On the other side of the antechamber were three bedrooms, each leading into the other since only palaces have that expensive waste of space called a hallway. The comtesse demanded the front sleeping chamber, Harry we put in the middle, and Astiza and I took the rear. There we reconsummated our marriage while trying to muffle the noise as much as possible, though I suspect Astiza didn’t mind if an audible cry or two escaped to annoy Catherine.
I prudently bought some sheaths at a barber since it would be reckless to impregnate my wife while spying. I blew into the intestines to make sure the condoms didn’t have holes. “Once we’re done with Bonaparte we’ll have a bigger family,” I said.
“When we’re done with him? Or he’s done with us? With peace we’ll add a daughter.”
“And little Harry?”
“He fits into tight places, like you said he did in Syracuse. So he remains a partner in adventure until we’re finished here.”
“It’s a curious occupation we have, Astiza.”
“True. We’re qualified for not much besides spying, treasure hunting, war, and sacred mysteries. Yet somehow we make a living. It makes you enviable to men who don’t know better. You’re a hero, Ethan.”
Some hero. It was my job to empty the chamber pot in the cesspool that led to the sewers. I also pitched our dirty wash water out a small rear window into the courtyard below, and then closed the glass against the smell. Water, at three sous per bucket, was delivered twice a day, but I had to carry it from our stoop up the stairs. We bought from a waterman who drew only from fountains, not the polluted river, so each bucket cost an extra sou.
With forests cut back for centuries, firewood cost thirty-eight francs a cart, and there were stories that cold snaps forced veterans of Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign to burn the mummies they’d brought home as souvenirs. Astiza pronounced such sacrilege mad with magical risk, but I thought it eminently sensible since the market for powdered corpse tissue as an aphrodisiac had collapsed, given the disappointing results. The newest enhancement for lovemaking was asparagus. Men ate it manfully when fed by their wives, but it accomplished little but to change the color of pee. In any event, we nursed our fuel, donned nightcaps, and argued over candles, which cost four francs a pound.
“Our domestic situation is entirely too cramped,” Catherine would complain. “I’m embarrassed to be governess in such a frugal household.”
“Franklin said it’s easier to build two chimneys than keep one in fuel.”
“He also said wealth is not his that has it, but his that enjoys it.”
I was surprised. “You’re a student of the sage of Philadelphia?”
“No, but I bought his almanac so I could counter your tedious quotations with my own. He also said to lengthen life, lessen meals, but he looks quite well fed in every portrait I’ve seen. Your philosopher is inconsistent.”
“True, old Ben flirted and fed too much, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t right. When I reform, I’m going to write my own book.”
“Eagerly awaited, I am sure.”
“It’s the sinner who knows what it means to be holy. That one I made up myself.”
“Birth makes character. That one is mine.”
So we lived as a den of spies. Harry was thrilled to have both parents again, and we began teaching him numbers and letters. He was fascinated by carriages, wary of dogs, and delighted by pigeons. On June 6 we celebrated his fourth birthday, buying a cake in the shape of a horse and giving him new shoes and a wooden sword. I also made a toy boat we sailed at Luxembourg Gardens. Out of boredom, Catherine instructed him on the ranks and proper greetings of the aristocracy. When our son wasn’t drilling imaginary troops he would sweep off his cap and bow gravely, pretending we were kings and queens.
Our in-house aristocrat also made lists of how she’d furnish her own salons, once the counterrevolution triumphed. She wheedled as much money from me as she could to update her wardrobe.
“Our stipend is melting like snow, Comtesse.”
“Contemporary dress means we can circulate without suspicion,” she argued. “Do you want us to look like bumpkins?”
“You mean clothes from one season ago?”
“Exactly.”
With espionage difficult, both women became addicted to the new romance novels that had exploded in popularity. The chief duty of the protagonists in these stories was to tragically die, preferably by killing themselves. Long lines of females waited