Poppy’s use of Cognomina here appears to be an archaic reference to the Roman naming convention of a third “known as” name called a cognomen. This name could either be inherited or adopted.
Poppy’s reference to being Louis Lucas de Nehon can be directly corroborated from several sources. Louis Lucas de Nehon is also spelled Néhou in some texts. In 1999 French author Jean-Claude Lattès worked with the Compagnie de Saint-Gobain to compile a comprehensive history of the company. Louis Lucas de Néhou was detailed as having been director of St. Gobain twice. There is even a photo of Néhou displayed on p. 21 of From Sun to Earth, 1665–1999: A History of Saint-Gobain.
9
Unrelenting rain hissed against the insides of the smokestack and into the furnace. Louis checked the iron pot inside the fiery hearth then realigned the flat, square copper forms on the dark-green granite work table.
“Monsieur, Monsieur!” shouted his valet, Serge, from behind the door.
“Not now!” Louis growled as he bent over the forms.
“But Monsieur, it is Madame Ruebal to see you,” he said apologetically through the workshop door.
“Ruebal . . . Ruebal . . .” Louis said softly to himself as he readjusted his adjustments. “Ramsay!” he exclaimed, straightening up and knocking the whole work table out of alignment. “Damn. Damn it to hell!”
“Sir?” Serge asked, poking only his head around the door.
“Well, show him in,” Louis said, throwing up his arms in disgust.
“Sir?”
“Her, I’m sorry. Show her in.”
“Very good, sir.” His head disappeared behind the door, and a moment later she stepped through. She was a small woman, standing less than five feet tall and weighing about ninety pounds. Her doll-like red-velvet dress was unbuttoned at the top and spotted with dirt.
“Ah, the lovely Ms. Ruebal. Always a pleasure,” Louis said, taking her childlike right hand in his as he kissed the black Embe tattoo on her fair skin. “That will be all, Serge.”
“Yes, sir,” he said as he closed the door.
Louis stepped back and looked at her from head to toe. She had fair, milky-white skin; warm, disarming brown eyes; and brown hair tucked up under a dirty black-velvet hat that lay crooked on her head. “My goodness, you look like hell.”
The muscles in her jaws tightened and rippled slightly as she folded her arms forcefully in front of her small chest. “You never were very suave, were you? I’ll have you know I just finished an all-day carriage ride from Trianon to bring you a message.”
“Oh yes, what did he say?” Louis asked.
She stood in front of him shaking her head like a petulant child. “Drink first.”
“Oh my word, you’re right. Where are my manners. It’s brandy, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“I think I have some around here somewhere. Ah, here we go,” he said, pulling a black bottle and two silver cups out of a toolbox. He uncorked the bottle and filled both cups to the top. “Ramsay, old man, it’s good to see you again. It’s always good to see you, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this ridiculous body.”
She turned up the cup and drank deeply. “You only have to look at it, imagine trying to live in it. It could be worse—at least I’m cute.”
“That you are,” he said, smiling. “What did Le Brun say?”
“He will receive you a week from tomorrow, though he confided in me that he sees little purpose in it.”
“Hmm,” Louis said as he sat the bottle down, “don’t worry about that. If I can see him, I can get the contract.”
“Well, Louis, you’re in. Here’s to your success,” she said, offering a toast.
They emptied their cups at the same time. “What’s Le Brun like?” Louis asked, reaching for the bottle.
“He is a fantastic talent: painting, sculpture, architecture, etching, all top notch. He’s not the official portraitist to the king by accident. He’s very powerful within the ministerial peerage, mainly because he despises most of the others for the talentless lackeys they are. That could work to your advantage. From what he told me, you’ll have to dazzle him. The person most likely to win the contract for the Galerie des Glaces is a Vaux glassier named Joubert. He’s talented, so I’m told, and all the rage in Paris and Versailles.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s quite ingenious, actually. He makes what he calls skinny mirrors.”
“What?” Louis asked.
