"Of course!"
'The experts—surgeons, physicians, lawyers, clerics — took eight months to hear all the evidence. And it took me almost as long to . . . er . . . penetrate the closed chamber. They did more than hear the evidence. They saw it."
"What do you mean?"
"Visual inspection characterized much of the first stages of the trial. The examinations began with the couple entering a closed-off room with two surgeons and two physicians. The surgeons probed, patted, rubbed, and measured Monsieur's organ of generation. It was very small and, in one physician's words, 'accompanied by cullions no larger than hazelnuts.' In addition to their diminutiveness, it seems Sieur Hugon's 'hazelnuts' were recessed, almost not showing at all. But the lawyer for Monsieur was well prepared, arguing that certain creatures — lake trout was the example he gave—have their testicles completely concealed. 'Does that,' he asked the court, 'prevent them from spawning?' The analogy greatly impressed the judges. At this stage in the trial, Monsieur Hugon had a good deal of support.
"Next, the experts wanted to determine Monsieur Hugon's ability to rise to the challenge of sexual congress. It gets a little tricky establishing just how they tested him, since they masked some of the deliberations in Latin." Plumeaux squinted at his notes. "It seems it is called ut arrigat. After some six hours of effort, and with the aid of various devices, Monsieur Hugon shouted for the experts to enter his bedroom. They determined he had, indeed, provoked an erection. It was, however, an equivocal one. Cullions the size of hazelnuts and an erection 'displaying the consistency of a limp vegetable' (again, a physician's words) did not convince the panel. Judgment was suspended, and attention was redirected at Madame Hugon. That is when your Alexandra was brought into an examination room for a test made all the more difficult since she refused to disrobe."
"I am not surprised."
"They called for ut vas saemineum referet."
Claude interrupted. "I can do without the Latin."
"I will try to cut it from the report when possible. The experts were there to determine whether intromission was possible. They checked her urine and found it clear and fine. They looked for wounds, ulcers, and congenital malformations of 'the cabinet.' These explorations revealed that she had been granted a working vessel under the norms of canon law. The problem, it was quickly concluded, was not with Madame Hugon. But then, I imagine you are well aware of that!"
"Continue."
"So they went back to Monsieur Hugon. A little ut in vase seminet. I am sorry, but it's rare that I am so attentive in my transcription. It would be a shame to waste the Latin."
"I have actually come across the phrase in the Medical section of the Curtain Collection. The generative seed, is it not?"
"Precisely. Monsieur Hugon had to prove he could ejaculate. That is when the real battle started. Monsieur's lawyer, a man of great eloquence, insisted that such a test was wholly unnecessary, that one look at his client proved he was healthy. The lawyer said, 'He has neither too much nor too little facial growth. Beards, as is well documented, grow from the abundance of humor flowing downward by force to the cullions, which attracts the prolific matter of generation.'
Claude had read as much in the book on masturbation Alexandra had provided.
"The experts," Plumeaux continued, "were not convinced. They rejected the lawyer's argument. After four nights of effort, in which he sweated through countless sets of sheets, Monsieur Hugon finally admitted failure. His lawyet claimed the impotence was only temporary. He called for separation of bed and table. It was rejected. He called for a trknnium, three years of enforced habitation, citing—if I can read my notes—Justinian and the confirmation of Pope Celestine III. This, too, was rejected. One final plea: separatio sacramentalis . Divorce. Again, rejected. None of these compromises compensated for what the court ruled to be a larceny. Monsieur Hugon failed to satisfy his conjugal duty, thus providing the legal basis of the annulment as detailed in De Frigidis et Malefiriatis . The marriage was dissolved like sugar in wine. Monsieur Hugon is forbidden to remarry and will be forced to pay a substantial sum to his wife in damages. Madame Hugon is free."
Claude teased apart the various strands of Plumeaux's juridical memoire. It offered answers to many questions the liaison had provoked. It explained why the pornographic Hours of Love had been ordered. They were to serve Monsieur Hugon as a stimulant at a time when there was still hope. It explained Madame Hugon's comments at the Globe. It explained her subsequent talk of court petitions and proceedings. And, happiest of all, it suggested that Claude's aspirations for a strengthened reunion were now attainable. She had her freedom, and she had wealth. Now all she needed was someone to give her what her ex-husband had been unable to provide. Claude could certainly manage that.
