So the French knew of his meeting Laplace and were nervous—but they had no idea he had spoken to Fulton or it would have been a very different matter. Renzi forced himself to an icy calm. "Sir, I do sincerely regret the impulse that led me to such an action. In my studies I have often encountered the work of Monsieur Laplace and—"
"That is to no account, sir. As head of mission, I forbid you to engage in such scholarly pretensions above your station, which can only result in ridicule. Do I make myself clear?"
"Why, yes, Mr. Haslip, you do. I shall not trouble the gentleman again."
"Hmph. It seems to me there is little enough work to keep you occupied. I shall think on it."
"Thank you, sir. Should I go now, sir?" Renzi wheedled. To his contempt, he could see that this had mollified Haslip, who sniffed and indicated that the interview was at an end. Renzi left and took refuge in his room.
He sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. The situation was tightening. Without doubt he was now being watched; he could not count on freedom to act any more. And what could be the meaning of Fulton's living in such eccentric circumstances when he was the confidant of an emperor?
His feet hurt and the incident with the follower had unsettled him. To be at large in the Paris of Napoleon Bonaparte, who, no doubt, was preparing for the night in sumptuous surroundings less than a mile from where Renzi sat, was almost too fantastical for belief. Yet if he put a foot wrong—a lapse in speaking, an unlooked-for coincidence, recognition by one from his past—Fouché's secret police would pounce.
There was a bottle of brandy between two glasses on the dresser.
He splashed himself a strong measure and tried to compose his thoughts. Everything hung on his conjuring an argument to detach Fulton from the French cause.
He felt the brandy doing its work and paced up and down while he considered his next move. He had to act quickly to prevent any suspicion growing. For the moment they would be presuming that he had been reprimanded by his master for straying outside set bounds. Therefore he must do something suitably predictable in the circumstances, and it must be a move that no self-respecting spy would make.
It came to him almost immediately, effective and credible, but with the grave drawback that if he could not pull it off to perfection he would end by being the instrument of his own betrayal. Only iron self-control would see him through—the prize, his freedom to act. It was the only way forward. Tonight he would get drunk.
Not just flustered or even betwaddled, but completely cup-shot and maudlin, such that any sympathetic stranger sidling up to share his woes would not doubt for a moment what they heard.
Renzi made his preparations. He had not been lost to drink since his youth and the wanton excesses of the Grand Tour. Now he was determined to bring it to pass—there could be no studied pretence at intoxication: it could be only the real thing, convincing in its re-pulsiveness and gradual descent into incoherence. He examined his store of coins. How many of these new-fangled "francs" would it take to achieve total drunkenness?
Carefully he went through his pockets: there was nothing incriminating. His precious passport was slipped deep within his waistcoat and he was ready for the night.
Outside it was dark but the traffic showed little sign of diminishing. He dithered at the hotel entrance, long enough to be seen, then turned left, ambling along in quite the opposite direction from the Latin Quarter, towards the more northerly faubourgs,
Montmartre—or was that now Mont Marat after the scientist and revolutionary?
He resisted the temptation to see if he was being followed and kept his eyes ahead, but allowed himself to be jostled by a passing couple and swung about to glare after them. With much satisfaction, he saw guilty movement in a slightly built man a dozen yards behind.
He resumed his walk without a second glance back. As the larger establishments turned into a smaller, more intimate hostelry he looked about. Le Canard Sportif appealed and he went in. The noise, the glare of Argand lamps on brass and crystal, and the smell of humanity, beer and Gallic cuisine assaulted his senses, but Renzi reminded himself he had a job to do.
His order was taken by a waif-like girl in an apron who, on hearing his accent, ran back to the patron, who came over to peer at him suspiciously.
But he had his story, and, with a suitably woebegone expression, then the ostentatious checking of francs, it seemed to persuade the man that he would be no trouble. What did he desire to drink? Why, absinthe would answer—he had heard of but never tried this newly fashionable tipple. So monsieur has a taste for Paris? Then the verte would probably most appeal. Mademoiselle—ici!
An odd pinch-waisted glass was brought with an intense green liquor in the base and a narrow, spike-ended spoon placed across the rim. A lump of sugar was put on its slotted bowl and ice-cold water poured over it, clouding the result to an opalescent milkiness.
Fascinated, Renzi took it, inhaling the wormwood aroma appreciatively. He sipped: the complex of herbs took him by surprise but was, he concluded, very agreeable. Remembering his duty he downed it resolutely and, before long, felt the subtle tendrils of inebriation begin to spread.
Another? Certainly. A few curious glances came his way. The liquor had a lazy potency that was deceptive and even a fine onion soup did nothing to halt the muzziness stealing over him.
He became aware of someone drawing up a chair beside him. At last—they were making their move! But it was a girl. They chatted amiably but she pouted and left when he kept reaching for his absinthe. The spirit took a deeper hold. His inner being calmly noted a curious rotation of perspectives, a plasticity in objects as his mind gently separated from its corporeal existence.
He noticed a distraction to one side and drunkenly turned in his seat—it was a man, smiling affably, who introduced himself as one who so deplored this unfortunate state of hostilities between two such great nations, and who seemed not to notice his befuddlement.
It took a convulsion of will to realise that the moment had come. Fighting lassitude, he fumbled for the elusive French that expressed his solemn agreement and hope that this fine city might soon be open once again to any English hearts seeking to pay homage.
The man agreed and summoned more absinthe for his new friend—his opinion on a clear variety, La Bleue, was earnestly solicited. Renzi allowed it a splendid drop and confided it was going far in helping him overcome his woes. His head swam.
Woes? Surely not! Another La Bleue persuaded Renzi to unburden and, to the man's sharp interest, he obliged passionately.
Rather than the loneliness of a foreign country, it seemed it was more the cruel fate of the prisoners-of-war that grieved him. They were getting nowhere in the negotiations and all the time men on both sides were spending their years in unjust captivity, merely for doing their duty to their country.
Renzi grew more emotionaclass="underline" to see the conditions of the prison hulks in Portsmouth and Sheerness, it would wring the heart of the devil himself—and now there was talk of building a massive fortress prison in the middle of remote Dartmoor. He struggled for words to describe the desolate heath, the hopeless pallor of the prisoners, families unseen whose grief at the separation . . .
To Renzi's relief the man's interest declined and, finding he had an appointment, he departed.
What was left of his rational being exulted—and, with a seraphic smile, he surrendered all and slid to the floor.
The next morning his plea of illness was relayed to Haslip—Renzi didn't care how it was received as, despite his hammering head, he was gloriously triumphant: by some mysterious working of the brain, he had woken with a glorious, vital inspiration at the forefront of his consciousness.