Quicksilver (105 page)

RAVENSCAR:
Right. Well, before you make me any more alarmed, I’m off to the printer’s.

WATERHOUSE:
It may be the finest errand you ever do, Roger.

Exit Marquis of Ravenscar. Enter Sir Richard Apthorp solus.

APTHORP:
Woe. Bad tidings and alarums! Fear for England…O miserable island!

WATERHOUSE:
What can possibly have happened, in the Temple of Mercury, to alter your mood so? Did you lose a lot of money?

APTHORP: N
o
,
I made a lot, buying low and selling high.

WATERHOUSE:
Buying what?

APTHORP:
Tent-cloth, saltpeter, lead, and other martial commodities.

WATERHOUSE:
From whom?

APTHORP:
Men who knew less than I did.

WATERHOUSE:
And you sold it to—?

APTHORP:
Men who knew more.

WATERHOUSE:
A typical commercial transaction, all in all.

APTHORP:
Except that I acquired knowledge as part of the bargain. And the knowledge fills me with dread.

WATERHOUSE:
Share it with Pluto, then, for he knows all secrets, and keeps most of ‘em, and basks in Dread as an old dog lies in the sun.

APTHORP:
The buyer is the King of England.

WATERHOUSE:
Good news, then! Our King is bolstering our defences.

APTHORP:
But why d’you suppose the Jew braved the North Sea to come and buy it here?

WATERHOUSE:
Because ‘tis cheaper here?

APTHORP:
It
isn’t.
But he saves money to buy it in England, because then there are no expenses for shipping. For these warlike commodities are supposed to be delivered, not to some foreign battle-ground, but
here
—to England—which is where the King intends to use ‘em.

WATERHOUSE:
That is extraordinary, since there are no foreigners here to practise war upon.

APTHORP:
Only Englishmen, as far as the eye can see!

WATERHOUSE:
Perhaps the King fears a foreign invasion.

APTHORP:
Does it give you comfort to think so?

WATERHOUSE: T
o think of being invaded? No. To think of the Coldstream Guards, the Grenadiers, and the King’s Own Black Torrent Guards fighting foreigners, ‘stead of Englishmen, why yes.

APTHORP:
Then it follows, does it not, that all good Englishmen should bend their efforts to bringing it about.

WATERHOUSE:
Let us now choose our words carefully, for Jack Ketch is only just round the corner.

APTHORP: N
o man has been choosing his words more carefully than you, Daniel.

WATERHOUSE:
Lest native arms fraternal blood might shed,

For want of alien foes and righteous broil,

We’d fain see foreign canvas off our shores,

And English towns beset by armèd Boers. Our soldiers,

if they love by whom they’re led,

May then let foreign blood on English soil.

And if they don’t, and let their colors fall,

Their leader never was their King at all.

1687

To d’Avaux, March 1
68
7

Monseigneur,

Finally, a real spring day—my fingers have thawed out and I am able to write again. I would like to be out enjoying the flowers, but instead I am despatching letters to tulip-land.

You will be pleased to know that as of last week there are no beggars in France. The King has declared beggary illegal. The nobles who live at Versailles are of two minds concerning this. Of course they all agree that it is magnificent. But many of them are scarcely above beggars themselves, and so they are wondering whether the law applies to them.

Fortunately—for those who have daughters, anyway—Mme. de Maintenon has got her girls’ school open at St.-Cyr, just a few minutes’ ride from the château of Versailles. This has complicated my situation a little. The girl I have supposedly been tutoring—the daughter of the Marquise d’Ozoir—has begun attending the school, which makes my position redundant. So far, there has been no talk of letting me go. I have been putting my free time to good use, making two trips to Lyons to learn about how commerce works in that place. But apparently Édouard de Gex has been spreading tales of my great skills as a tutor to the Maintenon, who has begun making noises about bringing me to St.-Cyr as a teacher.

Did I mention that the teachers are all nuns?

De Maintenon and de Gex are so shrouded in outward Godliness that I cannot make out their motives. It is almost conceivable that they believe, sincerely, that I am a good candidate for the convent—in other words, that they are too detached from worldly matters to understand my true function here. Or perhaps they know full well that I am managing assets for twenty-one different French nobles, and they wish to neutralize me—or bring me under their control by threatening to do so.

To business: returns for the first quarter of 1687 have been satisfactory, as you know since you are a client. I pooled all of the money into a fund and invested it mostly through sub-brokers in Amsterdam, who specialize in particular commodities or species of V.O.C. derivatives. We are still making money on India cloth, thanks to King Louis who made it contraband and thereby drove up the price. But V.O.C. shares fell after William of Orange declared the League of Augsburg. William may be full of bluster about how the Protestant alliance is going to rein in the power of France, but his own stock market seems to take an extremely dim view of the project! As does the court here—
tout le monde
finds it tremendously amusing that William, and Sophie of Hanover, and a grab-bag of other frostbitten Lutherans believe they can stand up to
La France.
There is brave talk about how Father de Gex and Maréchal de Catinat, who suppressed the Protestants in Savoy with such force, ought now to ride North and and give the same treatment to the Dutch and the Germans.

