"Which does not agree with Pouzin's, or Choundas's, opinions, citoyen" Fourchette pointed out. "They think this Lewrie just lucky, or well-tutored. Un type de poorly educated Anglais officer, one who will do anything to avoid being called 'too clever by half,' n'est-ce pas?"
"Which public face can disguise a wealth of cleverness," Fouchй snapped, ill at ease with what he'd heard so far.
"This Lewrie did run into legal troubles last year," Fourchette told him. "He stole a dozen Nиgres slaves from an Anglais planter he'd duelled with… from the family, that is… to crew his ship, then was tried in absentia and sentenced to be hung, but… the Abolitionists in England got him off."
"Perhaps he is lucky, as well," Fouchй commented.
"Two medals, participated in the battles off Ushant, at Cape Saint Vincent, and Camperdown, and lately at Copenhagen," Fourchette tossed away. "Got sent into the Baltic, alone, to scout the Danish, Swedish, and Russian fleets before the battle… the new Anglais head of their Ministry of Marine is said to have appointed him to the duty directly. It is also rumoured that he carried two Russian nobles home… men who are further rumoured, so the Foreign Ministry dossiers say, to here participated in the assassination of the late Tsar."
"What? Assassination, you say?" Fouchй perked up, going into an instant rage. "How sure are those dossiers, Fourchette?"
"Oh, citoyen… ," Fourchette disparaged, flicking more ash on the floor, "speculative, at best. The Foreign Ministry people whom I talked to about it don't believe the Anglais could ever undertake anything that simple and direct. The Russky aristos most likely wangled a rapid way home, promising a diplomatic solution… so they could be in at the kill, and prosper on their own. That's how Talleyrand and the rest of the Ministry interpret it."
"Talleyrand and his grands lйgumes are a pack of simple fools, Fourchette!" Fouchй barked, rising to pace with his hands in the small of his back, head down, and unconsciously imitating his idol, the new First Consul, Napoleon Bonaparte. "Limp-wristed, over-educated, closeted aristos, and arrivistes! They would not recognise a rampaging bear in their dining room… They'd call it a hungry foreign visitor with no fine manners such as theirs! You have placed this salaud under observation Fourchette?"
"Since the first moment I spoke with you, citoyen" Fourchette assured him. "A rotating crew of watchers, so he will not take alarm, even should he be here to spy on us, and has been instructed in tradecraft. The concierge at his lodgings reports he and his wife mostly spend their time here in touring cathedrals, palaces, and such, with shopping and dining. The Comйdie Franзaise a few nights ago, accompanied by another Anglais couple, uhm… " -Fourchette had to refer to his notes for a moment-"neither of them are fluent in French, and he is the biggest offender. Both need the aid of bilingual servants and guides for even the simplest exchanges. Hardly what one would expect of a man sent to spy on us," Fourchette said with a shrug and a sniff of derision.
"No, it is not, is it?" Fouchй said, raising his head and ceasing his frenzied pacing, calming as quickly as he'd raged. "What are they doing today?"
"Coaching along the Seine, citoyen" Fourchette told him. "Taking the air. Under observation by at least six watchers."
"Well, then… perhaps…," Fouchй allowed, sitting back down behind his desk and running his heavy hands over his bald pate. "Our terrified Capitaine Choundas… our deluded Citoyenne de Guilleri… both have good cause to seek revenge on this Anglais, and imagine him an agent of the Devil. In so doing, they magnify this Lewrie's cleverness and guile. To get me to do their dirty work, hein?"
"Pardon, citoyen." One of Fouchй's clerks, a fellow much warier of his employer than Fourchette would ever be, tremulously rapped on the half-open door. "You are busy, citoyen? A letter has come from Minister Talleyrand, at the Foreign Ministry?"
"Oui, bring it," Fouchй snapped, waving the man in impatiently and snatching the folded and sealed letter, winking at Fourchette as he did so. "More foolishness from that oily, lame bishop, the lecher. Mon Dieu!" Fouchй exploded a moment later. "Zut alors! Putain! Mort de ma vie! The fucking fools! Get out, get out, get out!" he barked at the little clerk, and threw the letter at Fourchette, startling the wiry younger man to his feet. "At the next levee, two days hence, the First Consul will greet the very man we discuss, Fourchette! They've come up with a piece of diplomatic theatre, in the name of peace, bah!
"The Anglais, this espиce de merde, this fumier, Lewrie, will present to Bonaparte some swords he'd taken from defeated French captains, asking for one of his taken by Napoleon from him years ago! So everyone can applaud and fawn and simper about what good friends we and the sanglants now are! Within the reach of a dagger to Bonaparte, within a point-blank shot of a hidden pistol!"
"Are they mad?" Fourchette exclaimed.
"Non, Fourchette… deluded by their own foolishness," Fouchй accused, eyes darting about the room for something he could smash, and not regret later. "Suddenly, it all makes sense, that this man is a spy, an assassin sent to destroy our head of government, and start the overthrow of the Republic! If the salaud did have a hand in the assassination of the Tsar, last year…! The faithless, perfidious British have sent him to do this."
"Uhm, citoyen… how might he plan to escape, once the deed is done?" Fourchette pointed out after a brief, quiet moment. "And would a man, even a mad Anglais, endanger his wife, as well? If she is here in Paris, will she not be presented with him? I do not see how anyone could be ordered to face certain death for both himself and his woman. And for England to envision such an act, hein? Surely, they know it would mean immediate war."
"Which they might be planning on," Fouchй hotly rasped. "Their army and navy might even now be mobilised, just waiting for news of the success of their murder!"
"Have we seen any sign of that, citoyen?" the more practical spy suggested. Fourchette suspected that Fouchй saw plots where he'd put plots were he in their enemies' shoes, and had spent so many years at sniffing out opposition where there really was no opposition, that he had become as fixated as that dйbile old sailor, Choundas.
Despite what Fourchette publicly espoused about the Revolution and the Republic, he was too pragmatic a fellow to give heart and soul completely; such sentiments-for a fellow who held very few sentiments- were the social oil necessary to keep his delightful career, and gain him plum assignments which guaranteed his steady rise in the Police Nationale. The Committee of Public Safety, the Directory, the Triumvirate, and now the First Consul, Hell… they could bring back a king, an emperor, and he could really care less.