.

"First we enact the simple Bill of Exchange," said Eliza, "which requires only four, plus Mercury. Later we will find rôles for the rest of you." For several had gravitated over from different tables to see what the commotion was about. "This table is Lyon."

"But, Mercury, already I cannot suspend my disbelief, for the contrôleur-général does not go to Lyon," said Pontchartrain.

"We will remedy that in a few minutes, but for now you are in Lyon. Sitting across from you will be Étienne, playing the rôle of Lothar the Banker."

"Why must I have such a ridiculous name?" demanded Étienne.

"It is an excellent name among bankers—Lothar is Ditta di Borsa in Lyon, Bruges, and many other places."

"That means he has impeccable credit among other bankers," said Pontchartrain.

"Very well. As long as the fellow is as well-reputed as you say, I shall accept the rôle," said Étienne, and sat down across the table from Pontchartrain.

"You have money," said Eliza, and used one hand as a rake to sweep a pile of coins across the table so that it ended up piled before Pontchartrain. "And you wish to get it—here!" She strode through the double doors to the Grand Salon where a backgammon game had been abandoned. "Madame de Bearsul, you are a merchant banker in London—this table is London."

Madame de Bearsul approached London with a show of cringing, blushing, and hand-wringing that made Eliza want to slap her. "But, madame, I know nothing of such occupations!"

"Of course not, for you are so well-bred; but just as Kings may play Vagabonds in masques, you are now a merchant banker named Signore Punchinello. Here, Signore Punchinello, is your strong-box." Mercury clapped the backgammon-set closed, imprisoning the game pieces, and handed it to de Bearsul, who with much hair-patting and skirt-smoothing took a seat at London. Monsieur le chevalier d'Erquy pulled her chair out for her, for, anticipating Eliza's next command, he had followed them into the Grand Salon.