King, Ship, and Sword

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Napoleon Bonaparte, all-conquering general and the First Consul of France, always rose at dawn, when the brain was keenest. After one cup of tea in his bedroom, he spent an hour in the marble bath tub, in water kept so hot that Constant, his valet who read the morning papers to him, sometimes had to open a door and duck out into the hallway to escape the thick, foggy steam.

"… at the levee this afternoon, the First Consul will receive an embassy from Great Britain, represented by chargй d'affaires Sir Anthony Paisley-Templeton, escorting Capitaine de Vaisseau Alan Lewrie of His Britannic Majesty's Navy, and his lady…," Constant intoned.

"A prissy, primping pйdй" Bonaparte grumbled. "A shit in silk stockings. They send me titled boy-fuckers, not a real ambassador… and how long has it been since the peace was ratified? Even though my man, Andrйossy, has been named to them for months? This salaud's old sword had been found?"

"It has, First Consul," Constant told him. "Rustam has it."

"Well, let me see the damned thing," Bonaparte snapped. Usually his steaming bath relaxed him immensely and eased his constant problem of needing to pee, yet being unable for long, impatient minutes. But today, it was one vexation after another.

Rustam, his Mameluke servant brought back from his Egyptian Campaign, stepped closer, dressed in magnificent native garb, holding out a scabbarded sword. "Cleaned and polished, General," Rustam assured.

A hanger-sword, no grander than the sabre-briquet a Grenadier of the Guard might carry on his hip: royal blue scabbard with sterling silver fittings, its only decorative touches being a hand-guard shaped like a sea-shell, silver wire wound round its blue shark-skin grip, and a matching sea-shell catch on the throat to fit it into a baldric, or a sword belt. The pommel was the usual lion's head, also in silver.

"And where the Devil did I get it? Remind me, Constant," Napoleon demanded. Young General Bonaparte had always awed his troops with a steel-trap memory for names, ranks, faces, and past heroic deeds… Unknown to them was his preparation, and prompting by officers on his staff to provide those names, ranks, and deeds.

"Toulon, towards the end of our siege, First Consul," Constant read from notes made in Napoleon's own hand in the inventory of his personal armory. "The British officer was in command of a commandeered French two-decker, lowered by one deck and converted to a mortar ship. She was shelling Fort Le Garde, quite successfully, until you gathered General La Poype's heavy artillery and shelled her in return, scoring a direct hit and blowing her up."

"Ah, oui… now I remember." Napoleon brightened up, enjoying the memory. "The survivors swam ashore, and we rode down to take them prisoner. The officer…?"

"Lewrie, General," Constant provided. "Your note says that despite your offer of parole, he preferred to surrender his sword and go with his men."

"He looked like a drowned rat… but he had hair on his ass." Bonaparte hooted with glee. "Oui, just after I took his sword, those 'yellow-jackets,' Spanish cavalry, approached from Fort Sainte-Marguerite, and we had to scramble for our lives, hawn hawn! It was quite a day, Constant… quite a day. Doesn't look all that valuable, though, to me. Not enough sterling silver to make a tea-pot, really. The blade is more valuable. Unsheathe it, Rustam, aha! Made by Gills's. Even better than Sheffield or Wilkinson, or a German's Kligenthal. Now I see why that Anglais fumier wants it back."

When Napoleon Bonaparte shaved himself (not using a servant to do it), he secretly preferred pearl-handled razor sets smuggled in from Birmingham, England, since French steel could not take so fine an edge.

"Put it where we remember it, Rustam," Bonaparte ordered. "Any more interesting items, Constant?"

"Indeed, First Consul. Shall I continue?"

"Red velvet suit today, General?" Rustam asked.

"Non," Bonaparte decided. "If that preening fop Talleyrand is desirous of a theatric with the Anglais, then I must dress for my part… and I do not wish to portray the smiling, peaceful dunce. No one pulls my strings like a puppet! The British lie, stall, and delay… with such wonderful smiles. They play the same game they did with the Amйricains after they lost the Revolution over there. They keep hold of French, Spanish, and Dutch colonies the same way they kept New York and New England, the settlements on the upper Missouri and Mississippi… on the Amйricain side of the Great Lakes. Do the British even say when they will evacuate Malta, for instance? Pah, they do not!

