She would love it if Fouchй found cause to arrest Lewrie as a spy, to hunt him down, fetch him into court in chains, and put his head on the block, ready to be shorn and tumbled into the basket at last.
Yet Charitй already rued her coming to Fouchй if Mlle. Phoebe Aretino was swept up as a reactionary, a secret royaliste traitor to the Revolution, perhaps even now in league with her former lover, the Anglais spy! Charitй intellectually knew of the excesses of the Reign of Terror, of the slaughter in the surf with shot, bayonet, and sword as those refugees who had not found a ship tried to flee Toulon. Three thousand men, women, and children in the space of two hours, the rumour related! And twice that number perished under Gen. Dugommier's guillotines over the next month after the city was re-taken.
But she had not been in Paris during those times, hadn't seen, heard, or smelled the holocaust, which was now mostly a bad memory to the French, uneasily shrugged off as a temporary necessity. But for men like Fouchй, it would never be over, so long as displaced aristos overseas, beyond his grasp, schemed and plotted to overthrow the Revolution and its new leaders. And there were those to aid them, in France!
"Mon Dieu, I have denounced an innocent!" Charitй whispered to herself as she reached the clean air along the banks of the Seine, recalling how lovely and petite, how vivacious and charming Mlle. Aretino was, had been whenever she'd visited her shop. Would her glorious hair be shorn at the nape, would she die under the guillotine, for nothing?
Fouchй rang a small bell on his desk to summon a clerk. There must be enquiries made about this Lewrie, even so. Laisser-passers were now
required of all foreign visitors, and this Lewrie must have one, issued by the Foreign Ministry, registered at the city gates, and noted by the municipal authorities at the Hфtel de Ville. And every concierge at every hotel or lodging house, no matter how grand or how mean, might as well be in Fouchй's employ, and this would make locating the man and his wife very easy.
Fouchй would send for information from the Ministry of Marine, as well, which kept dossiers on enemy Captains and Admirals, to see if they considered this Lewrie dangerous, beyond the scope of naval combat. He paused in his written demands, wondering if Citoyen Pouzin at the Foreign Ministry, a spymaster and aristo hunter well known to him, might have some information; he had been in the Mediterranean in the 1790s, when the de Guilleri chit said that this Lewrie had been.
"All these enquiries I wish answered by this time tomorrow," Fouchй demanded with an even fiercer scowl. "See to it, vite, vite."
Oddly enough, at about that same time of late afternoon, Citoyen Philippe Pouzin (though no one was ever sure if that was the name he had been given at birth) was sharing a bottle of brandy with an old compatriot from his time in the Mediterranean, though with a certain well-hidden sense of distaste. Pouzin's mission to subvert the Genoese, Savoyards, and Piedmontese in order to aid Gen. Bonaparte's First Italian Campaign had been a smashing success, destroying their will to fight for the British, and buying their zeal to ally themselves with France. He and his underling spies, male and female, had even penetrated the elusive and ultra-secret Last Romans movement, which aspired to unite all Italy once more, and turn it into a world power which would re-take everything that had once been under the old Empire in the Balkans and Greece, in the Holy Land, Egypt, and North Africa. Not only penetrated the movement, but turned it to France's advantage!
For that, Pouzin had been rewarded, promoted, and allowed to be among the living as the various feuding factions of the Directory slit each others' throats and sent each other to the guillotine. He'd been overseas, like Napoleon, safe from the treacherous games. Now he held an elevated position in the spy organisation under the aegis of the Foreign Ministry, and had thickened on a rich, safe salary.
His unfortunate compatriot, however, had not been so successful, and had, if appearances were reliable judges, fallen even further than anyone but the unfortunate Job could dread.
"The West Indies, Saint Domingue, and Guadeloupe were not my areas of concern, Capitaine Choundas," said Pouzin in apology for not being cognisant of Choundas's troubles. "The undermining of the Kingdom of Naples and the Two Sicilies, the retention of Malta, and the Adriatic took all my attention at the time of the Quasi-War with the Amйricains. You have my condolences for your, ah… lack of success."
