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 other, 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.