“Skinny mirrors. He manufactures them with a slightly concave surface that makes one appear thinner than normal. It’s even rumored that His Majesty has one, though he certainly doesn’t need it. Joubert’s star is on the rise, my friend.”
“Rubbish. Ha! Skinny mirrors, what nonsense. Don’t those society cows realize that they’re still their actual size when they walk on the avenues and sit in their opera boxes?”
“That’s not the point. The point is, he’s on the inside and you’re not. But as I said, Le Brun has a good eye and appreciates skill. That reminds me, I was thinking about it on the way here, isn’t a normal mirror like any other? What are you going to do to dazzle him?”
“Ah,” Louis said, walking over to an unused bench along the wall, “take a look at this.” He pulled a small plateglass mirror the size of a medium book out of its leather sheath. She took it and held it out in front of her face. “What do you think?” he said, folding his arms.
She looked at her reflection for several seconds before answering. “It’s remarkable. There aren’t any imperfections. It reflects like a metal mirror, only with more detail. How did you do this?”
“It’s cast instead of blown. That’s what gives it the true surface. The bad news is, I can’t produce them any larger than that, but I’ll be able to soon.12 Do you think Le Brun will appreciate this?”
“Probably, it is remarkable,” she said, turning her head from side to side as she looked at herself. “Huh,” she sighed. “I don’t think I will ever get used to this face.”
Louis laughed quietly. “I don’t know, I kind of like it. Somehow it suits you.”
She smiled sarcastically at him as she handed over the mirror. “Pour me another.”
louis looked nervously across the carriage at Serge, who held the leather satchel containing the only six specimens of cast glass mirrors in the world.
“What do you think our chances are, sir?” asked Serge, fidgeting nervously under Louis’s watchful eye.
“Chances of what?”
“Of you making mirrors for the king?”
“Good, I think. We’ll know tomorrow,” he said as the carriage rolled to a gentle stop in front of the town square. Louis opened the door and stepped out. “Hand me the glass,” he said, leaning back inside. “I’m going to secure a room. I want you and the driver to go around and casually find out whatever you can about a local glassier named Joubert. How does my wig look?” Louis asked, posing for Serge.
“Good, sir.”
“Do you have enough money?” Louis asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Go then. I’ll see you tonight.”
it was dark when serge and the driver walked into the inn’s small, dingy dining room where Louis ate alone. “Sit. Help yourselves,” Louis said. The two young men ate like lions at a kill. Louis watched for a full fifteen minutes before breaching the subject. “Well, what did you find?”
Serge swallowed a large mouthful. “He lives here in Trianon, but his shop is in Vaux. He’s about forty and he’s very well connected in royal circles.”
“How do you know that?”
“Just the way people speak of him. I can tell he commands respect.”
“Don’t forget the wife,” the young driver interjected, his mouth full of food.
“We saw his wife on the other side of the square.”<
br />
“And?” Louis prompted impatiently.
The two young men looked at each other and fought back laughter. “And she’s enormous,” Serge said, as they both burst out in long, laughing howls.
“Enormous?” asked Louis, studying their contorted faces.
“Yes,” said Serge, calming himself, “enormous. Larger than the three of us together.”
“Surely you jest, man.”
“No, Monsieur, it is no jest. Jean here is a witness, he saw her too,” Serge said, pointing to the driver who nodded as he chewed. “And that dress, I’ve never seen so much yellow in one place in all my life.”
“I’ve seen smaller tunics on cavalry mares,” Jean said, chuckling.
“All right, what else?”
“He has no children and lives a short ride west of town.”
“Did you see his place?”
Serge nodded. “It’s about the same acreage as yours, near as I could tell, but with a larger house.”
“Anything else?”
Serge shook his head.
“Good work, lads. You’re both in room two. I’ll see you at sunrise,” Louis said, getting up from the table.
serge and jean were already waiting by the carriage when Louis stepped out into the morning sun. He wore a pastel-blue jacket and pants with white leggings and black shoes. A tightly curled powdered wig covered his brown hair. “How do I look?” he called out to Serge, who walked toward him quickly.
