‘A gypsy king. Cleopatra.’ Silano slowly handed it back. ‘Monsieur, you should be a playwright. I will trade you two hundred silver francs for it.’
‘Two hundred!’
The nobleman shrugged, his eye still on the piece.
I was intrigued by Silano’s interest. ‘You said you were going to sell it to me.’
The captain nodded, now hopeful that two of us had been baited. ‘Indeed! It is from the pharaoh who tormented Moses, perhaps!’
‘So I will give you three hundred.’
‘And I will trade you five,’ Silano said.
We all want what the other wants. ‘I will trade you seven hundred and fifty,’ I responded.
The captain was looking from one to the other of us.
‘Seven-fifty and this assignat note for one thousand livres,’ I amended.
‘Which means seven-fifty and something so worthlessly inflated that he might as well use it on his ass,’ Silano countered. ‘I’ll trade you the full thousand, captain.’
His price had been reached so quickly that the soldier looked doubtful. Like me, he was wondering at the count’s interest. This was far more than the value of the raw gold. He seemed tempted to slip it back inside his shirt.
‘You’ve already offered it to me for a thousand,’ I said. ‘As a man of honour, consummate the exchange or leave the game. I’ll pay the full sum and win it back from you within the hour.’
Now I’d challenged him. ‘Done,’ he said, a soldier in defence of his standard. ‘Bet this hand and the next few and I’ll win the medallion back from you.’
Silano sighed hopelessly at this affaire d’honneur. ‘At least deal me some cards.’ I was surprised he’d given up so easily. Perhaps he only wanted to help the captain by bidding me up and reducing my pile. Or he believed he could win it at table.
If so, he was disappointed. I couldn’t lose. The soldier drew into an eleven, and then lost three more hands as he bet against the odds, too lazy to track how many face cards had been dealt. ‘Damnation,’ he finally muttered. ‘You have the devil’s luck. I’m so broke I’ll have to go back on campaign.’
‘It will save you the trouble of thinking.’ I slipped the medallion around my own neck as the soldier scowled, then stood to get a glass and display my prize to the ladies, like an exhibit at a rural fair. When I nuzzled a few the hardware got in the way, so I hid it inside my shirt.
Silano approached.
‘You’re Franklin’s man, are you not?’
‘I had the honour of serving that statesman.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll appreciate my intellectual interest. I’m a collector of antiquities. I’ll still buy that neckpiece from you.’
Alas, a courtesan with the fetching name of Minette, or Pussycat, had already whispered about the handsomeness of my trinket. ‘I respect your offer, monsieur, but I intend to discuss ancient history in the chambers of a lady.’ Minette had already gone ahead to warm her apartment.
‘An understandable enquiry. Yet may I suggest you need a true expert? That curiosity had an interesting shape, with intriguing markings. Men who have studied the ancient arts…’
‘Can appreciate how dearly I hold my new acquisition.’
He leant closer. ‘Monsieur, I must insist. I’ll pay double.’
I didn’t like his persistence. His air of superiority rankled my American sensibilities. Besides, if Silano wanted it that badly, then maybe it was worth even more. ‘And may I insist that you accept me as the fair winner, and suggest that my assistant, who also has an interesting shape, supplies precisely the kind of expertise I require?’ Before he could reply, I bowed and moved away.
The captain, now drunk, accosted me. ‘It isn’t wise to turn Silano down.’
‘I thought you told us it had great value, according to your gypsy king and papal jailer?’
The officer smiled maliciously. ‘They also told me the medallion was cursed.’
CHAPTER TWO
It was a pathetic attempt at verbal revenge. I bowed to Madame and made my leave, coming outside to a night made dimmer by the era’s new industrial fogs. To the west was a red glow from the rapidly expanding mills of the Paris suburbs, harbinger of the more mechanical age at hand. A lantern bearer was near the door and hoping for hire, and I congratulated myself on my continued luck. His features were obscured by a hooded cape but were darker than a European’s, I noticed; Moroccan, I guessed, seeking the type of menial employment such an immigrant might find. He bowed slightly, his accent Arabic. ‘You have the look of a fortunate man, monsieur.’
‘I’m about to get even more fortunate. I would like you to guide me to my own apartment, and then to a lady’s address.’
‘Two francs?’
‘Three, if you keep me out of the puddles.’ How wonderful to be a winner.
The light was necessary since revolution had produced fervour for everything except street cleaning and cobblestone repair. Drains were clogged, street lanterns half-lit, and potholes steadily enlarging. It didn’t help that the new government had renamed more than a thousand streets after revolutionary heroes and everyone was continually lost. So my guide led the way, the lantern hung from a pole held by two hands. The staff was intricately carved, I noticed, its sides scaled for a better grip and the lantern suspended from a knob in the shape of a serpent’s head. The reptile’s mouth held the lantern’s bail. A piece of artistry, I guessed, from the bearer’s native country.
I visited my own apartment first, to secrete most of what I’d won. I knew better than to take all my winnings to the chamber of a trollop, and given everyone’s interest I decided it best to hide the medallion as well. I took some minutes to decide where to conceal it while the lantern bearer waited outside. Then we went on to Minette’s, through the dark streets of Paris.
The city, glorious though it remained in size and splendour, was, like women of a certain age, best not examined too closely. Grand old houses were boarded up. The Tuileries Palace was gated and empty, its dark windows like sightless sockets. Monasteries were in ruins, churches locked, and no one seemed to have applied a coat of paint since the storming of the Bastille. Except for filling the pockets of generals and politicians, the Revolution had been an economic disaster, as near as I could see. Few Frenchmen dared complain too boldly, because governments have a way of defending their mistakes. Bonaparte himself, then a little-known artillery officer, had spattered grapeshot on the last reactionary uprising, earning him promotion.
We passed the site of the Bastille, now dismantled. Since the prison’s liberation, twenty-five thousand people had been executed in the Terror, ten times that had fled, and fifty-seven new prisons had been built to take its place. Without any sense of irony, the former site was nonetheless marked with a ‘fountain of regeneration’: an enthroned Isis who, when the contraption worked, streamed water from her breasts. In the distance I could see the spires of Notre Dame, renamed the Temple of Reason and reputedly built on the site of a Roman temple dedicated to the same Egyptian goddess. Should I have had a premonition? Alas, we seldom notice what we’re meant to see. When I paid off the lantern bearer I took little note that he lingered a moment too long after I stepped inside.
I climbed the creaking, urine-scented wooden stairway to Minette’s abode. Her apartment was on the unfashionable third floor, right below the attic garrets occupied by servant girls and artists. The altitude gave me a clue to the middling success of her trade, no doubt hurt by the revolutionary economy almost as much as wig makers and gilt painters. Minette had lit a single candle, its light reflected by the copper bowl she’d used to wash her thighs, and was dressed in a simple white shift, its laces untied at the top to invite further exploration. She came to me with a kiss, her breath smelling of wine and liquorice.
‘Have you brought my little present?’
I pulled her tighter to my trousers. ‘You should be able to feel it.’
‘No.’ She pouted and put her hand on my chest. ‘Here, by your heart.’ She traced where the medallion should have lain against my skin, its disc, its dangling arms, all on a golden chain. ‘I wanted to wear it for you.’
