"Messieurs," Dandels began, casting a weary glance at the gathering of Patriot Party leaders surrounding the map-strewn table, "the Provincial Congress has held its vote. It is decided—we shall lay down arms and enter negotiations with the Orangeists. The parley is set for the day after tomorrow."
A rustle of unease passed through the room. The name alone—Orangeists—was enough to make tempers bristle. They were, after all, the loyalists of Prince William V, the exiled Stadtholder, whose return the Patriot cause had sought for years to prevent.
Seated among them, the French envoy Colbert rose stiffly to his feet, the tails of his velvet coat flaring behind him, and addressed them in a voice sharper than courtesy permitted.
"Monsieur le Président," he said, "the French Cabinet's position has not changed. There shall be no surrender before negotiation. You and your forces need only hold the line—repel the enemy once, and withstand five days' siege. That is all France asks. The rest shall be seen to by His Most Christian Majesty."
Dandels flushed. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the back of a chair. "Monsieur l'Envoyé," he said with forced restraint, "we are not cowards. But you know as well as I—Wilhelmina, that cursed woman, has brought the Prussians down upon us. And now she spreads lies, telling Europe that we have taken her captive."
Colbert raised a brow, cleared his throat, and turned slightly, as if the conversation troubled his conscience. "In my private estimation," he said mildly, "Her Highness has acted from a sense of duty. I would not call her a traitor."
At that, Dandels fell silent. There was something bitterly ironic in seeking liberty with the help of a monarchy. The French envoy, after all, represented a crown—not a republic. Such was the paradox of small nations caught between great powers.
"The truth is," Dandels continued quietly, "twenty thousand Prussian troops are encamped at the gates of Amsterdam. They demand we surrender Wilhelmina. But she is not even in our custody! And we command scarcely seven thousand men—ill-equipped, poorly provisioned."
It had been Wilhelmina's gambit all along: to provoke arrest in The Hague, leveraging her status as a Prussian princess. Though briefly detained, she had been released almost immediately. But the damage was done—Prussia had its pretext. She now resided in secrecy in the border town of Nijmegen, feigning captivity while pleading with Berlin for rescue.
Colbert folded his arms. "We do not require you to win the war, monsieur. Only to show your enemies that resistance will be fierce. The Prussians must know they shall not march through Amsterdam as if into a garden."
He paused, then added, "I am also informed that three hundred French patriots—volunteers, of course—have arrived to support your defense. They bring over two thousand firearms and several pieces of artillery."
Dandels straightened. "Two thousand guns? And cannons?" A flicker of hope returned to his voice. "That is precisely what we lack. But three hundred men—is that all?"
"Do not scoff at their number," said Colbert with a smile. "They are not raw recruits. Many are trained gunners, and a skilled artilleryman, as you know, can carry the weight of a dozen foot soldiers. Remember, monsieur, this may be your only chance to preserve your republic."
There was a long silence as Dandels turned to consult his comrades. Quiet words passed swiftly among them. Then he looked up and said, "Very well. We shall consider it."
An hour later, a vote was held. The Patriot Congress resolved to break off talks, defend Amsterdam, and face the Prussians in open battle.
Two days hence, under cover of night and dressed as peasants, merchants, and beggars, more than a dozen men slipped across the Dutch border and into Nijmegen. Once within the city, they made contact with their French operatives.
In a modest cottage beyond the city's edge, the men gathered around a table bearing a map. Lieutenant Favart, a lean man with the wary eyes of a fox, traced his finger along a shaded patch near the eastern quarter.
"She resides here," he murmured. "The estate of the Countess of Lippe. She rarely stirs from it. We shall wait for Sunday. She attends mass then. That will be our opportunity."
At the Palace of Versailles, the afternoon sun poured gently through the tall windows of the southern wing. Joseph reclined in a velvet chair in his study, one leg draped over the arm, basking in a moment of rare idleness. Since his arrival in this world, he had scarcely had a day of peace. But now—with the tax bill mired in the High Court, and the Dutch situation suspended in uncertainty—there was little to do but wait.
Dr. Lamark had visited earlier, bearing a large vial of the purified salicin Joseph had commissioned. The young prince had urged him not to trouble himself in the future—someone from the household staff would collect the batches henceforth.
Once alone, Joseph uncorked the bottle. A faint scent of willow and medicine rose, clean and sharp. He nodded. The purity was excellent.
From a locked chest beneath the bookshelf, he retrieved the rest of the materials he had prepared earlier: golden glycerin, fragrant rose essence, a set of scales, measuring flasks, and a copper mixing rod.
He set to work at once. A thousand grams of glycerin. Sixty of rose oil. Twenty-two grams of salicin.
When the mixture was done, it shimmered like morning fog, pale violet and sweetly aromatic. But the texture displeased him—it was far too thin. Cosmetics, he knew, must appeal to both sight and touch.
Casting about, his eye fell upon the beeswax candle flickering beside him. He snatched it, broke it into pieces, and began scraping shavings into the bowl.
Soon, the mixture thickened into a fine cream. He tested a dab on the back of his hand—cool, smooth, with just the faintest trace of medicinal sharpness beneath the perfume. Not bad at all.
He summoned his valet and ordered a bottle brought for trial. A beautician was called shortly after, and she consented to have the cream applied to her face. When, after an hour, no irritation appeared, Joseph smiled with satisfaction and put the rest of the staff to work.
By three in the afternoon, fifty glass jars had been filled with the delicate lilac-colored balm. They were sealed and packed into handsome wooden boxes, embossed in gold leaf with their brand name—Eau d'Ange.
Joseph himself carried ten jars to Queen Mary, convinced that no more influential patroness could be found in the kingdom. The other forty were sent to Paris's finest perfumeries, where they were set on consignment at a retail price of fifteen livres each.
As he made his way down the marble corridor, he performed a quick mental calculation. Each bottle had cost scarcely one livre to produce—primarily due to the expense of glycerin, derived in this age from fine olive oil. The salicin, ironically, was almost trivial in cost.
At fifteen livres apiece, subtracting transportation and shopkeeper commissions, he would clear at least twelve livres and ten sous in pure profit. His lips curled in a satisfied smile.
"Indeed," he murmured, "whoever said women's gold is hardest earned has clearly never sold them beauty."
It was no coincidence, he thought, that in all ages, beauty was among the most profitable illusions sold.