"Today, Rustam," Napoleon Bonaparte instructed, wiping his face free of sweat with a fresh, dry hand towel, "I will appear more martial… as a sign of my displeasure. Lay out my Colonel of Chasseurs uniform."

Though it was but a short distance from their lodgings in Rue Honorй to the main entrance to the Tuileries Palace, a coach-and-four was de rigueur, laid on by the embassy and Sir Anthony Paisley-Templeton.

"Oh, lovely suitings, Captain Lewrie," Sir Anthony gushed once they'd gotten aboard. "You used my tailor? But, of course you did… and Mistress Lewrie, enchanted Your humble servant, Mar'm, and allow me to tender my regrets that we have not, 'til this instance, met. I beg your pardons, but I must also express how lovely you look today, as well. Congratulations. My, won't it be fine, though, as I said to Captain Lewrie, for you to be presented to the First Consul? A day to remember the rest of your lives, aha!"

Stop yer gob, 'fore I do it for ye, Lewrie thought, in no better takings than the first time he'd been exposed to the simpering young twit; Christ, but he will prattle on!

"I am led to understand that a factotum from the First Consul's staff came round to retrieve the swords you are to present to him… All is in order, Captain Lewrie?" Paisley-Templeton enquired.

"Aye, all done," Lewrie told him. "Shifty-lookin' cove."

"You will be thrilled to learn that the First Consul's office sent me a letter, informing me that your old sword has been discovered in Bonaparte's trophy room," Sir Anthony further enthused (languidly), "and will be on-hand to return to you, once the pacific speeches about our new relations are done. Erm… you would not mind looking over a few thoughts that might go down well, were you to express them to the First Consul during the time he gives you, Captain Lewrie?"

"Some actor's lines t'be learned, sir?" Lewrie balked. "Why is this the first I've heard of em?"

"Just a phrase or two, some hopes for a long, continued peace," Paisley-Templeton assured him, producing a sheet of paper from his velvet and embroidered silk coat.

"Well, Hell," Lewrie said with a put-upon sigh, quickly looking them over. "Damn my eyes, sir! Do people… real people ever talk in such stilted fashion?"

"Well, erm…," Sir Anthony daintily objected, blushing a bit.

"Captain Lewrie will phrase things his own way, Sir Anthony," Caroline told the prim diplomat. "With luck, he will be able to get the gist of what you wish said across. Won't you, my dear?"

She was too impressed by the grandness of the occasion to be angry with him today, and sounded almost supportive, as if she'd tease the young fop, too. Almost like a fond wife of long-standing content.

"And, here we are!" Paisley-Templeton said with overt relief as the coach rocked to a stop and a liveried palace lackey opened the kerb-side door. This sea-dog was being a bit too gruff this afternoon for Paisley-Temple ton's liking.

"You do look lovely, Caroline," Lewrie whispered to her as they debarked from the coach, into a sea of onlookers and other attendees garbed in their own grandeur. "Especially so."

That put a broader grin on her face and a twinkle in her eyes as she lifted her head to gaze over the incoming crowd. Lady Imogene had done her proud, with a choice of gown in the latest Paris fashion, with the puffy half sleeves, low-cut bodice, and high-waisted style of the moment. Caroline's gown was a delicate light peach colour, trimmed with a waist sash and hemmings of braided gilt and amber twine, with an additional trim of white lace; all carefully attuned to her complexion, her sandy light-brown hair, and hazel eyes. A gilt lamй stole hung on her shoulders, draped over long white gloved arms, and nigh to the bottom hem of the gown. Some of the late Granny Lewrie's gold and diamond jewelry adorned her ears and wrists, while a gold and amber necklace encircled her neck. Her hair was done up in the convoluted Grecian style, with a braided gilt and amber circlet sporting egret plumes bound about her forehead. And, in the style of the times, her gown was racily shimmery semi-opaque, which, in the right light, revealed almost all of a woman's secrets. In Caroline's case, her gown hinted at a woman who, despite three children and a hearty cook, had kept her figure slim and nearly girlish.

