Chapter Two - There Is No Royal Road to Learning

    This evening, at this very moment, Francesca was bored. She was reading the latest scandal about an Englishman who had been poisoned by his mistress because he had bought her last season's Corsette Amazone. She rolled her eyes, ‘Tsk - men - they will never understand us.’ Sighing to herself, Francesca thought that anyone who bought something so dreadful and so uncomfortable and so unromantic a gift for his love, even if it was not his true love, ought to have been poisoned. She would have made him wear it for a day and a night and then poisoned him herself! 

    She dropped the newspaper onto the Ottoman rug, with its very fine and detailed floriate design of Turkish flowers and blossoming branches. She frowned, worrying only briefly, that someone might disapprove of it occupying that particular spot on the floor - and pushed it slightly to the left with the toe of her rose-coloured slipper, thereby adding it to the already accumulated stack of last week’s journals. It wouldn't really make any difference in this apartment anyway. ‘Men are so filthy,’ she muttered to herself, stepping over it, and to the window.

     Opening the large glass panes to allow the room to breathe, she watched a fine layer of dust become unsettled by the breeze and dance from surface to surface in the filtered light. Francesca turned her attention from the room and studied her reflection in the uneven glass. She was sixteen and naturally beautiful. She smiled. To her mind it was difficult not to be beautiful when you were sixteen. 

   Infinitely more important, however, and fortunate for her - she was Italian. It was very nearly impossible not to be practically perfect if you were young and Italian! Silently thanking her mother and father, she pulled her dark curls off her face and studied herself critically for a moment. She wasn't unhappy with what she saw, but really, what a waste. She was in her prime, and instead of having men die at her feet as a result of some incredibly romantic duel, she found herself trapped in this dreadful apartment because her uncles forbade her to go out alone. 

    Francesca turned away from the glass and gazed out over the city, and daydreamed, and while she daydreamed, something peculiar happened. In the aged, warped glass of the window, her reflection didn’t turn away and mimic her, as a reflection should. Instead, it blurred over and then paused, studying her with an expression not characteristically found on Francesca’s face ... it was a grown-up expression. There was in this reflection an almost sinister narrowing in the eyes, a slight downward curl to the lips, and then, with the passing of a cloud - it was gone.

    With her elbows on the rail, and the palms of her hands firmly wrapped around her chin, Francesca slowly awoke from her musings as she heard the low rustling of linens flapping in the wind. The sound grew louder and louder, the loud snap of silk in the wind filled the air, and then the laughter and singing of a hundred sailors burst from somewhere outside and above her. She held on to the railing, and leant out, shielded her eyes from the setting sun until she saw the source of the noise - one of Napoleon’s magnificent airships on its way over to England! 

    Since Bonaparte soundly trounced the Duke of Wellington at the battle of Waterloo, more and more of the Emperor’s soldiers were placed there to keep the peace, and help in the administration of the former British Isles. Francesca loved the great airships and their magnificent, round, golden balloons tied to the huge wood bulks of the Man O’war. 

    The ship was covered all over in patriotic flags and she could see the sailors climbing in the rigging as they pulled on the great white sails overhead. ‘Oh how I long to be on a ship such as that,’ she thought. ‘Imagine the parties on board and the handsome well-bred men it undoubtedly contains!’  Francesca turned herself back round and pouted. Laying across the windowsill with her eyes closed, she let her feet rise off the carpet. Perfectly balanced, she imagined she was floating over the city. She could smell the horses, the smoke, see the colourful markets full of people, the birds flying below from church-spire to chimney-top. She spied the shoppers through the glass ceiling of the Gallerie Colbert and finally drifted around and around Notre Dame. This wasn’t just any city, why, this was Paris! 

    Here she was in the most modern, wonderful and prodigious city in the world, and she couldn't even leave the apartment. Inwardly sighing she opened her eyes and turned to examine her prison. 

    The apartment was obviously a bachelor's apartment. The walls were covered in all manner, model, size, and shape of timepieces that had been acquired to aid in the pursuit of knowledge. Her uncles had left papers, various pieces of clothing, pictures, prints and currently in-progress science experiments boiling and bubbling among unfinished, and forgotten mouldy breakfast, lunch and dinners that languished across the one very big table in the centre of the room. It was a disaster. Well, she wasn't here to clean up after them, and she wasn't going to either. She glared at the room. She wasn’t going to lift a finger.