“Marvelous, Monsieur,” Serge said, circling him as a worker bee attends a queen. “Oh, a little bit of hair showing. Just let me tuck . . .” He slipped a lock of brown under the wig. “There, you look perfect, Monsieur.”
“Let’s go,” Louis said nervously as he handed the leather case to Serge and stepped inside.
The ride to Versailles took less than an hour. The palace grounds buzzed with activity. Construction of all sorts was underway in every part of the grounds. Serge hopped out and placed the black-lacquered step stool under the carriage door. “Do you want me to come in with you, Monsieur?”
“No, just have the carriage ready to leave. I’ll find him myself.” Louis straightened his jacket, grabbed the mirrors, and walked up the wide marble steps leading to the main hall. An attendant met him halfway up and escorted him in.
In a time of wigs and makeup, Le Brun wore neither. The long, black, wiry hair bordering his round face fell down almost to the desktop he was leaning over.
“Monsieur Le Brun,” the attendant said softly, “a Monsieur Louis Lucas de Nehon to see you.”
“Yes, thank you,” he said, looking up at Louis.
“I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Monsieur,” Louis said, offering his hand.
Le Brun took his hand normally, then did a double take as he saw the tattoo. “Say, this symbol on your hand, Madame Ruebal has the same one. What is it?”
“It’s an Egyptian good luck symbol that we both saw and fancied during a trip together. We decided to keep it as a remembrance.”
“Interesting. I always wondered what it was, but never thought it appropriate to ask a woman about . . . Well, you know how it is. I’ll make this plain from the start, Monsieur . . .”
“De Nehon.”
“Yes, of course, Monsieur De Nehon, as you can see from the chaos outside, I’m a very busy man. I agreed to meet with you only because Madame Ruebal mentioned your skill as a glassier and said something vague about a new process.”
“Well, let’s get directly to business then,” Louis said, opening the case. “Madame Ruebal was correct about a new process. As you no doubt know, glass and mirrors are made by a blowing, shaping, and cutting process that leaves ripples and imperfections by even the finest craftsmen. But this,” he said, removing a mirror, “this is made differently and has no imperfections.”
Le Brun set his notepad aside and delicately took the mirror from Louis. “It’s thin,” he said, looking at it on edge before admiring his round, fleshy face in its depths. He turned the mirror to different angles, then walked to the windows overlooking the courtyard and compared the surfaces. “This is cast, is it not?”
“It is.”
He turned and walked quickly toward Louis. “This is marvelous!” he said excitedly. “How did you do it? No, never mind that, can you make more of these?”
Louis reached inside and pulled out the other five, one by one, placing them edge to edge on the desk so that they made a larger whole. Le Brun placed the sixth on the desk to complete the rectangle. “I can make as many as you need, Monsieur. In fact, I was hoping to produce several thousand of these for the Hall of Mirrors concession.”
LeBrun’s eyes fixed on Louis. “Interesting idea, Monsieur De Nehon, very interesting. Tell me, please, can you make larger ones?”
Louis swallowed hard. “No, Monsieur, this is as large as I’ve been able to produce yet, but I’ve only been producing these pieces for five months. I’m sure with a little more time, I could—”
Le Brun held up his hand to cut him off. “I understand. You’ll have your time. I want to use pieces of this quality in the project, but there is another problem that may take time. There is someone else who has been promised the concession, but his pieces don’t come close to these,” he said, looking down at himself in the six mirrors.
“Joubert.”
Le Brun looked up at him and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Yes, Joubert. Do you know him?”
“I know of him.”
Le Brun nodded. “Here’s what I can offer you, Monsieur. The project starts in about six months, as soon as the carpenters and masons are finished in the hall. In that time, you may have access to the glassworks at Tourlaville to improve your process.13 I will check your progress, and if it appears we can get pieces of sufficient size, the concession is yours. If not, it goes to Joubert. Is that fair in your opinion?” LeBrun asked.
