A King`s Commander

Several gentlemen and their ladies, out for a stroll of their own, bowed or curtsied to them-to her, specifically- in the next half block, doffing their hats. Fawning over her, chatting away mostly in Italian, making raving sounds over the miniature portrait of Pascal Paoli that hung on a gold chain about her neck.

'Zey are patriotes, Alain,' Phoebe said, blushing even more prettily. 'I tell zem where I fin' eet, an' zey wish to purchase, aussi.'

'Don't tell me you paint 'em in your spare time,' he teased with a droll expression. 'Assumin' you have any, that is.'

'Non, non moi, Alain.' She grinned impishly. 'Une of my cousin, 'e ees artiste, in Bastнa. 'E do ze portraits, 'ave ees own shop. 'E 'ave now three ozzers work for eem. 'E sen' zem to me, I sell for 'eem, place orders for more. For on'y ze une peu, petite commission, n'est-ce pas? Mon Dieu merde alors … 'e ees kin!'

She'd already explained to him, long before, on the intricacies of Cor-sican kinships. Which were pretty much on a par with a Scottish clan, with commerce of the most cutthroat kind thrown in. Immediate family, down to distant cousins, came first; second was clan loyalty; then God and Church, with Self coming in a poor fourth, usually. One obeyed the family padrone, then the feudal lords of one's extended clan, who, it seemed, were forever feuding with each other as bad as Capulets and Montagues in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Blood was always answerable in blood, and they had longer memories, and grudges, than an entire pack of abused hounds. The vendetta, they called it.

Paoli, everywhere he looked, it seemed, too. Portraits, names of children, names of shops and favorite horses. Troop a large painting or effigy of Pascal Paoli through the streets, and one might imagine the Second Coming-or a Saturnalia, with one and all kneeling in tears or hosannahs like Roosian serfs did to their icons, or their masters. Hero, Saint, Liberator, Caesar-all of them, was Paoli, in the Corsican mind.

'Hmmf!' Phoebe sniffed suddenly, turning her head, and turning up her nose in remarkable imitation of a grand dowager who'd just delivered the 'Cut Sublime' to some mountebank on The Strand back home.

'What?'

' 'Eem!' She sneered, inclining her head toward a party farther down the street. 'Zat Messieur Jheel-ber' Elliot of you's.'

'He's viceroy of the island, Phoebe, representing our good King George,' Lewrie told her patiently. 'What's he done to you?'

'Alain,' she rejoined, scandalized and reproving, ' 'e ees tyrant! Mon Dieu merde alors, Corsica fight ze Genoese hun'erd year, to be independent. Genoa give Corsica to France, an' zen Signore Paoli lead us in fight zem for year an' year.'

'And back in King George the Second's reign, Corsica offered to become English, as I remember. Sign the whole island over to us,' he countered.

'Oui, to rid us of Genoese, so we non become part of France, be free!' she argued.

'Wait a moment.' He scowled, perplexed again. 'You're French!'

'Papa was Franзais, Maman was Italian, mais … Alain, I am Corsican, you see? An' now, you' Messieur Elliot, 'e will mak' us British, wiz monarch. Like you' Scotland… poor relation? When what we wish ees to be Corsica independent. Papa come from France, so long ago, 'e was Corsican. Maman be born 'ere, in Italian clan, but she was Corsican firs', hein? Say Corsican, non Franзais or Italiana. You' Elliot, 'e say we mus' 'ave king an' parliament, but mus' be Corsican king an' parliament, we say. An' zat ees quel dangereux … 'oo ees king, what clan. Ooh la, you s'ink you see vendetta now …! So,' she summed up with another snooty heave of her bosom, 'ze man 'oo open zat box belong to Pandora, zat man ees ze fool grande]'

'But not Republicans,' Alan hoped. 'Mean t'say, if you don't have a king, you might as well be like those anarchist Americans. Or the French, these days.'

'Mon Dieu, Alain, non!' Phoebe chuckled. 'Oo ees say ev'ryone ees йgal, zat ees stupeed! People are non born e… equal, ever. 'Ow you 'ave padrones an' clan lords, eef paissans conardes be jus' as good as ze noblesse? Zat ees seelly idea!'