    Her thoroughly modern mother had sent her here every summer, all the way from her provincial hometown of Bergamo, in Italy, to get an education from her Uncles when Napoleon had decided to use the town and its great citadel as a base for his soldiers. An education. Francesca had no interest in stitching, sewing, or cooking, she wanted to dance! She wanted to think marvelous, modern thoughts, she wanted to be alive!                                  

      She was too young to remember her father. He had run away from the futile battles, and disappeared to fight in the resistance when Napoleon had crushed Italy under his boot. All the men that stayed were forced to become part of his Grande Armée, so she couldn’t blame him for wanting to leave, but she did wish that she had had a chance to learn from him. Instead, every summer, she was sent away for a few months to Paris. She would grow a little, and, with any luck, learn a little as well. 

    Now, if only her uncles were actually around! Instead, they were, more often than not, out all day and all night. ‘Her uncles ... humph.’ She clicked her tongue and grimaced at the thought of them. 

    Uncle Antonio was shortish, roundish and had more hair growing out of his ears than upon his head. He wore spectacles, and was a much respected Professor of Flexible Horological Sciences at the Sorbonne. Uncle Rudolpho, beautiful Uncle Rudolpho, was quite the opposite. He was tall, slim, athletic, with dark shoulder-length hair, big black eyes, and lovely, ferocious, curling moustaches. He was not among the brightest of men, and spent his days getting into fights, avoiding being conscripted, and somehow finding time to play jokes on poor Antonio. She smiled. Well, he was funny. Funny, charming, and a master at using the sword. He reminded her of the dashing men she wanted to notice her, and the kind of man her mother told her really ought to be avoided.

     Finally, there was Uncle Leo. Leo was very nearly a twin of Antonio; both of them be-spectacled, and physically indistinguishable ... though Francesca might admit to Leo being a little bit rounder.

    Antonio and Rudolpho never bothered Leo when he was at home, which was not very often, nor had he been for some time. Leo and Antonio had a falling out over who came up with the idea for the excelo-chronometre first, and this caused no end of tension between the two brothers. Leo now spent most of his time abroad.

    It was clear to Francesca that Leo was the most intelligent of the three siblings, and he was also the most difficult to understand, and secretly, her favourite. 

                                         She missed him. 

    Sometimes she would see him sitting at his big old oak desk, taking notes in a leather-bound diary, or working away on one of his looking-glass theories whilst muttering to himself. Sometimes she only knew he was there from the lingering smell of candles that had been extinguished before she came down in the morning. For now, they kept in touch through correspondance. Indeed, she laughed, learnt and lived through the modern miracle that was the Post.

    Francesca yawned, pushed two plants, three bottles and one shoe off a chair and sat down. What a room! All this mess ... but with two small advantages. There were, very happily, cats! Yes, cats. Her uncles who couldn't look after themselves, somehow acquired two of the loveliest cats in all of France. The fact that they had most unfortunately named them the “Small Orange One” and “The Big Grey One” was no matter to Francesca. 

    Suitably unimpressed at their lack of imagination, she had re-christened them “Principessa Pesca” and “Oliver.” They were her constant companions in these particular moments of boredom, and she treasured their proffered company and the happy knowledge that neither rat, nor mouse, ever dared set paw, claw or tail anywhere near 25 Rue de la Fontaine. Francesca smiled at the two felines and, as the church bells and numerous timepieces began to remind her that midnight was fast approaching, she got up and made her way around the bric-a-brac to the stairs and the one room that was clean, her room, and bed.

                                                      ***

    She quickly changed into her nightgown, and began sorting through her letters. Francesca loved reading her mail before going to sleep, as she hoped the images in them might carry over into her dreams. She picked at the pile and spied an envelope from home. Breaking the seal confirmed it was another letter from her dear mother asking if she had learnt anything of value from her incorrigible siblings. Smiling to herself she decided to respond to that one after a good night’s sleep.

