The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [80]
“She did.”
“Have you asked him about her?”
“We have not. But we have taken her from your custody and placed her in ours. More comfortable quarters than the tsar has, of course, but we wish to question them separately, to see how well their stories agree.”
“Good idea.”
The minister smiled indulgently. “Thank you. I do have some small experience in these matters.”
Franklin hesitated for an instant. “It would not be wise to treat her too roughly. We need her cooperation. She knows the secrets of many of the Russian weapons, the countermeasures that might defeat them.”
D'Artaguiette shrugged. “Very well. Though I have no great hope of any victory. Nor, I think, do you.”
“Then why did you make that fine speech?”
“Because I meant it. I thought in allying with the English Pretender I would save these pitiful remains of France. You showed me that I was wrong, for which I am indebted to you. Nothing can save us. But my king, at last, is moved to do something. If one must die—and we all must, yes?—then it should be done grandly, in good style. And so I will pretend, with you, that we might survive to see another year.”
Franklin smiled. “You misread me. I do speak with confidence I do not have, but I have no wish to die grandly. I'm simpler than that. I want to die in bed, when I am very old. Comfortably. I do think we can win this fight, d'Artaguiette.” And for the first time, he realized that it was true. He did believe it.
D'Artaguiette shrugged again. “Good for you,” he replied.
“Will the king speak to the tsar?”
“He will. Would you care to be present?”
“Very much. Would you mind a bit of advice?”
“No.”
“Clean him up first. Let him shave and bathe.”
D'Artaguiette looked surprised. “My impression of you is that you have little regard for the niceties of royal prerogative.”
“Your impression is correct. But treat him well, and, if you want him as an ally, you will have made a good start. And if you do not, his head will come off the easier without that beard.”
D'Artaguiette actually chuckled. “A good thought. You have read Machiavelli, I wonder?”
“I haven't. I try to rely on good sense rather than dead men. After all, they are dead, which shows they were perhaps not so bright after all.”
The tsar looked no less fierce shaved, cleaned, and dressed up. He should have looked silly in his too-short knee breeches—no clothing at court was available for someone of his stature. But somehow he didn't.
He gripped a cup of brandy in one hand and brought it to his lips often.
“Majesty,” Franklin said, bowing to Philippe, who occupied an armchair—the only furniture in the small, dark salon. D'Artaguiette and four musketeers—and now Franklin— completed the party.
“Mr. Benjamin Franklin,” d'Artaguiette announced.
The tsar swayed toward Franklin, his eyes narrowing.
“So, you are Mr. Franklin.” His French had a thick sound to it. He stuck out his hand.
“I am.” Remembering Venice, Franklin felt a sudden, unexpected loathing. He ignored the hand.
The tsar was faster than he looked. The back of his fist snapped Franklin's head and sent him reeling against the wall. He tasted blood, and one of his teeth felt loose.
Franklin bounced back to his feet and launched himself at the tsar, both fists swinging. He landed a solid punch on the monarch's jaw before the musketeers grabbed him from behind and yanked his arms painfully into the small of his back.
For an instant, he thought the Russian would strike him again, while the soldiers held him helpless. The tsar raised his hand as if to do so —then carried it up to his jaw, rubbing it ruefully.
“Let him go,” the tsar said. “Let him go.”
The musketeers didn't comply until Philippe repeated the order.
The tsar retrieved his cup, which he had dropped during his fit of rage. A Negro servant entered the room and filled it with brandy. He drank it down and held the cup out to be filled again. He kept his eyes fixed on Franklin the whole while.
“Mr. Franklin,” he rumbled, “I am very tired. I have ridden for many, many miles. More, I