"To see her was quite enough," Caroline told him. "She's not as fetching as we've heard." An incline of her head led Lewrie's eyes to a woman in a pale pink and white ensemble, with her hair up in Grecian style, and roses in her hair, who was now joining Napoleon.
"Should we scamper, now it's done?" Lewrie asked their chaperone "Or must we circulate and try t'be polite any longer? I don't think he cared much for it."
"A quarter-hour or so, a last glass of champagne, and we could depart," Sir Anthony told them, looking troubled and whey-faced. "And not appear to be fleeing with our tails tucked."
Once back in his appartements in the Tuileries Palace, Napoleon Bonaparte had his body-servant, Rustam, peel him out of his sash and uniform coat. He tore away his own cravat and tossed it on the floor, crossing to the fireplace (Napoleon loved a fire, even in temperate weather) and furiously jabbing at the coals and embers with the poker. He even kicked one of the mostly consumed logs in anger, an act that cost him many ruined shoes and boots.
"Monsieur Bourrienne! Monsieur, monsieur!" he called for his private secretary. "Allez vite! Bring me Talleyrand and Fouchй. I wish to know who thought that… charade a good idea!"
And it did not do his simmering temper any good that it took a good quarter-hour for Fouchй to appear… without Talleyrand.
"Where is the salaud? Still fumbling under that silly Madame Grand's skirt again, Fouchй?" Napoleon snapped.
"I would suspect so, General," Fouchй sarcastically replied. "Is this about the Englishman? I am relieved that the affair is over, and that he had no ulterior designs upon your life. All my careful precautions proved un-necessary," he added, almost preening, awaiting his master's thanks. "A day or two more of sight-seeing and they will be gone, now the exchange is done." Bourrienne had warned him that the First Consul was angry, and why.
"I will not be settled in my mind 'til the fumier is back across the sea, Napoleon spat, poking at the fire again. "Much better would it be that my troops had slaughtered that Lewrie and all his men right there in the surf as they came ashore! I read the reports you sent me from the Ministry of Marine… about his connexions with the Anglais secret service, Fouchй. That fellow is more dangerous to France than he appears! Not the sort I'd leave alive or turn my back on without finding a way to neutralise him, did I run across him on the field of battle. What an insult to the honour of France, to lay dead and conquered men's swords before me… to smile and speak of peace when what was really meant was to flaunt their navy's superiority to my face and present me with the blades of abject failures! As a warning to France what will happen at sea should we contemplate a vigorous response to their continued perfidy."
Napoleon paced at a rapid gait from one end of his offices to the next, pausing to jab or kick at the fire at the middle of every circuit.
"The fellow is not a Nelson, General," Fouchй pointed out. "He is only a minor frigate capitaine… a very fortunate one, we learn."
"Fortunate?" Napoleon scoffed, giving the fire another poke. "A soldier or sailor makes his own fortune, Fouchй! Non non, what the Ministry of Marine reports of his doings shows me a man born for war. In time, he might become another Nelson… another pestilent, obnoxious, poorly educated and piss-proud… Englishman! As poorly as our navy has done so far… non. It might be better for us that this salaud does not… that he drops dead of something would… Ah, ohй," Bonaparte barked. "Here at last, are we, Monsieur Talleyrand? I wish for you to explain to me what gain there was in that ignoble theatric you recommended so highly… that you forced me to endure!"
"I will see to it at once, General," Fouchй said, certain that he understood his master's command to a tee. He was anxious to depart, no matter how much pleasure could be derived from seeing the arrogant, languid Talleyrand being scolded, and a strip of flesh torn from his arse.
"Fine, fine, Fouchй… good work, your precautions," Napoleon offhandedly said with an abrupt wave of his free hand, too intent on scolding Foreign Minister Talleyrand to consider how Fouchй might interpret his idle, spiteful wish. "Now, monsieur… tell me what…"
Fouchй left the offices and quickly made his way out of earshot, his keen mind already laying plans, contemplating the methods and means, and organising a list of likely personnel to fulfill the First Consul's order.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It had been a grand jaunt up along the Seine to Melun and Fontainebleau to tour the pristine forests and the grand hunting lodges of the displaced nobility; over thirty English miles each way, but more than worth it, for the side-trip had soothed Caroline into calmer takings. That, and several smaller vineyards' best wines, and heartier provincial dishes than the effete kick-shaws found in Paris.
Still, it felt grand to kick off shoes, coat, and waist-coat and sprawl on one of the settees in their rented parlour-Lewrie upon one, and Caroline on another, in stockinged feet, too. She was tucked up with a new book in her lap when there came a rapping on the hallway door. Jules went to answer it.
"Stap me, if the Lewries didn't get eaten by the Corsican ogre!" Sir Pulteney Plumb brayed as he swept in, bestowing an elaborate bow to each with a flourish of his hat. "Imogene and I are dyin' of curiosity as to how your levee at the Tuileries Palace went, so much so that we simply had to barge in and enquire, haw haw haw!"
"Main-well, if ye like 'icy' and 'threatenin'," Lewrie said as he got to his feet. "You find us not quite ready to-"
"And, to extend an invitation to supper this evenin', where you may reveal all the juicy details to us," Sir Pulteney blathered on. "I have discovered a pearl of a wee restaurant in the Rue Saint-Nicaise. Odd's Fish, but their vol-au-vent, their bouchйe а la reine, and their sautй а la provenзale are simply divine, and you must try the place… before you leave Paris. Oh, do say you will join us… Our treat?" Sir Pulteney tempted, then added, "Imogene and I have news to impart to you, as well, which news you will find astounding, sir and madam."
"Well," Caroline said, cocking her head to one side and looking at her husband. "If you do not find our travelling clothes too plain, Sir Pulteney."
"Begad, Mistress Lewrie, no fear o' that, for you are always elegant," plumb pooh-poohed. "It is we Plumbs who may shame you, haw!"
Indeed, Sir Pulteney was garbed in darker, soberer fashion than was his usual wont.
"'Tis a splendid evenin' for a stroll before we dine… grand for both appetite and the digestion, to which the French pay particular care," Sir Pulteney further suggested. "A turn along the Seine in the twilight?"
"Yes, let's," Caroline agreed, deciding for them.
A quarter hour later, after they'd dressed, the three of them slowly ambled along the Galerie du Louvre, enjoying the coolness of a breeze off the Seine and the soft, lingering amber sunset. Sir Pulteney had babbled, brayed, and japed most amusingly, plying his walking-stick with the panache of a regimental drum-major, but then fell into an unaccountably gloomy silence. At last, he turned his head to look at the Lewries, and muttered through a fool's smile.