"Renzi. Secretary pro tempore, I believe," he replied cautiously. "Recently arrived. An interesting place—but tell me, is the man in truth a prince?"
Jenkins grinned. "There's much you'll find odd about our Philippe d'Auvergne, but I have to tell you that, besides the Duke of Clarence, I believe he's the only full-rigged prince in the Service. He was adopted into the line, but a prince for all that."
"A man of some learning, I think."
"He is. Did you know he's an FRS?"
Renzi was amazed. Not only a member of the Royal Society, the premier learned society in the land, but a fellow, no less.
"A deep thinker, he's a Doctor of Letters from Livonia and corresponds with the world on everything from mathematics to botany, but amiable enough. Oh, and an Arctic explorer and colonial planter to boot."
"Has he—is he distinguished in his service career?"
The young lieutenant chuckled. "I'm surprised you haven't heard! In fine, yes. A front-line fighter in the American war, first lieutenant o' the saucy Arethusa and more than a few prizes to his name even before Napoleon. You'll find—oh, thank you," he said, taking some papers from a messenger and stowing them in his satchel. "Have to go now—but I think you'll find your work very . . . interesting."
He hurried off, leaving Renzi in even more perplexity than before.
After two days he felt he had explored enough of the people and the situation and went to d'Auvergne.
"So you feel able to talk about the royalists and their problems. Then pray tell me your observations on the Chouan risings and what they would mean to the paysan and merchant?"
It was apparent that he was being tested but it was not hard to apply his mind to the social effects of a bloodily repressed rural revolt.
D'Auvergne nodded slowly. "Very good. You have a natural insight into the human condition and that I like. One moment."
He rose and crossed to the thick oak door, closed it firmly, then returned and produced a letter. "Now your opinion of this, if you please."
Apprehensive, for some reason, Renzi picked it up. The eyes never left him as he began to read. "Why, this is a letter from . . . It doesn't say." He looked up. "Sir, this is a private letter. We have no right—"
"Shall we leave that aside for now? Do continue."
"From—from someone signing himself 'little cabbage,'" Renzi read out unwillingly. "It's to another—'belle poule.'" He looked up unhappily. "This appears to be from a lover to his amante. Sir, is this necessary?"
"Read," d'Auvergne commanded.
"Very well, sir. We have this person writing—ah, it is to his wife, he mentions the little ones. He is at last to return . . . The time has been hard while they have been separated." He glanced up in silent protest but at d'Auvergne's stony stare he continued. "He will treasure the moment he sets foot in the old cottage once more . . . life in a town is not to be compared to a village of Brittany . . . The soldiers of the garrison are arrogant and he has a loathing for what he has to do . . . but he consoles himself that it is for them both, and with his earnings they will close the door on a harsh world . . ." Renzi finished the pathetic scrap. "Another of Bonaparte's victims, I think. Doing a menial's work in some army town that will pay better than rural beggary. I do so feel for him and his kind."
D'Auvergne waited but Renzi would not be drawn. This kind of human adversity was being played out all over the world as war ravaged previously tranquil communities. Why was he being shown this particular evidence?
"I honour your sentiments, Renzi. However . . ."
A premonition stole over him and he tensed as d'Auvergne leaned back in his chair and spoke in the same controlled tone: "It would interest me to know your reaction if you are aware that the town he speaks of is St Helier, the garrison soldiers from Fort Regent and the man, Stofflet, acting in the character of a baker, is passing details of our troop levels to Decrès."
Renzi listened with a chill of dismay as d'Auvergne continued, "Rather astute, really. He could tell to a man the garrison numbers daily by the size of the bread order. And he plans to return shortly with the capability and firing angles of our defences no doubt carefully paced out and written down."
"A spy," Renzi said uncomfortably.
"You have an objection to spies, then?" d'Auvergne asked innocently.
"It—He must be taken up immediately, of course."
"But the practice of spying?"
"I'm not sure I take your meaning, sir."
"Well, it would seem to me axiomatic that if a covert act by a single individual could result in the discomfiture of many of the enemy then it is not merely morally acceptable, but his bounden duty towards those who would otherwise be put to hazard."