“I thought,” said Augustus drily, “that we had agreed to speak sensibly to one another.”
“I’m not sure I didn’t like you better in your silly guise,” said Mme. Delagardie darkly.
“It’s too late now,” said Augustus. “The adverbs are out of the bag. Unless you’d like to pretend we never had this little conversation?”
He was offering her the chance to eradicate all of it, including her careless confidences about the Bonaparte clan. That was the sort of thing that could be accounted treason these days. It took so little—a thoughtless word, an uncomplimentary comment about Bonaparte’s receding hairline—to bring one to the attention of the Ministry of Police. Was she really that naïve? Or was it simply that she considered herself protected?
“No,” said Mme. Delagardie decidedly. “If we are to work together, we ought to deal plainly with each other. Oh, and there’s one more thing.”
“Yes?” The falsely casual tone of her words sent all of Augustus’s instincts humming. He had learned to be wary of one more things.
Mme. Delagardie held up both hands. “Don’t look like that! It’s nothing dreadful.” She took a deep breath and then blurted it out. “Hadn’t you best call me Emma?”
From the mixed-up files of Augustus B. Whittlesby: a correspondence tentatively dated between May and June of 1804. From the absence of any address on the back of the paper, it seems likely that these notes would have been delivered by hand, on Mr. Whittlesby’s side by a variety of convenient urchins (see dirt smudges), and on Mme. Delagardie’s by a footman with a taste for some sort of pastry involving powdered sugar.
A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie
Will I see you at Mme. Salpietre’s tonight? We can continue our discussion there.
Cordially,
A. Whittlesby
E. Delagardie to A. Whittlesby
You will call on me tomorrow afternoon, won’t you? I promise to supply the cakes if you bring a clean version of the first act. Mine is entirely scribbled over and interlined, and if even I can’t read it, how will our actors? I do like your idea of having our pirate king be a pirate queen instead. It will be just the role for Miss Meadows. She does like slashing about at people.
On a note only somewhat related, if you won’t wear a jacket, at least fling on a cloak. I could see the goose pimples beneath your shirt last night at Mme. Salpietre’s salon. Admittedly, she stints on the coal, but even so. I should hate to lose my collaborator to something so pedestrian as a chill. Footpads, perhaps, or highwayman, or even a jealous husband, but a mere breeze? Decidedly passé.
With warmest expressions of esteem,
E. Delagardie
A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie
Am I to deduce from this that you care? Your solicitude warms my frozen flesh.
If Mme. Salpietre weren’t too cheap to light proper fires, there would have been no such problem.
I shall be there tomorrow without fail. Bring out your cakes.
Warmly yours,
Augustus
E. Delagardie to A. Whittlesby
For a man who makes his living by words, you are remarkably stingy with them in correspondence. I would feel quite neglected if I didn’t know you had used up all your ink composing a soliloquy for Americanus.
I am, however, quite obdurate on this matter of external garments. If the temperature would deign to rise…if the wind would cease to blow…if the sun would shine past midnight. You can come up with all the excuses you like. I understand that poets are particularly prone to consumption. I am convinced it is entirely on account of the wardrobe.
I don’t want you dying on me, you absurd man. Who else would supply me with adverbs? In case you’ve forgotten, we still have two-thirds of a masque to write.
If you appear without a cloak, I shall be forced to take you shopping for one.
Unconvinced,
Emma
A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie
Have you never heard the adage of the pot and the kettle, my dear Mme. Preachiness? Having seen you last night in what can amount to no more than a whisper of gossamer and thistledown, I can only assume that you are deliberately courting consumption in order to establish your bona fides as a member of the poetic fraternity.
By shopping…Is this an attempt to get me to carry your parcels again? I thought you had footmen for that.
Augustus
p.s. If it makes you feel better, I do own a perfectly serviceable cloak. If you require proof, I will even deign to wear it.
E. Delagardie to A. Whittlesby
Yes, it did make me feel better, even though you did look rather silly stalking through Saint- Germain on a sunny day all wrapped about in wool with only the top of your head showing. My footman thought you were there to rob the house and had to be soothed with a stiff brandy, even though we all faithfully assured him that highwaymen stalk highways, not private residences.
Why do I suspect that on the next chilly night, you’ll be back to your shirtsleeves?
I’ve had an idea about our masque. What do you think about having Americanus run off with the Pirate Queen instead? Cytherea, while lovely, seems a bit insipid. It would be a twist that no one would ever expect!
Emma
p.s. The package contains some of those currant cakes you like so much. Please eat them so I don’t.
A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie
Not if the Pirate Queen is played by Miss Meadows. This is meant to be a comedy, not a tragedy.
A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie
Please forgive the terse tone of my earlier missive. I wrote in haste and some horror. You were jesting, were you not? Let’s just say you were, for our mutual peace of mind and the good of mankind.