At least in the Med, Guillaume Choundas had still seemed vital, an active and hearty fellow despite his crippled leg with its rigid iron brace, the stiff black mask which covered his maimed face and dead eye. He'd had two arms the last time Pouzin had seen him, as well! Now Choundas was a grey-haired, creased, and stooping ruin, easily mistaken in his shabby remnants of naval uniform for a street beggar; as pruned and wrinkled and aged as a poor fisherman's grand-pиre.
"You say this Lewrie, the author of all your misfortunes, is here in Paris, eh, Choundas?" Pouzin asked between sips of an excellent brandy.
"I saw him, Pouzin," Choundas insisted in a harsh rasp. "Sure as I know you, did I see you on the street. He lodges in the Rue Honorй, he and his wife. Recall, citoyen, it was a close-run thing that I got the pay chests intended for the Austrians to your agents in Genoa, a hair's breadth ahead of Lewrie's pursuit, and would have made my escape to report to you, but for him. And what he did to our cause in the West Indies…! All our vessels lost, our cargoes captured by the cursed, ungrateful Amйricains… led to them by that salaud. And my defeat and capture. We both know this peace is only a brief pause. The First Consul grows impatient and angry that the faithless Anglais delay the return of our former colonies, stall their evacuation of the island of Malta… which is in your area of expertise, n'est-ce pas?
"Trust me, Citoyen Pouzin," Choundas gravelled, his remaining hand clawed about his glass and his one good eye glaring, "when war comes, that salaud Lewrie will be at our throats once more."
"I gathered, though, Capitaine Choundas," Pouzin replied, "that when we worked together in the Mediterranean, you were dismissive of his cleverness… that you put his interferences in your enterprises down to blind, dumb luck."
Frankly, Pouzin had always been leery of Choundas's excuses for his set-backs and losses, for they were based more on ancient Celtic Breton superstition than anything else. The man saw signs, portents, and omens in the flights of birds, like an ignorant peasant, despite his vaunted level of education, imparted by cynical and worldly Jesuit tutors, of all people! Pouzin also knew that once Choundas was aware that this Lewrie was in the vicinity, he'd allowed his wits to be focussed more on the man's destruction than upon the job at hand. Pouzin could plainly see why Choundas might wish revenge, having been so ravaged and made to match his old nickname of Le Hideux-The Hideous-by anyone, much less his bкte noire, his imagined nemesis, Lewrie.
"You have spoken to people at the Ministry of Marine, mon cher Capitaine?" Pouzin asked him, feeling sympathetic enough to top up the poor ogre's glass.
"Bah, those indolent and smug bourgeois new-comes! They arrive at nine, do no work 'til ten, then depart for dйjeuner at twelve, not to return 'til three, and go see their wives and mistresses at five, the bear-skin slippered…!" Choundas almost howled with rage, choking on his beverage, and his bile. "They have no time for the likes of me these days, Pouzin, mon vieux. I upset their digestion."
Choundas's hideousness was certainly upsetting Pouzin's senses, and the time he allowed the old fellow (wasn't he younger than me, he thought?) was cutting into his supper, and time with his mistress.
"So long as he is here on innocent sight-seeing, mon chere, he is of no concern to my Ministry," Pouzin had to tell him, if only to hasten his departure.
"Even though he and that foul Anglais spymaster, Zachariah Twigg, who fooled you when he play-acted the part of Silberberg, a Juif banker from London, have been joined at the hip for decades?" the old cripple accused. "Though I lacked proper support from well-placed spies in the West Indies, we did know that two of Twigg's underlings were active, and that both of them, at one time or oth
er, took passage with Lewrie… one to Saint Domingue to deal with that rebel general, Toussaint L'Ouverture. Lewrie and the Anglais secret service, Pouzin. Their lackey! Not clever, not all that intelligent, but… he does their bidding extremely well."
"I will look into it, then, mon cher Capitaine," Pouzin allowed as an ormolu clock on the mantel over his large marble fireplace began to chime the hour. His mistress would be distressed by his lateness. "After all, what are old comrades for, if not to help each other safeguard the Republic, heu? I will look into it. If there is something to his presence in France, well… perhaps we can find some way to re-pay you for your bringing this to our attention, n'est-ce pas? An increase in your naval pension and a financial reward, hmm?"