For now it is my rôle to set aside any personal feelings I may have concerning politics, and to think only of how this
might affect markets. My footing here is soft—I am like a mare galloping down a mucky beach, afraid to falter, out of fear that she may be treading on quicksand. With markets in Amsterdam fluctuating hourly, I cannot really manage assets from Versailles—the day-to-day buying and selling is carried out by my associates in the north.

But French nobles will not be seen doing business with Dutch hereticks and Spanish Jews. So I am a sort of figurehead, like the pretty mermaid on the bow of a ship that is laden with other people’s treasure and manned by swarthy corsairs. The only thing to be said in favor of being a figurehead is that the position gives one an excellent view ahead, and plenty of time to think. Help me, Monseigneur, to have as clear a view as possible of the seas we are about to plow up. I cannot help but think that in a year or two I shall be forced to gamble all of my clients’ assets on the outcome of great events. Investing round the time of Monmouth’s rebellion was not difficult because I knew Monmouth, and knew how it would come out. But I know William, too—not as well—but well enough to know I cannot gamble against him with certainty. Monmouth was a hobbyhorse and William is a stallion. Experience gained riding the first can only misinform me as to what it shall be like to ride the second.

So inform me, Monseigneur. Tell me things. You know your intelligence will be safe in transit, because of the excellence of this cypher, and you know it will be safe with me, for I have no friends here to whisper it to.

Only small minds want always to be right.

—LOUIS XIV

To d’Avaux, June 1687

Monseigneur,

When I complained that Fr. de Gex and Mme. de Maintenon were trying to make me over into a nun, I never imagined you would respond by making me out to be a whore! Mme. la duchesse d’Oyonnax has practically had to post Swiss guards at the entrance of her apartments to keep the young blades away from me. What sorts of rumors have you been spreading? That I am a nymphomaniac? That a thousand
louis d’or
will go to the first Frenchman who beds me?

At any rate, now I have some idea as to who belongs to the
cabinet noir.
One day, all of a sudden, Fr. de Gex was very cool
to me, and Étienne d’Arcachon, the one-armed son of the Duke, called on me to say that he did not believe any of the rumors that were being spread about me. I think I was meant to be bowled over by his nobility—with him, it is difficult to tell. For on the one hand he is so excessively polite that some affirm he is not in his right mind, and on the other (though he has no other!) he saw me at the opera with Monmouth and knows some of my history. Otherwise why would a Duke’s son even give the time of day to a common servant?

The only circumstance under which a man of his rank and a woman of mine could ever be seen conversing with each other is a fancy-dress ball, when ranks are of no account and all the normal rules of precedence are suspended for a few hours. The other evening, Étienne d’Arcachon escorted me to one at Dampierre, the château of the duc de Chevreuse. He dressed as Pan and I as a Nymph. Here any proper Court lady would devote several pages to describing the costumes, and the intrigues and machinations that went into their making, but since I am not a proper Court lady and you are a busy man, I will leave it at that—pausing only to mention that Étienne had a special prosthetic hand carved out of boxwood and strapped to his stump. The hand was gripping a silver Pan-pipe all twined about with ivy (emerald leaves, of course, and ruby berries) and from time to time he would raise this to his lips and pipe a little melody that he had Lully compose for him.

As we rode in the carriage to Dampierre, Étienne mentioned to me, “You know, our host the duc de Chevreuse is the son-in-law of a commoner: Colbert, the late Contrôleur-Général, who built Versailles among other accomplishments.”

As you know, this is not the first such veiled remark that has been directed my way by a Frenchman of high rank. The first time it happened I became ever so excited, thinking I was about to be ennobled at any minute. Then for a time I affected a cynical view, supposing that this was like a snatch of meat dangled high above a dog’s nose to make it do tricks. But on this evening, riding to the splendid château of Dampierre on the arm of a future Duke, the burden of my low rank lifted for a few hours by a mask and costume, I phant’sied that Étienne’s remark really meant something, and that if I could use my skills to achieve some great accomplishment, I might be rewarded as Colbert had been.

Pretend now that I have dutifully described all of the costumes, the table-settings, the food, and the entertainments that the duc de Chevreuse had brought together at Dampierre. This will spare enough pages to make a small book. At first the mood was somewhat gloomy, for Mansart—the King’s architect—was there, and he had just received news that the Parthenon in Athens has been blown up. Apparently the Turks had been using it as a powder-magazine and the Venetians, who are trying to bring that city back into Christendom, bombarded it with mortars and touched off a great explosion. Mansart—who had always harbored an ambition of making a pilgrimage to Athens to see that building with his own eyes—was inconsolable. There was some blustery talk from Étienne to the effect that he would personally lead a squadron of his father’s Mediterranean fleet to Athens to take that city back into Christendom. This was a
faux pas
of sorts because Athens is not actually located on the water. Therefore it led to a few moments’ awkward silence.

