The Confusion by Neal Stephenson

you.”
    “By impregnating me?”
    “I did that out of passion—as did you, mademoiselle, for our flirtation had been lengthy. And yet it did militate in your favor—perhaps even saved your life. You seduced Étienne d’Arcachon the very next day.”
    “I let him believe he was seducing me,” Eliza demurred.
    “Just as I said. Tout le monde knew about it. When you turned up pregnant in the Hague, everyone, including le Roi, and Étienne, assumed that the baby was the spawn of Arcachon; and, when it was born healthy, this made it seem that you were that rarest of specimens: one who could mate with a scion of the de Lavardac line without passing on its well-known hereditary imperfections to the child. I did as much as I could to propagate this myth through other channels.”
    “Are you referring to how you stole, and decyphered, my journal, and gave it to the King?”
    “Wrong on all counts. Monsieur le comte d’Avaux stole it—or would have, if I had not galloped post-haste to the Hague and co-opted him. I did not decypher it so much as produce a fictionalized version of it. And since the King owns me, and all my work, I did not so much give it to his majesty as direct his majesty’s attention to it.”
    “Couldn’t you have directed his majesty’s attention elsewhere?”
    “Mademoiselle. You had been witnessed by many Persons of Quality carrying out what was obviously a spy-mission. D’Avaux and his minions were doing all in their power—and they have much power—to drag your name through the muck. To direct the attention of le Roi elsewhere would have booted you nothing. Rather, I produced for his majesty an account of your actions that was tame compared to the fabrications of d’Avaux; it deflated that man’s pretensions while cementing the belief that the baby had been fathered by Étienne de Lavardac d’Arcachon. I was not trying to rehabilitate you— that would have required a miracle—only to mitigate the damage. For I feared that they might send someone to assassinate you, or abduct you, and bring you back to France.”
    And now he stopped because he had talked himself into a faux pas, and was mortified. “Er…”
    “Yes, monsieur?”
    “I did not anticipate this. ”
    “Is that why it took you so long to get here?”
    “I have already told you that the King’s cryptanalyst has responsibilities— none of which, as it turns out, place him in Dunkerque. I came as soon as I could.”
    “You came as soon as I incited your jealousy by praising Lieutenant Bart in a letter.”
    “Ah, so you admit it!”
    “I admit nothing, monsieur, for he is every bit as remarkable as I made him out to be, and any man in his right mind would be jealous of him.”
    “It is just so difficult for me to follow,” said Rossignol.
    “Poor Bon-bon!”
    “Please do not be sarcastic. And please do not address me by that ridiculous name.”
    “What is it, pray tell, that the greatest cryptanalyst in the world cannot follow ?”
    “At first you described him as a corsair, a boca-neer, who took you by force…”
    “Took the ship I was on by force—pray watch your language!”
    “Later, when it was to your advantage to make me jealous, he was the most perfect gentle knight of the seas.”
    “Then I shall explain it, for there is no contradiction. But first take off that cassock and let us make ourselves more comfortable.”
    “The double entendre is noted,” said Rossignol crisply, “but before I become dangerously comfortable, pray tell, what are you doing in the residence of the Marquis and the Marquise d’Ozoir? For that is where we are, to judge from the scutcheon on the gates.”
    “You have decyphered the coat of arms correctly,” said Eliza. “Fear not, the d’Ozoirs are not here now. It is just me, and my servants.”
    “But I thought you were under arrest on a ship, and had no servants…or did you write those things solely to make me come here the faster?”
    Eliza clamped a hand on