She did frown for a second, though, to look down at her feet to see if her white silk knee stockings or gilt lamй slippers had gotten scuffed or stained. Satisfied that all was still well, she looked back up and rewarded both Sir Anthony and Lewrie with another pleased grin.

"Beard the lion in his den?" Lewrie japed in a whisper to her.

"The ogre in his cave," Caroline quipped right back.

"The troll under the bridge," Lewrie added.

"The dragon in his golden lair," she said with a chuckle, and leaned her head close to Lewrie's for a moment.

"Those feathers'll make me sneeze," Lewrie said.

"Pardon, m'sieur. Permettez-moi, s'il vous plaоt," a uniformed officer in the Police Nationale said to Lewrie, once they were in the large formal receiving hall. "Un moment?" the young officer beckoned to draw him into an alcove, away from the others.

"What for?" Lewrie asked. "Sir Anthony?" He looked for aid.

"I do not know, Captain Lewrie. Un problиme, m'sieur? Damme! He says no one presented to the First Consul can do so without being searched for weapons, Captain Lewrie! This is outrageous!"

"But understandable," Lewrie said, after thinking about it for a moment. "Proceed, sir. Produit, m'sieur," he told the officer as he held out his arms to cooperate. Muttering to himself in English, "And I hope ye're not one t'prefer the 'windward passage.'"

Lewrie got a rather thorough pat-down, though it was obvious that the snug tailoring of his suit precluded hidden weapons; even the inside of his lower sleeves, the tops of his half-boots held nought.

"Lui, aussi, maintenant, m'sieur?" Lewrie asked in his halting French, pointing to Paisley-Templeton. "Him too, now?"

"They will not dare!" Sir Anthony snapped. "This is an insult to his Britannic Majesty, King George, and all Great Britain! A stiff note of displeasure will be on Minister Talleyrand's desk before nightfall, dare they man-handle me, sir!"

"C'est de rigueur, comprenez, messieurs?" the officer said with an apologetic shrug, waving them both back towards the hall doors, and the two men rejoined Caroline at their place in line before those tall double doors as tall as a longboat stood on end. They were surrounded by a rainbow of brightly coloured uniforms of the various branches of Napoleon's army some clanking with spurs on their boots and swords at their hips, which raised Lewrie's eyebrows over his recent search. By those officers and ornately dressed civilian gentlemen stood an host of elegantly gowned women, some of them young, lovely, and flirtatious as they waited for entrйe; lovers and mistresses, Lewrie determined. Wives seemed more dowdy, even though gaudied up something sinful in the same semi-translucent fabrics as the young and firm-bodied. And there were so many egret plumes in hats and hairdos that Lewrie could conjure that every bird in Europe was now bare-arsed.

A majordomo or master of ceremonies loudly announced each pair as they were allowed in, crying above the soft strains of a string orchestra over in one corner of the vast baroque hall. Their turn came at last; first Sir Anthony, then, "Capitaine de Vaisseau а la Marine de Guerre Britannique, Alain Lui… Lew-rie, et Madame Caroline Lewrie!"

That turned quite a number of heads, made officers grip their sword hilts or pause with their champagne glasses halfway to their lips, forced women to goggle or comment behind their fans, and flutter them in faint alarm, as if a fox had been allowed into their chicken coop.

"Are we so infamous?" Caroline had to ask in a soft mutter near his ear once more, her cool and regal smile still plastered on her face.

"We're English… We must be," Lewrie chuckled back. "How do, all," he said to the crowd in a soft voice, nodding and smiling, almost waving in their general direction as they paced down the centre of the reception hall. "Now, Sir Anthony… where the Devil do they keep the bloody champagne?"