    The letters she was looking for were near the bottom of the pile. A small stack of clumsily folded parchment with her uncle Leo’s unmistakable, wax signet-ring seal pressed into each one. These letters were her real lessons during the summer holidays. Oh, uncle Antonio did his best to be sure, she thought, but she knew which lessons, and which teacher she preferred. Beloved uncle Leo did his best to keep her mind nimble and educated, but in a less conventional way. He was her absent professor in her young life. She slipped her slim fingers under the tongue of the envelope and broke the seal of the first one.        

     Note to a Niece

    Dearest Francesca, 

    Allora, come stai? I trust you are well and good? Your French, I hope, is as improved as your Latin and Geometry!  I hope, too, that you have mastered the art of working with lo Specchio, as you will need her sooner than you think.

    It would be nice to sit down and test your skills again, but as you can imagine I am as busy as ever. I find myself longing for a chance to dine with friends and family ... even with those two brothers of mine! But, at the very least I can find solace in not having to eat what the French call cuisine, eh? I have made significant progress since our last communiqué, and I think you will be surprised by what I have discovered! I believe your assessment of my previous adventure an insightful one and I applaud your exceptional aptitude at coming to the same conclusion as I so quickly. 

    So, young one, once again I ask if you can assist me in Paris. Some say this war has ended, but you and I know better, the capital of the world is still governed by the Tyrant, and a tyrant must be fought for everyone’s sake. We need to keep our wits about us and watch for the right moment to strike, and that moment may be upon us soon, so I hope you have kept up your studies, and kept them secret from my unfortunate brothers also. I need you to be sure of yourself and to trust in your abilities, there is so much more at stake than we had previously thought. Young one, I know you think I’m a tiresome, tottering old man, and that tiresome, tottering old men are rarely interesting, but really dear, you must listen. 

    I must admit that there was a time when I was nothing more than a cog collecting, pinion polishing, pallet pounder. In short, a watchmaker’s apprentice. I haven’t always been the irascible erudite you lovingly call uncle! Oh no, a long time ago (in fact a very long time ago), when I was young ... younger even than you, I was a headstrong foolish little boy with dreams of becoming a soldier in Louis’ army. Yes, I can still imagine the dashing young men with their swords and uniforms..., the way the young girls would respect an officer, not like you girls today, mind. Why, I even had a good head of hair, a veritable voluminous mane any African lion would’ve been proud of! Please, I know you smile, but be kind and don’t laugh. Where was I? Ah yes, my apprenticeship.

    The world, you understand, was different then. I was the apprentice of the most esteemed watchmaker in all Europe, Monsieur Abraham-Louis Breguet. Breguet was commissioned to create the most advanced timepiece known to man, for the most beloved woman known to France. This timepiece not only told the time, but it was also a perpetual calendar, a repeater, a thermometer, a chronograph, a pare-chute ... Why, I half expected it to get up and walk!  Sadly, however, the watch was completed some thirty-four years too late. The intended receiver was long dead and buried when he lovingly concluded. This conclusion, however, was where my life’s work began. Monsieur Breguet knew me to be a rash and proud youth, but (if I may say so) I think he saw the brilliant mind also. For, it was he that gave me my greatest project. He gave me the watch, the marvellous Breguet watch, and he begged of me of finding a way of transcending time and presenting it to the rightful owner, the young Queen, Marie Antoinette, and as you know very well, in this I succeeded. 

    I write you dear one, because I realise now that there was an error in my calculations that have had great and unfortunate consequences for us all, consequences that not you, your uncles, nor in fact anyone in this world is aware of - no one that is, except I and the so-called Emperor of Europe, Monsieur Napoleon. 

    The problem lies in the perception of time and how the perceiver believes only what the eye, nay the mind, tells him to. For this, our study of Looking Glass Theory was instrumental in solving the riddle, but it’s the solution that has confounded me Francesca! 

     I leave today by no less than one of the greatest public airships! As you can imagine I am excited to visit Bohemia and see the wondrous Astronomical device again, only this time, be ready, as we need to be absolutely sure of  Mikuláš of Kadaň’s time-piece! 

    I know you to be an intelligent girl, and I know you can assist me. Look over what I have enclosed here. 

I remain,

Your loving Uncle.