"No, just a visitor with a crate for Monsieur d'Urbec." Mustapha took a fan from his wide Turkish sash and began lazily stirring the sultry air into a breeze about his face. "Enjoy yourself upstairs, Madame," his sarcastic voice followed me up the staircase. Entering my once-beautiful rooms, now crammed with alien furniture, I was entrapped by one of my uninvited guests.

"At last, my poor nephew has spoken from his bed of pain..." I had a vision of d'Urbec turning his face to the wall, deadly silent with pure annoyance, for hours at a time. "...and the first words through his pale, fevered lips were to exonerate you."

"Exonerate me?"

"Oh, how could I have ever suspected your charity? To risk a woman's most precious a.s.set, her reputation, to rescue a hero from a hideous cabal of a.s.sa.s.sins. You are a saint." How interesting, I thought. D'Urbec has come to the obvious conclusion that once a story has been started, there is no way to dislodge it except with another, even better, one. "It is exactly like a romance..." His aunt clasped her hands before her heart.

"Why, yes, it is, now that you mention it," I couldn't help responding. An irritated growl came from the antechamber, which made us both turn our heads.

"I tell you, Mother, I can't have another sip of it! I'm sloshing in beef broth."

"Florent, what's the big box here by the door? Is it yours?" I poked my head into the antechamber to see d'Urbec propped up on pillows; his mother, with a large bowl of soup in her lap, was sitting on the bed beside him, holding an immense spoon. An altogether droll situation for the hero of a court cabal to be in. When he spied me, he blushed. Obviously, he'd heard everything.

"You seem embarra.s.sed, Monsieur d'Urbec," I observed rather pointedly.

"Only that I cannot rise to greet you as befits your rank, my dear Marquise," he responded, his voice weak, but ironic.

"Who brought the crate?" I asked. "Is it more food?"

"Griffon came by to see how I was doing-to wish me well, and say good-bye. Didn't he, Mother?" The little woman on the bed looked up with singular annoyance and set the spoon back into the bowl with a clank.

"It is commendable loyalty that you maintain an old friendship, but why you needed to accept as a parting gift a crateful of scandalous publications, I do not know. The bottom of the river is the proper place for things like that," she said firmly.

"Parting gift?" My eyebrows went up.

"Griffon is selling out. Every day, he says, he runs more risks and makes less money. He found a publisher of Jansenist tracts to buy his press and he's emigrating to Rotterdam, where he says a man can print whatever he likes. He brought me a gift-the stuff he can't risk leaving or smuggling over the border."

"Some gift," I said. "I thought he was your friend."

"That's exactly what I said," sniffed Madame d'Urbec, with a righteous nod in my direction. "Imagine bothering a sick man with things like that."

"He meant well," answered d'Urbec, defending his friend. "It's an entire stock-in-trade..." Griffon had left him an income, for when he recovered. My eyes met d'Urbec's. Neither of us could say more, for fear of disillusioning his mother about her son's current occupation.

"I suppose Lamotte...ah...de la Motte told him where to find you."

"He's been very active on my behalf lately." D'Urbec sighed.

"Now that is the friend you should cultivate," said his mother. "Someone who can do things for you. You must curb your taste for low company, Florent. As I've always said, it takes no more effort to maintain a friendship with a significant person than an insignificant one. I mean it for your good, Florent. You waste your talent. Besides, you have no more room for mistakes."

"Yes, Mother," he said with resignation.

"And don't use that tone with me. You don't know what it is, facing your uncle's stuck-up wife, that barren old stick, after that last little...misunderstanding of yours. Her airs, her fancy hat, the way she steps in those silk slippers, as if her feet were too good for the ground, unlike everybody else's! Oh, how I want to see her face when you are great. Why, the last time I saw her at the draper's, even the lackey carrying her train snubbed me! 'I hope you understand, dear sister, that we can no longer a.s.sociate with your son after...what has happened. Believe me, no one regrets it more than I. The years we sponsored his education-a pity-I suppose we had no right to expect grat.i.tude. But our position, you know.' Her position!" she snorted indignantly.

But she was cut short by Mustapha, who had barely time to announce "The Chevalier de la Motte," with an ironic flourish before Lamotte himself bounded in, filled with a genuine enthusiasm that seemed altogether unconquered by the oppressive heat and garlic.

"So much joy to see you better, d'Urbec!" he announced. "A mother's love-the all-powerful curative. Why, it's a miracle!" D'Urbec glared up at Lamotte while his mother accepted the compliment with a grateful blush. D'Urbec seemed irritated.

"And what is that that smells so delightfully of garlic downstairs?" Lamotte's charm filled the room like a scent.

"An old family secret-a restorative broth. My children have loved it since they were small. They owe their health to it." She beamed.

"Oh my goodness, my dear Chevalier, how gracious of you to visit." D'Urbec's aunt, not to be left out, had trailed in behind him. Then Sylvie appeared from nowhere and began dusting the furniture-low down, where the view of Lamotte's famous calves was better. "What lovely shoes!" exclaimed d'Urbec's aunt. "Of course, in Orleans, we hardly ever see anything so elegant!" Lamotte's shoes, with their high red heels and silk bows, set off the celebrated calves even more. He was in yellow silk, with a narrow falling band of exquisite lace. A wide plumed hat sat atop his magnificently expensive wig of tightly curled, pale blond human hair.