First Consul Napoleon Bonaparte had completed his toilet after leaving his bath; his usual routine followed to the letter. He washed his hands with almond paste, his face, neck, and ears with scented soap (from La Contessa's, in point of fact, in the Place Victor), picked his teeth with a boxwood stem, brushed twice, with paste then powdered coral. Stripped to the waist, dressing robe tossed aside and standing in a flannel vest and underdrawers, he had Constant trickle eau de cologne over his head (also from Phoebe Aretino's) whilst he brushed his skin with stiff bristles, and had Constant do his back.

Napoleon donned stockings, white cashmere breeches, and a silk shirt with a fine muslin cravat, with a white cashmere waist-coat over that. He spent his morning at work 'til eleven, when he dined lightly. Then, still in a foul mood, he at last made his decision about what he would wear to the levee. The scarlet-trimmed dark green Chasseur uniform was militant, but not nearly enough.

Bonaparte ordered his dress general's uniform, the long blue tail-coat with the lavish gilt lace trim and scrolls of acanthus leaves. Top-boots, and a red-white-blue Tricolour sash about his waist, over the double-breasted uniform coat.

"Bon" he decided, looking in the cheval mirror. Lastly, he stuck a scented handkerchief in a pocket and a small snuff box into another, nodded to Constant, and headed down to attend the levee… and put those damned Anglais, those lying sanglants, in their place.

Oh, it was an elegant crowd attending the levee! Lewrie expected a scruffy Jacobin mob of sans culottes in ill-fitting coats and red Liberty caps, perhaps leaving their scythes and pitchforks at the door, a bunch of old peasant women knitting and rocking where they could get a good view of the next beheading, but… there were frosty foreign ministers from half of Europe (minus the Prussians and Austrians, of course) with their wives or temporary local courtesans; there were all those aforementioned officers from the Guard, the Chasseurs, the Line infantry, Lancers, and Light Dragoons, the heavy cavalry Cuirassiers and allied officers from the Dutch Batavian Republic, and all of Napoleon's Italian allies… the conquered but cooperative.

Instead of ragged commoners with unshaven chins and loose, long hair, the civilian male attendees were dressed so well they could give Sir Pulteney Plumb a run for his money, and a fair number of them had the graceful and languid airs that Lewrie thought more commonly seen at a royal reception, a gathering of aristocrats, which all the world knew were so despised by staunch French Republicans.

"One'd think they were all titled… waitin' for King Louis the Sixteenth t'come dancin' in," Lewrie pointed out to Sir Anthony as the three of them made a slow counter-clockwise circuit of the hall. "What happened t'all that 'noble commoner' nonsense?"

"Most of the great voices of the Revolution are now conveniently dead sir," Sir Anthony simpered back. "Napoleon has even gone so far as to allow the churches to re-open, and the Catholic Church to restore its presence… with power only over its priests and nuns, not over the state and of course, without its former wealth. That's gone for muskets and cannon. The joie de vivre of your common Frenchman cannot be suppressed The draconian edicts of the Jacobins against riches, their dour insistence on Equality and Fraternity, were too much a pie-eyed idyllic dream, d'ye see, Captain Lewrie. It's against all human nature to believe that one could invent a classless society, with all individual effort directed in support of the state!

"Besides, drinking, eating, and living well, having fine things, and making money is every man's fondest wish," Sir Anthony said with a wry chuckle as he touched his nose with a scented handkerchief. "Next thing you know, this Bonaparte will make himself First Consul for Life, and surround himself with a royal court. Titles will come back, just you wait and see. It'll be m'sieur vicomte and madame baroness 'stead of citoyen and citoyenne, you mark my words."

"Pity our own politicians, like Fox or Priestley, who admired the French Revolution," Caroline said. "How disappointed they must be to see the French slip back to having aristocracy."

"We should begin to introduce you and your good lady about," their young diplomat announced. "The civilian sorts, I'd expect. The military types might be a tad too gruff with us."

"Sounds good," Lewrie began to say, then froze in his tracks. Holy Christ, it's '96 all over again! he thought, goggling at two people he hadn't seen since a night ashore in Genoa in one case, and a night in bed at shore lodgings in Leghorn, in the other.

