and Louisiana, had made her a minor celebrity in her own right, and the loss of her brothers and cousin a tragic figure who pleaded for a restoration of the Louisiana Territory to France.
Now… would it all come undone? Did Alan Lewrie live? She had to know. She idly strolled closer to the English woman, sniffing at articles on display, listening closely, though to another person in the shop just another gay coquette, chuckling and teasing her handsome companion, the dashing young Major of Chasseurs.
La Contessa emerged from the rear of the shop, a petite brunette with large brown eyes, a fine, trim figure, and the face of a teenaged angel-minx. Oddly, La Contessa bore a slim and wiry young white-and-tan cat in her arms, a cat with a diamond-studded collar round its neck.
'Ah, Jean-Joseph, mon cher, so 'appy to see you again,' said La Contessa with a grand and languid air usually seen among the 'aristos' of the pre-Revolutionary era. She presented her hand to be kissed. 'You bring a distinguish' English lady to my 'umble shop? C'est merveilleux!'
'Allow me to present Madame Caroline Lewrie, a visitor from England to you, madame' Jean-Joseph smarmily announced. 'Madame Lewrie I present to you Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino, famed throughout Paris as La Contessa de la Bastia… on Corsica, the 'queen' of parfumeurs!'
'Phoebe… Aretino,' Caroline exclaimed in a stiff tone, each word huffed, with her eyes suddenly a'squint and her brow furrowed.
'Madame Lew…?' Sophie Aretino stammered, her mouth agawp in utter shock. 'Ahem! You are, ah, ze uhm… related to, ah…?'
'Toulon, seventeen ninety-four,' Caroline flatly intoned, 'you and my former ward, Vicomtesse Sophie de Maubeuge, escaped aboard my husband's ship? You're that… Phoebe Aretino?'
'For w'eech I am ze eternally grateful, Madame Lew… ' Phoebe stammered some more, turning radish- coloured.
'I just bet you were!' Caroline snapped, turning to leave. 'We will shop elsewhere, Jean. Never in her place!'
'But, madame, I do not-' Jean-Joseph spluttered. 'I will give my husband your regards' Caroline archly concluded with a snide smile. 'Do not expect them to be returned. Au revoir!'
Give him your…? Zut! Merde alors, he lives! Charitй thought in sudden alarm, like to faint at that news.
'Really, ma chйrie, you look as if you will swoon,' her Major of Chasseurs worriedly said, more than glad to put an arm about her to support her, for, like most men who met Charitй de Guilleri, the dashing young cavalryman, Major Denis Clary, was enamoured. 'Perhaps a restorative brandy, or…?'
'Ah!' Charitй denied, taking in a deep breath. 'No, mon cher, I am fine, truly. Excuse me for one moment? Ah, Mademoiselle Aretino. Who was that horrid creature? Anglaise, was she? They are such a rude people. Pardon me for asking, but… why would a stranger insult you so?' she solicitously enquired.
'It is no… ' the 'Contessa of Bastia' began to snap, setting her slim cat down on a glass-topped counter and delicately putting her fingertips to her temples. 'Oui, she was rude. Such a shock, to hear her name, and… '
To Charitй's amazement, Mlle. Phoebe Aretino's distress turned to a wistful smile of reverie as she absently began to stroke her cat.
'From so long ago, n'est-ce pas?' Phoebe Aretino said further. 'Perhaps not all the Anglais are horrid. Some of their men… well.' That, with even more wistfulness, almost a sheepish smile.
He had you, too! Charitй wryly realised, and, for but a brief second, almost felt a pang of… dare she call it jealousy?
'I may help you select a scent, mademoiselle?' Phoebe Aretino asked, back to business. 'Something new to delight your charming young man? More of a scent you purchased before?'
On the streets outside, Caroline Lewrie set a hectic, furious pace along the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs, to turn south cross traffic down the east side of the Palais Egalitй to return to the Rue Honorй. Her apple-cheeked maid, Marianne, puffed along in her wake, as did her guide, Jean-Joseph, who took the kerb side to protect her gown from the muck thrown up from carriage wheels.
'Madame Lewrie, I do not understand,' he said. ' La Contessa's is the most exclusive… nowhere else in Paris is there such a variety… Did she somehow give offence? If so, my pardons to you for taking you there, but… ' Jean-Joseph had not walked all that fast since his last forced marches into Savoia in '97.
'I know of her,' Caroline snapped. 'Until you named her, I did not make the connexion.' Under her breath, she added, 'The baggage!'
Oh ho! Jean-Joseph intuited, carefully hiding a smirk as he fell behind her a step to mask his amusement. Capitaine Lewrie is un chaud lapin, the hot rabbit? Mon Dieu, he 'dipped his biscuit' in La Contessa? Oh, I see! The lucky shit! Before or after he marries, hmm? Then, with a Gallic shrug and an urge to whistle gaily, he wryly thought, During, hawn hawn!
'Fabrics, Jean, the best!' Caroline huffed. 'Then dressmakers, milliners, everything!'
Oh, this will cost M'sieur Lewrie dear, Jean-Joseph gleefully thought, all but rubbing his hands with joy over how much she would be spending with his friends, and how large his kick-back would be.
Before it was re-established, the British Embassy had been in French hands for several years, from 1793 'til 1802, and had not been treated well. It had an odour of dirty feet and old socks, of barrack farts and sweat, as if troops of the Garde Nationale had been garrisoned there. Effort had been expended to clean it up and make it grand once more, but it was a continuing process. After announcing himself and the reason for his call, Lewrie had cooled his heels in the baroque lower lobby for an hour or better, before some 'catch-fart' flunky saw him abovestairs to the offices of Sir Anthony Paisley-Templeton, who held the odd title of Chargй d'Affaires, which could have meant anything. Lewrie had met a few people who parted their last names, and had come away with a less than favourable impression… one reenforced by his first sight of the fellow. Sir Anthony was a wispy young fellow, at least ten or twelve years Lewrie's junior, with pale skin and a stylish thick head of pale blond hair, poetically curled on top, sides, and nape, but brushed forward over his forehead, his long sideburns brushed forward towards his cheeks, as well. He sported stylish suitings, too, it went without saying, in the latest French cut, with upstanding shirt collars.
'Captain Alan Lewrie, so honoured t'meet you, sir,' Sir Anthony enthused as he offered a hand to be shaken, one so limp once taken in hand that Lewrie might as well have been shaking a dead fish. 'Followed your trial last year, don't ye know… capital doings, capital, hah!'
With about as much true enthusiasm as a clench-jawed Oxonian of 'the Quality' ever allowed out in Publick, Lewrie took note.
'Now, what is it you wish to do, Captain Lewrie? Meet Bonaparte? Sorry, but… that would be impossible, it just isn't done, old chap,' Sir Anthony pooh-poohed.
'A rencontre with Bonaparte isn't necessary,' Lewrie told him. 'Didn't exactly enjoy the first, anyway. The point is… I've several swords, surrendered by French naval captains, and I'd like t'return 'em