Guillaume Choundas tossed back the last of his brandy, his ugly face split with a rough approximation of a pleased grin, which hideous attempt made Pouzin shudder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
What an odd but charming couple," Caroline determined as they readied for bed. She yawned a couple of times, for such late hours in the almost-midnights was foreign to her rural life of early rising and early retiring. They had supped divinely well, with lashings of wine beyond her usual partaking, at one of the most elegant restaurants in Paris, packed to the rafters with the most fashionable and lively of Paris's elite, and had been regaled by Sir Pulteney's and Lady Imogene's quick wit and repartee. Silly though half of it had been.
Afterwards, there had been the theatre, and a grand comedy-Moliиre, of course, an immortal of French theatre-which the Lady Imogene, who indeed had once been a star on that very stage a decade before, still knew by heart; she had translated the cleverest, funniest parts for them in gay whispers in their box closely overlooking the stage.
Lewrie was yawning, too, though he'd managed a few short naps at the Comedie Franзaise, despite Lady Imogene's excited whispers and Sir Pulteney's cackles, guffaws, and donkey brays. Sir Pulteney also had the annoying habit of making idle comments on just about everything and everyone, disparaging a badly tied neck-stock on one gentleman in the box opposite theirs, or the colour of some fetching young woman's gown, the tackiness of too much jewelry-"Cheap paste, most-like, Begad, that! What was she thinking?"
Charming, aye; annoying, as well. Still, the Plumbs had paid for everything, so what was one to do?
"So fortunate that Sir Pulteney married her away from France, before the Revolution, and the Terror," Caroline said as she brushed out her hair. "And she is lovely… in a way. Or was, once."
Meow! Lewrie thought, grinning. Lady Imogene Plumb was petite and wiry, with large, elfin green eyes and a wealth of shining raven-black hair, though her face was that of a slightly "over-the-hill" pixie. "She uses paints… the actress in her, I'd s'pose," he said to show Caroline that he agreed with her, and had not found her pretty.
"Yes, she does!" Caroline agreed. "Even so, though… Lord, that gown of hers! Sir Pulteney must be hellish-rich, indeed, I'd not wish to ascribe Lady Imogene's motives for marrying such a… daft fellow like Sir Pulteney," Caroline cattily said, pausing her brushing, looking pensively into the mirror as if drawing a comparison, "but… a chance to flee France and all the bloodshed, and to a man with so much money… seeming money, rather… "
"Silly as a goose," Lewrie agreed again.
"He does laugh rather a lot, doesn't he," Caroline said, chuckling, beginning to under-brush. "I must admit, though… they seem to be besotted with each other, still. Did you not notice, Alan?"
Usin' my first name, hey? Lewrie exulted; that sounds promisin!
"Can't say that I did, my dear," he said, tossing his shirt at one of his old sea-chests, and donning a dressing robe. "But it takes all kinds, don't it?"
"I suspect a great, mutual passion," Caroline said, done with her hair, and swivelling about on her stool to face him. It sounded wistful.
I'm up for passion! Lewrie told himself, feeling frisky; should I break out the dental powder or settle for a swill-out with brandy?
"Did you think her fetching, Alan?" Caroline teased; it seemed like romantic teasing, at any rate, Lewrie hoped.
"Well, I was too busy tendin' to you on the packet, Caroline," he replied with a non-committal shrug. "Only really met her tonight. Aye, I s'pose she's handsome… in her own way."
"Lady Imogene and I will go shopping tomorrow," she said as she put her toiletry items aside in a roll-up "house-wife," then stood to go to the far side of the inviting bed, nearest the last candle. "You will have another day to yourself. If we are to be presented to that ogre Napoleon Bonaparte, I will need something truly grand to wear, and she has promised to advise me. We cannot let the French form a low opinion of how British people dress. Oh, she has such an exquisite sense of style and taste… as does Sir Pulteney."
"Well, I s'pose I could find something t'do with myself," he allowed, sweeping back the covers on his side of the bed.
"So long as you don't go in search of scents," Caroline said, much more coolly.
"Scents? Hey?"
"Most especially at a shop called La Contessa's in the Place Victor," Caroline said on, her expression and tone hardening, the furrow 'twixt her brows appearing. "A shop run by a Corsican baggage by name of Phoebe Aretino?"
"Uhm, er…! Who? Honest t'God, Caroline, how was I to know she was in Paris?" Lewrie flummoxed. "Mean t'say, rather…!"