Add perplexing to the list, Alan thought of his earlier appraisal of Phoebe Aretino; paradoxical…

'I 'ope you 'ave ze appetite grande, Alain, ze cuisine 'ere ees so ver' good!' she urged, changing subjects, and moods, as quick as the mercurial little minx she was. 'Non Franзais, but Corsican!'

The Ristorante Liberatore, with a portrait of Pascal Paoli for its centerpiece, of course, was packed with diners and doing a stock-jobbers' business. But a table was always reserved, it seemed for 'la contessa bella' Aretino. And, with much smacking of lips, kissing of fingers, crooning 'oohs and ahhs!' of welcome joy-along with an occasional smacking of a forehead-they were led to that table that had a commanding view of the harbor and docks, as well as the rest of that crowded dining room, on a slightly elevated upper terrace. And, as they made their way to it, several of the more fashionable diners paid Phoebe 'passing honors' with even more glad cries, some almost groveling at her feet in gratitude for some earlier favor. Her hand was kissed and wrung so often Alan thought she seemed more like a Member of Parliament on the hustings, right after he'd trotted out the free gin and roast beef for purchased votes!

Hell of a welcome, he thought; for a little slip of a girl. And a retired courtesan, he could not help himself from adding; there must be some-thin' Latin in that, surely. God, what a country!

With an almost regal air of true nobility, Phoebe smiled and inclined her head, responding to their greetings, before allowing a squad of unctuous waiters to seat her. And grinning, her eyes alight, gleeful as the cat that ate the canary, over her newfound adulation.

'Oh, there's some poor fellows can't get a table,' Alan pointed out. 'Damme, it's Nelson and Fremantle.' Lewrie allowed himself a tiny smirk, to think he was being treated like a prince consort to a queen as Phoebe's companion, while those two distinguished senior officers were forced to idle in the entryway, pretending with the patience of Job that they weren't famished. Or humiliated. Or almost reduced to groveling or bribery to gain a table, and a meal.

Captain Nelson raised a hand to his right brow, of a sudden, and winced as if in mortal agony, pressing his palm to his eye like he was trapping a persistent Corsican fly. Capt. Thomas Fremantle left off scowling at one and all to turn to him, solicitously. And Alan could almost read their lips, as they debated whether to stay or to go.

'Zose officiers, Alain,' Phoebe said as their first wine arrived, a fruity, sparkling blush-pink strawberry something. 'Zay are you' compatriotes, oui? Ze poor man, 'e ees suffer ze mal de tкte, per'aps? We should let zem join us. Eef you are willing.'

'Of course,' Alan responded quickly. 'This heat, and all. Why, he must be wilting. And, they'll starve to death, else.'

Phoebe summoned a waiter who bowed to hear her whispered command, then quickly dashed off to invite the two officers to join them.

'Grateful,' Fremantle explained as they shuffled their seats so Nelson didn't have to face the sunset glare off the bay. 'Awf'lly. An hellish crowd, hey? Settle for a bread stick…'

'Captain Horatio Nelson, Captain Thomas Fremantle, allow me to name to you…' Alan began, grinning impishly as he continued in the spirit of the evening, and the sentiments of the town, '… la Contessa… Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino? Contessa…' He gave her a quick conspiratorial wink, 'Captain Horatio Nelson of the Agamemnon, and Captain Thomas Fremantle, of the Inconstant frigate.'

'Messieurs, enchantй,' Phoebe replied, with another slight incline of her head, as if speaking from a throne to acknowledge lesser barons. Where'd she learn all this, so damn' fast? Lewrie wondered to himself. 'You appear-ed so, uhm… 'ow you say, indispose, Capitaine Nelson? Ooh la, I trus' you are well, m'sieur.'

'My infinite gratitude for your most gracious invitation, mademoiselle,' Nelson rejoined, trying to be sociable even as he seemed to suffer another tiny spasm. 'A trifling wound I received the other day.'

'Trifling,' Fremantle countered with a snort. 'Ha.'