It was Signore Marcello di Silvano, that hefty and handsome Italian millionaire, once the most powerful senator in the Genoese Republic, the man the old spymaster Zachariah Twigg had identitied as the prime leader of the Last Romans. Lewrie could not be mistaken; the fellow was wearing the same glaring white figured-satin suit with the royal purple trim, the same heavy gold medallion and chain of office atop an aquamarine moirй-silk sash. It appeared that Silvano had picked up a few more baubles of honour to pin to his coat breast, too, most likely from Napoleon.

On his arm, though, was the woman who'd spied on Lewrie and influenced him, pretending to be a North Italian Lombard, but really French from near the Swiss border…! Claudia Mastandrea, looking almost as young and fetching as ever-she of the large, round, and firm breasts that she'd pressed either side of Lewrie's face, of the wealth of sandy blond hair, of large brown eyes, nipples, and areolae the size of Maria Theresa silver dollars! The spy Twigg had ordered him to bed, to pass on disinformation, and a good round lie or two, blabbed in the drowsy afterglow of throbbing, thrashing, hair-tossing, "View, Halloo!" sex!

Signore Silvano (now Duke of Genoa under one of Napoleon's kin) bestowed upon Lewrie a curled-lipped smile and a grave inclination of his head. "Get to you later!" that smile seemed to promise.

From Claudia Mastandrea, Lewrie got one of those momentary gasps and a most-fetching upward heave of her impressive mammaries as she recognised him, as well. Then came a sly, seductive smile, a tilt of her head, a lowering of her chin and lashes.

"Ma'am," Lewrie managed to mutter as he nodded. Thank God but Silvano was of no mind to wait for an introduction, but strolled past, tucking his long-time paramour a little closer to his elbow.

Lewrie took a cautious look over his left shoulder after they had passed, and… Claudia Mastandrea winked at him!

"Someone else you know in Paris… my dear?" Caroline asked. "Ah, hem… met that fellow in Genoa, when I had Jester," he replied, thinking himself quick on his feet for so saying. "A senator at the time… 'til the French bought him off. Already owned half or more of the damned place. A nasty article, Signore Silvano."

"Oh, now this is a good show," Paisley-Templeton excitedly told them, jutting his chin towards the space before the orchestra, where a few younger couples had begun to dance. "Not for them your everyday quadrille or contre-danse, such as we have at home. They're doing the gavotte, a most intricate dance. Takes years of study and practise to perform properly. I fancy myself as a dab-hand at dancing, yet… it is so complicated, the gavotte! I despair of ever learning it."

You look the sort, Lewrie told himself uncharitably. "Napoleon, did you know, refuses to dance unless they play the monaco," Sir Anthony tossed off, intent upon the dancers with glee in his expression, his champagne glass hand gently marking the time, and even essaying a sway and faint shuffle of his feet. "The monaco is simple… as is the new dance that comes from Vienna, the waltz. Means 'walking,' I suppose, or something near it. One actually embraces one's partner… with a discreet space between, of course," he said, lifting his left hand in the air, extending his right. "A couple holds hands… here, the lady places her hand on her partner's shoulder, and the gentleman places his hand on his partner's waist. One dances a box, One step forward for the man, one backwards for the lady… one step to the right for both, then back for the man, forward for the lady, and then left back to where one started, before performing a half-turn to the right, and beginning the box again. Swooping… elegant. Romantic… yet perhaps too racy for English society, more's the pity."

"It has been Christmas since we danced," Caroline said, quite taken with the dancers' movements. "Perhaps if they do play something familiar to us… once we're done with Napoleon… "

"After I've had more champagne," Lewrie said. He'd once been a dab-hand himself in the parlours, at the subscription balls, but it had been years, and stumbling about canted decks on his sea legs was not conducive to elegance or fine style. He was sure he would clump!

As if he'd said "open sesame" a liveried waiter appeared with a tray bearing fresh glasses of champagne. Lewrie gallantly clinked glasses with his wife and turned away to sip deep… and spluttered and coughed.

"M'sieur," Charitй Angelette de Guilleri said as she dipped in a graceful curtsy, on the arm of an officer of Chasseurs, who knocked off a faint bow, wondering who the Devil his girl was greeting.