I decided to strike. No one knew who I was, and even if they found out, my status and my reputation (thanks to you!) could scarcely sink lower. “So gloomy are we because of this news from abroad,” I exclaimed, “and yet what is news but words, and what are words but air?”

Now this produced only a few titters because everyone was assuming that I was just another empty-headed Duchess who had read too much Pascal. But I had their attention (if you could see my gown, Monseigneur, you would know I had their attention; my face was hidden, everything else was getting a good airing-out).

I continued, “Why should we not conjure up some news more to our liking, and throw our enemies the Dutchmen into a gloomy mood, so that we may be infused with gaiety and joy?”

Now most of them were nonplussed, but several took an interest—including one chap who was dressed up as Orion after he had been blinded by Oenopion, so that his mask had blood running out of the eye-sockets. Orion asked me to say more, and so I did: “Here, we are susceptible to emotion, because we are people of great feeling and passion, and accordingly we are saddened by the destruction of the Parthenon, for we value beauty. In Amsterdam, they have
investments instead of emotions, and all they value is their precious V.O.C. stock. We could destroy all the treasures of the Classical world and they would not care; but if they hear bad news that touches the V.O.C., they are plunged into despair—or rather the price of the stock falls, which amounts to the same thing.”

“Since you appear to know so much about it, tell us what would be the worst news they could hear,” said blind Orion.

“Why, the fall of Batavia—for that is the linch-pin of their overseas empire.”

By now Orion had come face-to-face with me and we were in the middle of a ring of costumed nobles who were all leaning forward to listen. For it was obvious to everyone that the man dressed as Orion was none other than the King himself. He said, “The doings of the cheese-mongers are a vulgar muddle to us—trying to understand them is like watching muddy English peasants at one of their shin-kicking contests. If it is so easy to bring about a crash in the Amsterdam market, why doesn’t it crash all the time? For anyone could spread such a rumor.”

“And many do—it is very common for a few investors to get together and form a cabal, which is a sort of secret society that manipulates the market for profit. The machinations of these cabals have grown exceedingly complex, with as many moves and variations as dance steps. But at some point they all rely upon spreading false news into the ears of credulous investors. Now these cabals form and join, split and vanish like clouds in the summer sky, and so the market has become resistant to news, especially bad news; for most investors now assume that any bad news from abroad is false information put out by a cabal.”

“Then what hope have we of convincing these skeptical hereticks that Batavia has fallen?” asked Orion.

“My answering your question is complicated somewhat by the fact that everyone here is wearing a disguise,” I said, “but it would not be unreasonable to suppose that the Grand Admiral of the French Navy (the duc d’Arcachon) and the
Contrôleur
of the French East India Company (the Marquis d’Ozoir) are present, and able to hear my words. For men of such eminence, it would be no great thing to make it believed and understood, from the top to the bottom of the French naval and merchant fleets, and in every port from Spain to
Flanders, that a French expeditionary force had rounded the Cape of Good Hope and fallen suddenly upon Batavia and seized it from the V.O.C. The news would spread north up the coast like fire along a powder-trail, and when it reached the Damplatz—”

“The Damplatz is the powder-keg,” Orion concluded. “This plan has beauty, for it would require little risk or expenditure from us, yet would cause more damage to William of Orange than an invasion by fifty thousand of our dragoons.”

“While at the same time bringing profit to anyone who knew in advance, and who took the right positions in the market,” I added.

Now, Monseigneur, I know for a fact that on the next morning Louis XIV went on a trip to his lodge at Marly, and invited the Marquis d’Ozoir and the duc d’Arcachon to join him.

Speaking for myself, I have spent all the time since talking to French nobles who are desperate to know what “the right position” is. I have lost track of the number of times I have had to explain the concept of selling short, and that when V.O.C. stock falls it tends to bring about a rise in commodity prices as capital flies from one to the other. Above all, I’ve had to make it clear that if a lot of Frenchmen, new to the markets, suddenly sell the V.O.C. short while investing in commodities futures, it will make it obvious to the Dutch that a cabal has formed at the court of the Sun King. That (in other words) the ground-work must be laid with great care and subtlety—which amounts to saying that I must do it.

In any event, a lot of French gold is going to be making its way north in the next week. I will send details in another letter.

The diligent
Dutch
seeing the Easiness of the managing and curing the Berry, and how that Part had no Dependence, either upon the Earth, the Air, the Water, or anything else more there, than in another Place, took the Hint, and planted the Coffee Tree in the Island
of Java,
near their City of
Batavia,
there it thrives, bears, and ripens every jot as well as at
Mocha;
and now they begin to leave off the Red Sea, and bring 20 to 30 Tons of Coffee, at a time, from
Batavia,
in the Latitude of 5 Deg. S.

—DANIEL DEFOE,
A Plan of the English Commerce