"I just meant to pop in while I was in town and see how you were doing today-I'm terribly busy just now. So many arrangements...They're rehearsing my new play for presentation at court, and I'm off to Fontainebleau to make sure it's done properly. The last light comedy of the season, before the winter of tragedy sets in. Then the stage is ruled by absolutely dreary verse and tragic queens. Though they say Monsieur Racine is planning something that will quite overtop the throng. We wait, we wait, but Racine reads bits and pieces at salons, always preparing, never finishing. I say he has exhausted his genius. No, the world awaits my next tragedy without rivals." He glanced at the women to find them staring at him with admiration, and a little smile of self-satisfaction flitted across his face. "Say, d'Urbec, what's in that crate outside? It looks like one of Griffon's."

"It is. He's leaving, you know."

"So I heard, so I heard. Let me satisfy my curiosity and see what he's left you." The train of women followed him into the next room.

"The man's a blasted magnet for women," announced d'Urbec to me, as I lingered.

"Aha, broadsides," we heard coming from beyond the open door. "Madame de Brinvilliers-execrable verse. 'Man slays himself and family in front of tax collector'-that's old. Oh, here's a new one: 'Infernal Machine Discovered in Toulon Harbor-a Conspiracy of Traitors, Attempts to Explode Flagship, et cetera, Ingenious self-igniting clockwork fuse-'" There was a faint shriek from one of the women.

"Stop him. Shut him up. That busybody Lamotte-" D'Urbec tried to get up. Then he winced and thought better of it. "Go see to Mother, Genevieve-this is a disaster in the making. Tell Lamotte to keep that thing from her."

I hastened into my own bedroom to find Lamotte sitting on the bed cheerfully reading the details of a conspiracy against His Majesty's fleet at Toulon harbor to the attentive crowd of women. But Madame d'Urbec was deathly pale, her hands clasped tight. Mistaking her feelings, Lamotte cried, "Don't be alarmed, Madame, the King's police will trace the conspirators and execute them without delay."

"Enough, Lamotte. Madame d'Urbec has become ill through overwork. Madame, sit here..."

"Oh, dear Lord, oh, he's done it. He's the only one who could have-my Olivier, my son. Why have my sons been born to trouble? Oh, I must go to him-"

"Why, this is terrible," cried Lamotte. "Hey, lackey, some wine for Madame. She's gone all pale." I took advantage of the moment to s.n.a.t.c.h up the broadside from where he had set it down and shut it back in the crate.

When Gilles had brought the wine, I said quietly, "Gilles, take this crate and put it-You know."

"Understood, Madame," he said, and hoisted the heavy thing to take it down to the cellar, where there was a secret door hidden behind the wine bottles.

"We must pack at once, Marie-Claude. The next diligence-if only it's not too late." Madame d'Urbec's voice was weak as her sister fanned her where she lay, half fainting, in my best armchair.

"Mesdames, I will offer the use of my patroness's carriage and footmen to see you to the diligence at whatever hour you may wish to depart. The very least I can do for the honored mother of a dear friend," said Lamotte with a flourish. She looked up gratefully at him, as if half in love already.

"Madame d'Urbec, may I be of a.s.sistance?" I asked, suppressing all signs of emotion from my voice and face. The little woman sat down suddenly in her hired armchair and burst into tears. Taking a large handkerchief out of her sleeve, she wiped at her face in between sobs.

"Oh, what can you, with your rank and ease...and all of this...a lovely town house of your own...gowns, nice furniture..."-she sniffled and wiped her eyes again-"...what can you understand of the grief of being a mother? Six sons I have, and every one a giver of grief. Taxes! Religion! Politics! The old law! The new law! All the things polite people don't mention. But them-they are human incendiaries, every one. It's a family curse, from their father's side. Oh, G.o.d, if they were only daughters, it would be so much easier..."

She sobbed for a while in the midst of the packing chaos, then put away her handkerchief and went into the next room to bid farewell to her son. She emerged dry-eyed and announced: "Madame de Morville, I could not leave my son in more capable hands. G.o.d bless you for your charitable act. The furniture can be returned to the tap.i.s.sier on the rue de Charonne just beyond the ramparts. Just send word and they'll remove it. Here's the account; don't let them overcharge you." And she was gone in a flurry of emotion, Lamotte at her elbow, her sister trailing behind, having left the calves' feet still boiling in the kitchen.

"Well," sighed d'Urbec, lifting his head from the pillow, "there goes my mother and my life savings."

"Don't worry, Florent," I said. "I'll see that you're buried properly." He gave me a swift, sharp look.

"I have every intention of living. I wish to erase the memory of this romantic disaster."

"First, tell me what it was all about. Mustapha, if you must listen in, don't be so obtrusive." The curled-up toe of Mustapha's little Turkish slipper withdrew from view behind the half-open door. D'Urbec sighed and looked at his hands.

"Father would be rich, you know, if he had an ounce of sense. He's a first-cla.s.s clockwork builder and inherited a good business. But he spends his time grieving over lost t.i.tles, tracing his ancestors, seeking unwary patrons for his fantastical schemes, and dreaming of being awarded a pension and a t.i.tle for one of his pet projects. It's Olivier, my older brother, who keeps everything together. In my opinion, he's even better than Father at designing mechanisms and considerably more practical. So, you see, it's only natural that when Mother saw that an infernal machine with an unusual clockwork fuse had been found in the Toulon harbor, knowing the family predilections, she leaped to conclusions. That's all. My mother is one of those who lives for drama. I suppose we all do, after a fashion..."

"But what's all this about a family curse? That is, besides being secret frondeurs and, as I gather from your aunt's busy tongue, heretics?"