A globe pivoted, a fountain sprayed, a waterwheel turned. The heavens danced, the birds sang, and the wind blew under control. Claude's tribute was complete. The celestial globe rotated with the precision of an orrery. Its caps had been shaped and stitched with an attention that would have made Le Monde an envious man. On the advice of an artisan in the Faubourg St.-Antoine, Claude had applied a compound of water and whiting, with just enough hemp to prevent cracking. He had hammered out a frame that provided the globe head with equable motion. On the surface he painted amorous nymphs and satyrs. In the middle of this firmament, sparkles of mica plotted out a constellation in the form of Claude's browbound mistress. An image of Alexandra stretched between the first of the contiguous stars in the eye of the Archer and the lowest star of Castor's loins.
Across from this mounting, Claude hung an oilskin bucket to catch the dripping of yet another roof leak. The weight of the water-filled bucket pulled a cord that activated the rack-and-pinion movement of the pepper-stuffed barn owl. When the owl reached the wall, it turned its head and glared through two of Piero's finest eyes. ("Imported," he had boasted to Claude.) The eyes looked out on a fountain adapted from the business end of one of Livre's tinned enema pumps. Water sprayed onto oyster shells that opened to reveal little pearls. (Actually, boiled-down fish scales). In a little cliffside scene, pieces of strass sparkled like polished diamonds in unmined stone. Below that, an overshot waterwheel, boxed and fronted with glass, turned, its joists and axletrees with their tiny oaken blades moving a cut cam that was connected to a set of carved whistles. The whistles simulated the sounds of the nightingale, the cuckoo, and the cockerel.
Only the linnet appeared to be missing. But, of course, it was not. It nested in a bed of pilewort lined with Claude's own hair. He had rejected more common materials such as flax. The linnet sat on three pale-blue eggs with reddish markings. The eggs had been blown by Piero, who used a filed-down piece of pinion wire and a rinse of clove oil to achieve the best results. Though the Venetian had tended to the feathering of the linnet, the internal mechanism had been made by Claude alone. The bird released a chirp indistinguishable from that of its living cousins.
Amid all these joyful ratchetings, one scene in the garret grotto was jarringly sad. Below the linnet's nest, in a dark corner of the room, came the sound of the young inventor himself. The young inventor was crying.
To understand why Claude was crying necessitates a detailed account of the events that immediately followed the revelations of Sebastian Plumeaux.
Claude had every reason to be joyful and expectant. Alexandra was free of her husband, granted honorary if less than honorable widowhood. The masterpiece—or mistresspiece, given the source of its inspiration—was complete. Yet on the very afternoon he hoped to be reunited with Alexandra, the liaison was severed forever.
With news of the trial's outcome, Claude had packed his thoughts with fantasies that were as intricately contrived as the objects in his garret. Impatient to glory in unfettered reunion, he intensified preparations. He purchased some hay for the floor of the garret and groomed himself in the manner Alexandra had come to expect. That is to say, he washed himself but applied no pomades, no aromatics, no wig. He wore the rustic clothing to which she was partial. As he hurried to the Hugon residence, he passed through the poultry market, hoping that the odor of chickens would further intoxicate her.
Alexandra, alas, was not at home to be intoxicated. Claude was rebuffed at the door by the domestic, who said only, "She is out" until a petty bribe wrenched further information from her. Alexandra, exhausted by the trial, had reserved space in the magnetic tubs of the Hotel de Coigny.
Claude rushed to the Hotel on foot. When he reached the entrance, it was clear from his appearance that he was not a client. (Some of the poorer classes were treated in the Coigny courtyard, but that was only on Sundays.) An imposingly uniformed doorman of foreign origin refused to let him pass. He shook his gold epaulettes and muttered a heavily accented oath through his big mustache. The strategy that worked with Ma-dame's domestic also did the trick with Ivan, who licked the whiskers on his upper lip as he palmed a small coin. Claude walked through a courtyard and down a long, arched corridor, where he soon met another member of the uniformed guard. Entry again was barred. Having spent what funds he had, Claude relied on lies to push past this final barrier. He said he had a message to deliver from Madame's lawyer. Reluctantly, access was granted.