Shit, there it is! Lewrie quailed; fourty-two-pound coast guns!
"And it did not give you pause that Lady Imogene and your… whore!… resemble each other remarkably closely… my dear? Here!" she snapped, handing him the candle from the night-stand. "It trust you find the settee in the parlour a pleasant bed for the night!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
By mid-morning two days later, whilst the unsuspecting Lewries were coaching along another bucolic stretch of the Seine, an increasingly concerned Joseph Fouchй was receiving a summary report on what his agents had been able to glean about this troubling Anglais visitor.
"The Ministry of Marine notes that this gars was instrumental in destroying a secret alliance with native pirates in the Far East, back in the bad old days of the Ancien Rйgime," Matthieu Fourchette, one of Fouchй's cleverest and most persistent agents, related to his chief. "A dumb idea, anyway, that wouldn't have lasted a year once war broke out again and the Biftecs put enough warships out there to escort a China convoy," Fourchette told him with a sneer. "Only a Lieutenant, but the Anglais force was directed by secret agents from their Foreign Office. Just a lackey at the time, I'd suspect."
Matthieu Fourchette was one of the few people in France who did not cringe at the mention of Fouchй's name or shudder in fear when in his presence or carefully guard every utterance. Fourchette was too insouciant, too casual and carefree to fear the man he served so well, and it was against his wry and sarcastic, cynical nature. Fourchette did not sit upright, but slouched with his legs sprawled in the chair in front of Fouchй's desk, making free with a Spanish cigarro and knocking ash to the marble floor.
"Now, there's this retired Capitaine Guillaume Choundas's notes, but he's dйbile on the subject of this Lewrie mec," Fourchette breezed on, "and thinks the Anglais is a demon from Hell, sent specifically by the Devil to torment him. I can see why he thinks so, since this Alain Luray Lew-rie… was the one who sliced him up like a veal sausage and crippled him. Odd, though… how often Choundas was put in charge of something that smacked of spy-work combined with combat, and Lewrie just happened to turn up… like a bad penny, as the Anglais say, hmm?"
"Anything recent?" Fouchй pressed.
"We're getting there, citoyen" Fourchette said with a grin. "In the Mediterranean, he put a hitch in Pouzin's plans, again with connexions to the same Anglais spymaster that ran things in the Far East. Poor old Choundas lost his arm to Lewrie that time. Poor old salaud… this fellow just keeps whittling Choundas down to a nub. It's good our Navy retired him, hawn hawn! Anyway…
"This Lewrie did rather well in the West Indies, taking prizes, keeping th
e Nйgres slaves on Saint Domingue, so their uprising did not spread to Jamaica," Fourchette went on. "I spoke to that Citoyenne Charitй de Guilleri, as you ordered… Mon Dieu, citoyen, what a fine young thing, and thank you for the assignment! I'd love to 'dip my biscuit' in that. The fellow did dress in civilian clothes and go up the Mississippi to New Orleans as a spy, though there was no provable direction by Anglais spy agencies, but it is hard to believe that he did it on his own, n'est-ce pas? Then, when we and the Amйricains had our little disagreement, Choundas was out there on Guadeloupe, and, again, Lewrie was instrumental in his last downfall. Crippled the fellow's frigate in his own harbour, and rolled up many of his privateers and smuggler vessels before the Amйricains captured him and his last convoy."
"Perhaps this Choundas is not so demented, after all," Fouchй rumbled. "After that, then?"
"Strictly straightforward," Fourchette said with a shrug, brushing his loose shock of dark hair back from his broad forehead and his oddly pale green eyes that sometimes, in the right light, looked yellow. He was lean and fox-faced, not much above middle height, but despite his insouciance, there was an air about him that made others tread as wary about Fourchette as most did about Fouchй. "A time in the South Atlantic, escorting China convoys, a fight with one of our frigates, which he won… Uhm, there's a note from the Gironde that he was responsible for the reduction of two forts in the bay of the river, a bombardment of troops dug in on the Cфte Sauvage that resulted in heavy casualties, and one of our naval officers who was spying on the Anglais blockade ships, pretending to be a poor fisherman who'd trade with them, sent a letter to the Ministry of Marine to say that the man is a clever liar.
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