Invasion

It suited Renzi well: from his rooms he could slip in and out quietly as he pleased, and that Haslip wished to remain in his solitary glory was even better. His meagre luggage arrived and, worn out, he flopped onto the musty four-poster and closed his eyes. He drifted off quickly but woke feeling stiff and cold. Immediately the dread of his situation rushed back but he did not allow it to take hold. He finished stowing his gear in the old-fashioned drawers and splashed his face with water.

He patted his waistcoat pocket, and was reassured by the crackle of his passport. Then he went downstairs, with an air of jaunty defiance, ignored the watchful gaze of the concierge and strode out into the evening. Hesitating, he turned right, then walked purposefully along towards the vast Place Louis XV.

He emerged into its great spaces and slowed. This was now the Place de la Revolution and he was making pilgrimage to the spot where, just a handful of years ago, the guillotines had slithered and fallen before screaming crowds to end the lives of so many of France's ancient nobility.

The sense of loss of the older world was overpowering here, and he closed his eyes in melancholy. The feeling passed and he walked on rapidly—he needed the comfort of human company.

Inside a nearby tavern it was warm and dark, dense with pipe-smoke. Low candlelight played on the animated features of couples and the babble of talk ebbed and flowed. Renzi found a corner table and settled quietly, letting the memories return. 'Garcon!' The tapster seemed not to hear and he repeated the call more loudly. Astonished faces turned to him as the man stormed across. 'M'sieur, un demi de biere, s'il vous plait.'

The tapster came to an abrupt stop and peered at Renzi. 'Vous etes anglais?' he said disbelievingly.

Whether it was because of his square-cut English coat or his accent, Renzi did not know; but he was obliged to explain at length why an Englishman was on the loose in the Paris of Napoleon. In return he had to accept a scolding over his use of garcon and monsieur where now the egalitarian citoyen was expected.

A nearby couple made much of moving to another table and, behind him, a noisy incident was probably another pair ostentatiously removing themselves from the proximity of an Englishman, no doubt for the benefit of hidden watchers.

Alone, Renzi sipped his beer as the conversations started again and his thoughts turned to what lay ahead.

It was near impossible, but a start had to be made. The hardest thing of all would be to locate the American. He had his freedom to move about, but that did not mean he could simply go up and ask where the submarine inventor called Fulton was. Even the slightest interest in matters not directly concerning his official purpose in France would be reported and seized upon jubilantly as evidence that he was abusing his position to spy. The Moniteur would trumpet to the world such perfidy against 'his innocent hosts,' and the worthy cause of the hapless prisoners-of-war would irrevocably be lost.

Renzi forced himself to concentrate: there had to be a way to Fulton if he had the wit to find it. Without question he was being followed. After Jersey, however, he was too wise in the ways of spying to try to shake them off. Once identified, an agent was a known quantity but, more importantly, a slick evasion would be the quickest way to guarantee the attention of Fouche's secret police.

The safest course would be to appear to make the most of his stay and move about, visiting and gaping. This would have them relaxing their surveillance and make furtive meetings more possible. He smiled wryly. Right at this moment he was where duty called— openly tasting the night life of Paris.

There was movement under the candlelight by the far wall as a raven-haired chanteuse and a darker central European violinist bowed together and opened with a soaring peasant air from the Auvergne which took Renzi back to long-past days of gaiety and passion. The singer made shameless play of her charms and held the room spellbound. Despite himself, Renzi was caught up in the charged atmosphere and applauded enthusiastically.

Then followed a sensual love lament. The tavern fell quiet as she held the audience with her tale of longing and suffering, loving and losing. Renzi couldn't help a sudden rush of feeling; for some reason she was reaching him with a message of humanity and grief that rose far above the gross distortions of war. As the urgent, pleading harmony enveloped him, his mind rebelled: he was furious at the pitiless logic that said the ultimate course for nations in disagreement was to throw themselves at each other in a struggle to the death.

He gulped at the intensity of his reaction but then an image of Teazer assailed him—the graceful being in whose bosom he had been borne while his theories had matured, destroyed without warning in a cataclysmic detonation, prey to a lurking submarine boat, her unsuspecting crew torn to pieces by the explosion.

It was horrific, an unthinkable fate that might come to pass unless . . . In the warm darkness it was all he could do to prevent his helplessness coming out in a storm of emotion and overwhelming him.

It was stultifying in the room: Haslip had resorted to a lengthy legal argument and was presenting it in a monotone. The French were led by an arrogant young firebrand, an earthy scion of the Revolution who clearly despised both the English and what he had to do, and did not bother to hide his impatience.

The presentation droned on, and when they broke for refreshments Renzi went to Haslip to show him his notes and express support. He met nothing but self-importance and a pompous disinclination to listen.

In the afternoon the French deployed their own man, an arid word-grinder whose lengthy, many-tailed points were almost impossible to follow and summarise on paper. Renzi despaired. It was as if the opposite party was under orders to obfuscate and delay, and he was relieved when an appeal to an obscure medieval case-law finding was interpreted in opposite ways and it was agreed to retire for study and deliberation.

His offer of assistance acidly declined, Renzi felt able to take time to get a hold on the situation. But before he did so he would indulge himself—just this once. He had noted a bookshop of some distinction further along the rue St. Honore that it would be a sin to ignore, in this the Paris of Montesquieu and Diderot.

It was, in fact, a grand palace of learning, ramparts of books stretching away, alcoves and desks for enquirers and stiffly dressed assistants attending the browsing public. He reached for a Voltaire and was soon contentedly absorbed in its earnest and learned preface, written by another scholar, praising the author as an epitome of the Enlightenment.

An assistant came up to him. Renzi thought of his own studies. Clearly, now was the perfect opportunity to discover the works of lesser-known authors—and at source. In his best French he asked politely if it were known that the philosopher Johann Herder had published anything of note following the Ideen zur Philosophie which had so informed Renzi's earlier searches for historical origins.