He looked around. He was in a room that mixed elements of the bathhouse, salon, and laboratory. It was filled with useless pieces of experimental apparatus, a pair of inlaid endtables, a bird cage, a commode, and a large wooden tub.
Alexandra was squatting in the tub, her body submerged in a viscous liquid, her head poking over the top. Claude was shocked to find that she was trussed up with leather straps that recalled a tale from the Medical section. She was being treated by the infamous nephew of the previously mentioned American glass harmonica maker. The nephew had applied magnetic lode-stones to Alexandra's fingers and nose, and to one of her breasts.
Claude did not hide his astonishment. Madame Hugon did not hide hers. After exchanging looks of dismay, the two exchanged exclamations.
"You!"
"You!"
Sensing the tension, the nephew, William Temple Franklin, excused himself. Left alone with Alexandra, Claude quickly confessed all that he had learned about her newfound freedom. She said she was not surprised, newsmongering being what it was in Paris. She did, however, express outrage at the specificity of his intelligence and the speed with which he had acquired it. She insisted that they discuss the matter privately.
Claude had anticipated this, and suggested a trip to his lodgings, filled as they were with declarations of love. She agreed, though halfheartedly. "I imagine there can be no more scandal than there's already been. One more visit would be acceptable, I suppose."
'The first visit," Claude corrected. "You have never seen where I live."
Alexandra resisted giving the reply that came to mind. Instead, she had Claude undo the strapping in the tub but insisted that he turn around when she lifted herself out. Behind a screen in the corner of the room, she took off the costume— a heavily woven tunic to which the leather straps had been attached—and reapplied the layers of linen, calico, and satin that constituted her dress. A few minutes later, a wig poked over the top of the screen, and a few minutes after that, Madame Hugon was ready to leave.
As they coached to Claude's dwelling, she explained the reason for the treatment. "It began when I first tried to overcome the impediments of my marriage. It was one of a dozen methods I attempted, harmless if costly. It gave me a certain pleasure unobtainable elsewhere." Claude detected implicit criticism in the last remark.
"Will you continue?" he asked.
"I doubt I will be able to pay for it in the future."
Neither one spoke as they climbed the rickety stairs to the garret. Alexandra caught her dress on the banister of the second floor and soiled her gloves on the rail of the third. Arrival at the fourth was marked by the stench of Piero's lodgings. He was tawing a swordfish. Alexandra vomited up some bile. She put a cambric handkerchief to her nose.
"The tub treatment must make you sensitive," Claude said.
Alexandra did not accept this explanation. "Must we stay here?" Even before she crossed the threshold, Alexandra had had enough. Matters worsened. She hit her head on the lintel, at the very spot where Claude had carved a love token. She reciprocated childishly, slapping the wooden support. This revenge only extended the pain from head to hand. When she stepped inside, Claude knew that the plan was not proceeding as he had hoped.
"I need to sit down," she said, complaining of distemper of the stomach. She searched for a chair but could not find one. Claude pulled the chain that released the bed from its upright position. It swung down with such unexpected force that Alexandra jumped back, raising another bump on her head. By this time, it was useless to point out the delights of the garret. Alexandra glared at the owl that moved back and forth across the exposed beam.
"Bavarian eyes," Claude said. "Piero thinks Venetian glass is overrated and overpriced. That may be a rejection of his own heritage. Look here." Claude pointed to the globe. "The constellation satisfies the commission I could never before complete. Do you remember?"
"Vaguely."
Claude was hurt. He had imagined the tour of his lodgings would serve as a flirtatious prelude to an afternoon of lovemaking. He misjudged the response of his muse.
"This is no lodging," Alexandra said. "It is a drunkard's doll house. To think I supported such an undertaking!"
"There is no need to be abusive."
"That is not abusive. This, this, is abusive." Alexandra began to pelt Claude with the contents of her handbag. She launched a tortoiseshell comb and matching lorgnette, a damp cambric handkerchief that fell short of its target, and, most accurately, her gilt-edged pocketbook. The last projectile hit Claude on the cheek.