The Glorious Cause - Jeff Shaara [111]
He was wearing a fur cap, a simple brown covering that did not hide the uncoiffed hair that straggled down to his shoulders. It was the most modest attire he could fashion together, a simple brown coat over a stark white shirt, none of the ruffles and lace and adornments the French elite considered a requirement for high fashion. If the French had not yet formed their own image of what an American was, Franklin invented one, and offered it to all of France with no embarrassment. There would be none of the fineries, none of the personal trappings of luxury, and certainly, nothing that would make him appear to have once been English.
He wore his spectacles always, kept them low on his nose, peered up over them to the tall ceiling. He marveled at the chandelier right above him, the one understated piece of décor in the room, a ring of tall candles emerging from a small explosion of glass beads, glittering like a mountain of diamonds. He moved to one side, thought, No doubt a capable craftsman fastened it securely. But anyone can have a bad day. No point in placing myself under anything whose sudden collapse could dice me into small bits.
He saw Deane and Bancroft moving toward a long table perched squarely in the center of the room. It was surrounded by ornate chairs, and Deane stood behind one, looked at Franklin, said, “Doctor, would you care to sit?”
Franklin shook his head.
“Not appropriate, Mr. Deane. We must endure the wait.”
Bancroft leaned close to Deane, said, “Protocol requires us to stand until our host has arrived.”
He appreciated Deane’s gesture as much as he appreciated Bancroft’s knowledge of decorum. He flexed his feet into the rug, bent his knee slightly, and a sharp pain ran all the way up his back. He looked at himself in the mirror again, frowned at the expanse of his waist, thought, Too many lavish dinners, too much standing about. I must return to my routine, the long walks. Perhaps this stiffness will be relieved.
There was a flurry of noise, and the tall glass doors swung open, servants stepping in quickly, standing to one side. More men appeared, with pads of paper, all of them falling into what seemed to be a reception line. Now another man appeared, said in a loud voice, “Le Comte de Vergennes.”
The man seemed to be speaking to a roomful of people, and his voice drew the four men closer to the door. Franklin steadied himself behind one of the chairs, saw Vergennes appear in a rush, the man trying to gather himself. Vergennes looked at Franklin with utter horror.
“Oh, my word, Dr. Franklin! Forgive me! I was detained at the royal court. The queen insisted.” Vergennes seemed to catch himself, suddenly aware of the indiscreet comment, and the ears of his staff. He looked at the other three men, produced a smile, said, “On behalf of His Majesty, King Louis, welcome to Paris.”
He turned, said something in French, and two of his assistants seated themselves behind him, on either side of a small table that held their inkstands, each with a pad of paper perched firmly on one knee. The rest of the entourage was quickly gone, the double doors coming closed with a soft click. They had gathered close to the table, and Vergennes said, “Gentlemen, I sincerely apologize. You should not have been made to wait. Were you offered some refreshment?” He looked at Franklin now, said, “Please do not take offense, Doctor. This was an accident, nothing to be interpreted otherwise. You are as welcome here as anyone can be. Please, do sit down.”
Franklin was surprised, thought, Apparently he reads my thoughts. This might make things interesting.
“Please, Your Excellency, an apology is unnecessary. It is of no concern. We