"Mademoiselle," Lewrie managed to say, bestowing a "leg" in reply, suddenly feeling the heat of the room in late summer, and its crowded body heat of hundreds of attendees. Breaking out in a funk-sweat would be more to the point!

"Madame," Charitй continued with a maddeningly serene smile on her face, curtsying to Caroline this time. "Enchantй."

"Mademoiselle… ?" Caroline said, responding in kind, confused, feeling a flush of heat herself, and wondering if she was being twitted by an impudent mort who wished to insult a Briton.

It didn't help that Charitй was in an Egyptian-pleated gown of such thin, shimmery pale blue stuff that Lewrie didn't have to use his imagination to recall every succulent inch of her. Her hair was up in the ringleted style а la Josйphine, a plumed, wide-brimmed hat on her head, a furled parasol in one lace-gloved hand, and a tiny reticule hung from an elbow.

"Pardon, Madame, but I was also in the parfumerie La Contessa the other day," Charitй said with wide-eyed, lash-batting innocence, "and wish to express my regrets you did not find anything satisfactory, for it is the grandest establishment. A thousand pardons for my boldness, but… you are English? How marvellous that we are at peace, and you may enjoy the splendours of Paris, the most magnificent city in all Europe, n'est-ce pas? I may make your acquaintance?"

She got a pistol in that reticule? was Lewrie's prime thought, quickly followed by; Christ, just open a hole in the floor, and let me through it! Who-the-bloody-else is goin' t'turn up?

He surreptitiously gave Charitй a careful looking-over; in New Orleans, she'd had a habit, when carousing in men's suitings, of keeping a dagger up a sleeve; did she today have it strapped to one of her shapely-slim thighs?

"… and Captain Alan Lewrie, of his Britannic Majesty's Navy, Mademoiselle de Guilleri," Sir Anthony was happily babbling away, glad to have some Frogs to present. "Captain Lewrie, may I name to you Mademoiselle Charitй de Guilleri, and Major Denis Clary."

"Your servant, Mademoiselle de Guilleri… Major Clary, your servant, as well," Lewrie was forced to respond with another "leg" to both of them, gritting his teeth to appear polite.

"Captain Lewrie will be presented to the First Consul today," Paisley-Templeton grandly announced. "An exchange of captured swords. General Bonaparte once made Captain Lewrie a prisoner, temporarily, at Toulon, and still has Captain Lewrie's sword."

"You refused parole, m'sieur?" Major Clary asked, amazed that a man would not accept the relative comfort of a very loose sort of imprisonment in civilian lodgings, with his pay continuing 'til exchanged for an officer of his own rank.

"I would not abandon my sailors to the hulks, Major," Lewrie responded. "It would've cut a bit rough t'just walk away from them and be… comfortable."

While Major Denis Clary was trying to sort out the phrase cut a bit rough, Charitй stuck her own in. She seemed to find his choice honourable-wide-eyed astonishment and all-but, "The Capitaine Lewrie is surely courageous. As ferocious as Denis, here, a hero of Hohenlinden and Marengo, n'est-ce pas?"

She batted her lashes nigh-fit to stir a small breeze, playing the innocent minx, eliciting congratulatory coos from Sir Anthony, and a moue and shrug of false modesty from her companion to be so praised.

"Quel dommage, such choice was not given to my brothers, Helio and Hippolyte," Charitй continued, suddenly turning solemn and all but dabbing at one eye with a handkerchief. "Or, my cousin Jean-Marie who perished for the glory of France." Charitй glared directly at the author of their deaths, making Lewrie purse his lips and frown, sure that she'd claw his eyes out, given half a chance. "You will exchange swords with Napoleon, n'est-ce pas? I only hope that some of those swords are not theirs, Capitaine Lewrie. That would be so tragique."

She's gotten teeth, Lewrie thought, fighting a wince, recalling those names; Good God A'mighty, can this get even worse?

"I do not recall those names being associated with the swords I brought mademoiselle," he told her, glancing at her soldier companion. "These were surrendered by naval officers, at sea… well, picked up more than surrendered, since their owners had fallen."

