The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [28]
“No, Majesty, I fear not. We came in through your back door, a charming but strenuous path.”
“I should think that the wizard of America should have his own flying machines. Did not your old master, Sir Isaac, invent them?”
“Indeed, Highness, but together we discovered that the cost of using them is too high, to body but especially to the soul.”
“Ah, yes.” The king raised his hand, and a Negro servant appeared from behind a curtain to place a glass of wine in it. He took a sip. “Mr. Sterne suggested I arrest you, you know. My ministers like the suggestion very well.”
“I must say, I hope Your Majesty was not swayed by that opinion.”
The king rested the glass on his belly and smiled at it. “Mr. Sterne is a most forceful man. So forceful, in fact, that his suggestion sounded much like a command. I did not like the tone.”
The stale air in the room suddenly felt cleaner to Franklin. “I am most grateful, Sire.”
“Yes. You may take this matter up with Mr. Sterne at dinner, I think.”
“He is still here?”
“Yes, of course, and still eager for my aid in pacifying my cousin's enemies. I suppose you are here to make the opposite case.”
“Yes, Sire, that is so. And to remind you of the treaty we hold with Louisiana.”
“Ah, yes. The Sieur de Bienville was signatory to that, and had not the power of the throne behind him. You are aware of that?”
“Yes, Sire, I am. But Bienville made that agreement in good faith and without knowledge that a king still lived.”
“May I make a suggestion, Sire?” This was one of the courtiers, an oily-sounding fellow with an undoubtedly false mole on his alabaster-powdered face.
“I am always happy for advice from my court, Monsieur.”
“Wouldn't it be amusing if Mr. Franklin and Mr. Sterne were to engage in a contest—perhaps a game of tennis— over the right to further petition you for your aid in this little conflict of theirs?”
“Oh, très amusant,” another courtier echoed.
“You have to understand my court, Mr. Franklin,” the king said. “We are short of the best amusements here. Few of our dwarves survived the last winter, and Indian jugglers have lost much of their power to entertain. What do you think? Shall we decide the future of your country with a tennis match?”
“Sire, I regret that I cannot fully convey to you the gravity of this situation—”
“Gravity! How droll from a student of Newton!” the oily fellow said. They all laughed.
“Did Mr. Sterne explain to you how deeply indebted James is to the tsar of Russia?” Franklin pressed, ignoring the jibe.
“He forecast you would make much of it.”
“Perhaps a fortune-telling contest,” another of the courtiers quipped, “would be more suited to the talents of our English friends.”
Franklin felt a warmth flush his face. “Very well, sir,” he said to the man who had spoken. “I forecast that if you continue in these posturing games of wit instead of paying serious attention to matters at hand, you will find this castle of yours has crumbled about your ears, that devils you cannot even imagine will perch on your bones, and that your wit will be of very little use when you find yourselves extinguished, excised, extinct.”
“Oh, dear,” the oily fellow said. “That isn't entertaining in the least, I find. Have you another soliloquy, perhaps more suited to the occasion?”
The king sighed loudly. “Out, all of you. All of you except Mr. Franklin, begone.”
D'Artaguiette bridled. “Sire—”
“You, too.”
They hesitated, but not for long. More than one gave Franklin a glance that promised their dislike of him was gaining proportion.
“That's better,” the king said, once the last of them had closed the door. He rose from his bed and went to a cabinet, from which he drew a worn blue justaucorps to throw over his dressing gown. He went to the blurred window and gazed out at the muddy mess of New Paris.
“I never wanted to be king,” he said. “Never. I was perfectly content as the duke of Orléans. I could do what I wanted to, then. I could do nothing if I chose.” He turned back to Franklin.