“When can I start at Tourlaville?”
per le brun’s directions, Louis was given access to all equipment as well as a private shop and office. Louis’s past life experience from Murano was centuries beyond anyone else’s at Tourlaville. But the first enthusiastic weeks stretched into months with only minor improvements in plate size. Tension began to show in the lines of Louis’s face and seemed to increase after each excuse-filled appointment with Le Brun.
“Perhaps we should take a break, Louis,” Serge said, rubbing at his tired, red eyes.
“No, we’re behind schedule as it is. Check the furnace again and see if it’s ready,” he said, bending over to align the copper forms.
“It’s ready!” Serge yelled from across the room.
“Okay, I’m coming. Ready the pot.”
Serge put on his heavy protective leather breeches, sleeved apron, and gloves. Louis buttoned up his apron as he walked over to the furnace. The heavy iron pot used for melting the rough glass stock had specially made thick leather covers that slipped over the handles and allowed them to carry and maneuver it. They both gripped their sides and walked carefully over to the forms. They walked in synchronized steps like dancers, from the hundreds of carefully choreographed trips with the pot empty. If either one fell, one or both could receive fatal burns from the molten glass.
They stopped above the short worktable and gently eased the pot over, filling each of the six forms with the angry orange liquid.
“Okay, that’s it, set it down. Mark the time,” he commanded to Serge, who turned over the hourglass next to him. “Good, good, good, good,” Louis mumbled to himself as he threw his gloves off and started in his notations again.
“We’re going to have a hard time making the deadline, aren’t we, Monsieur?”
Louis ignored him and continued writing feverishly in his notes. Serge watched until he stopped writing. “I told you about the invitation for tomorrow night’s ball, didn’t I?”
“Twic
e,” answered Louis.
“Yes, you’re right. I asked around, and everyone who’s anyone will be there.”
“Ready the light-blue outfit for tomorrow night.”
“Yes, sir,” Serge said, yawning. He looked over at the hourglass. “It’s time.”
Louis looked up from his notes and walked over next to Serge. The forms were twice the size of the examples he had shown Le Brun but still just over half of what was needed for the Hall of Mirrors project. The cooling, wheat-colored glass miraculously cleared before their eyes in the order they were poured. Louis held his breath as he watched the bottoms of the polished copper molds begin to show through, then exhaled as the first one cracked into four pieces. The other five followed at fixed intervals. Louis closed his eyes and dropped his head after the last one cracked.
“It’s late, Monsieur, perhaps we should begin again in the morning.”
“No. Draw more glass stock. Let’s do it again.”
the long hours showed on louis’s face as the attendant checked his invitation in the antechamber. “If you wait until the end of this waltz, I can introduce you, Monsieur,” the attendant said.
“No need,” Louis said laconically as he walked into the main ballroom. Couples whirled and skipped across the polished marble dance floor, while onlookers chatted and fanned themselves. The gilded faces of the numerous statues against the wall sparkled under crystal chandeliers.
I don’t know why I bother to attend these functions, Louis thought as he surveyed the room. I should be working. No. No more work, not tonight. Tomorrow. Start fresh tomorrow, maybe even the day after. It is too late to make the deadline now. Perhaps I should just find some young diversion to take my mind off of it until tomorrow. He reached out and took two glasses of champagne off the tray of a passing host.
The waltz ended, and everyone on the side of the room closest to the door turned as a high-tone bell rang, noting new arrivals. “His Majesty the King’s minister of finance, Monsieur Colbert14 and his wife, Marie.” The couple entered to mild applause. “Madame LaMae du Gascon and daughter Michelle.” Louis was setting down his first empty glass and missed a look at her. “The Viscount Joubert and wife, Emil.” Louis stood on his toes to get a view over the lightly applauding crowd. He was tall, gaunt, and more elegant than Serge had described. He walked in confidently, nodding to several people in the crowd, but his wife was exactly as Serge had described. She wore a billowing brilliant purple dress that resembled a sheik’s tent.
The Reincarnationist Papers Page 12