Major Clary curled a lip in faint disgust over the fate of fellow French officers, even if he held a low opinion of his nation's navy, and how little it had accomplished since the war's start in 1793.

"Yayss, well…," Paisley-Templeton placated.

"Honour to make your acquaintance, m'sieur" Major Clary said, eager to end their chat. "Madame, Capitaine?"

"Your servant, sir… mademoiselle" Lewrie replied with one more bow to each, hoping that that was over and done with.

"That little… whore!" Caroline muttered as they departed.

Oh shit, she's plumbed to it! Lewrie gawped to himself; now she knows about Charitй, too! Oh yes, it can get worse!

Lewrie tried to bluster his way out of it. "Why call her a-"

"Her!" Caroline snapped, flicking her fan open in the direction of the orchestra, and the dancers. For there, now the orchestra had ended the long gavotte and gone on to a simpler minuet or quadrille air, was Phoebe Aretino, swanning gracefully through the figures, partnered with a tall, mustachioed Colonel of the Guard Infantry… and sneaking brief but longing glances at Lewrie, before his wife caught her at it!

Christ, it'll be Emma Hamilton next! Lewrie miserably told himself; Irish Tess, Lady Cantner… even Soft Rabbit's ghost! Lord, but I need another drink! Now!

"And… here he comes now," Paisley-Templeton said with enthusiasm as the orchestra quickly ended their air, and the tall double-doors at the far end of the long hall opened. People scampered from the centre of the floor to form up on either side as the First Consul made his entrance, hands behind his back and looking as if his boots were pinching his toes. "Now, what does his choice of uniform mean? Oh! Perhaps he expected you in uniform, and means to honour you, sir," Sir Anthony whispered with a hopeful smile.

It took better than three-quarters of an hour for them to find out what Napoleon's martial appearance meant, for there were other luminaries for the First Consul to greet; and Sir Anthony was more than happy to point them out and name them for the Lewries. There were generals, of course, the odd French admiral, men high in Bonaparte's government, along with composers, scientists, philosophers, and academics; civil engineers enrolled to expand the French road and canal systems, as well as actors and actresses, famed singers, and playwrights from the Comйdie Franзaise, even a scruffy, artistic poet or three. There was the crafty (some might say duplicitous) Foreign Minister, Charles Maurice Talleyrand-Pйrigord, a tall and spare former aristo and former powerful bishop with a taste for silly, and impressionable, young women. There were members of distinguished and titled old families of France, mostly those who had somehow escaped the rabid purges during the Reign of Terror, whose sons had atoned for their sins of privilege on the battlefield, and were now held blameless.

Finally, an elegant young fellow from the French Foreign Ministry approached Sir Anthony Paisley-Templeton, whispered in his ear, and indicated that that worthy should herd his presentees to a prominent place in the centre of the hall, before a set of chairs and settees quickly cleared of people, one chair in particular that would serve as a throne 'til the real thing was dusted off and dragged down from the garret.

"Not very big, is he?" Caroline whispered to Lewrie as they were led to the makeshift seat of honour.

Napoleon Bonaparte stood about two and a half inches shy of her husband's five feet nine. To Lewrie's memory, Napoleon had put on a few pounds since '94, but still appeared slim. His hair was now more carefully dressed, no longer a sans culottes page-boy; frankly, Bonaparte's hair was thinning, and was combed forward over his brow, shorn closer to the ears, with longer sideburns.

Forgot he and I have much the same blue-grey eyes, Lewrie told himself as they approached. From one side of the seating arrangement, a liveried servant came with a long bundle wrapped in dark blue, gilt-edged velvet. From the other, there came another man, bearing a much slimmer package.

Paisley-Templeton, presented first by a simpering Frog diplomat underling, responded in his excellent French with over a minute or two of "gilt and be-shit" diplomatist-speak, with so many subordinate clauses that Lewrie's head began to reel trying to follow it. At last, he recognised that he and Caroline were being named to Bonaparte, and made a "leg" with his hand over his heart, as Caroline performed a very fine curtsy (she had not imbibed as much champagne as he!) with a fetching incline of her head.

"Your servant, sir," Lewrie spoke up, in English, in English fashion, and he heard Paisley-Templeton making excuses for their lack of fluency in French.

"The First Consul says you are welcome, Captain Lewrie… He expresses enchantment with Madame, and finds her beauty, and her gown delightful," Paisley-Templeton translated. "He remembers you, he says. Toulon… Fort Le Garde exploding… firing upon your ship, blowing her up, as well, uhm… You would not accept parole, and he told you then that, ehm… 'you have hair on your arse.' Had, rather," their representative said, deeply blushing at the crudity, while the gathered audience tittered and chuckled.

"Tell him that I recall, vividly," Lewrie said, not even trying to tangle his tongue with his French, not after four glasses of wine. "Say that I am honoured that he would remember such a minor incident, such a minor encounter. Say also that, had I known who he was then, or to what heights he would rise, I would have tried to be more pleasant, even given the soggy circumstances."

"Of course, sir," Sir Anthony said, before launching into one more long simpering palaver. Lewrie noted, though, that Bonaparte had his lips curled in a faint expression of dislike for this pantomime. Unconsciously, one finger of Napoleon's left hand tapped on his thigh.

"He says that you appeared a half-drowned rat, sir," Paisley-Templeton translated, "with your stockings round your ankles, and your breeches draining water."

"Aye, I expect I did," Lewrie agreed with a grin. "Though, as I recall, General Bonaparte looked natty. Does he still have that white horse he rode? A splendid beast."

The pleasantries went on for another minute or so before Sir Anthony got to the meat of the matter, expressing a well-rehearsed preamble about Lewrie's wish, now there was a lasting peace between their respective countries, to return the swords he had taken, restoring them to France and to the families of the fallen.

At a nod from Napoleon, the liveried servant with the large bundle came to lay it across Lewrie's arms, just long enough for him to re-take possession before the draped bundle was formally laid at Napoleon's feet and spread open to reveal all five scabbarded blades, with paper tags bound to the hilts to indicate who were the former owners.

At another nod, the other servant came forward and gave it to Napoleon. He whipped the cloth covering off and tossed it aside, then held up Lewrie's old hanger for all to see before stepping forward-Sir Anthony gave Lewrie a slight nudge to make him take a step towards Napoleon to meet him halfway-and Napoleon held it out to him. But, before he actually let it go, he began another long speech, this time with his lips slit to nothing whenever a pause came, and he didn't look all that happy.

"Oh Lord, sir… he asks what sort of peace is it when England stalls and delays fulfilling its part of the terms. I won't bore you with all of it," Paisley-Templeton said with a very good imitation of a placid expression on his stricken phyz, nodding now and again as the First Consul had himself a little rant at Lewrie's expense. "He hopes you never have cause to use your sword against France again, but… does Great Britain continue in its perfidious course, the need to draw it will become more likely, and he… he expresses a desire that England sends him a proper ambassador, and accepts his own in London, else… before mistakes and confusion engendered by junior diplomatists do irreparable harm to the amity between our nations."

Napoleon clapped his mouth shut for a moment, his lips pressed closer together, and his expression stormy, whilst the gathered crowd sounded quite pleased with his rant, the generals that Lewrie could see sharing wolfish, eager glances between them.

"He presents you with your old blade, sir," Paisley-Templeton said at last, looking as if he wished to daub his face with a handkerchief. "From one warrior to another."

A quick imperative shake of the sword and Lewrie reached out to take it. He had enough wit to bow again and express his utmost thanks along with some of those phrases Sir Anthony had written for him: great honour to be presented; so pleased the exchange could be made; thanks for his excellency's indulgence; let us pray that peace prevails, and all that tom-foolery.

Lewrie stepped back at last, with a final bow in congй, as Caroline did a Parting curtsy, and Sir Anthony led them away from the Presence. "It don't look like we'll have tea with Josephine after all," Lewrie whispered to his wife. "Sorry 'bout that, m'dear."

"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.